Chapter 7 #2
“All right,” I say, turning away from her warm brown eyes. “So I’ll grab that shower first, if that’s okay.”
I try to stand, but the couch really is comfortable and extra squishy.
It’s the kind of furniture that you sink into and don’t easily get out of.
I have to brace my hand on the cushion in an effort to push myself up.
Then my hand slides sideways, slipping into the space between the cushion and the arm of the couch.
My fingers find an object down there, something hard and cylindrical.
I curl my hand around it and bring it up with me as I finally manage to stand.
“Oh my—” Realizing what I’m holding, I immediately drop it back onto the couch. It lands next to Addison’s hip, and we both stare at it, eyes wide in horror. It’s bright purple, tapered at the bottom, a set of buttons on the side, and a round, flared head at the top.
Oh.
My.
God.
I almost don’t believe that this is really happening. But the evidence is still right there in front of my eyes in all its plastic phallic glory.
Even though, according to the media, I’m constantly in a relationship, that doesn’t mean I don’t know what a vibrator looks like. And that one seems pretty top-of-the-line. So good for her, really.
But holding another woman’s sex toy in my hand is not an experience I ever planned to have. I’m pretty sure my face is on fire, and I’ve lost all my motor functions.
The moments drag out into an eternity as all that awkwardness I thought we got rid of comes rushing back with a vengeance.
Addison regains her senses first, snatching up the vibrator and shoving her hand behind her back as she stands. As if out of sight, out of mind will work here.
Nooope.
I won’t be able to forget what I saw so easily.
That purple object is seared into my brain.
And my mind is quickly conjuring up some new images now to go along with it.
Images of her, lying in that bed I only caught a glimpse of upstairs, holding the vibrator between her spread legs.
Of her on this couch, doing the same thing.
Because she must have been doing it here, right? For it to be down here?
Oh my god, I need to stop.
“Holy shit, I am so sorry,” she says, her eyes still wide. “That wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—You shouldn’t have seen—Fuck, I am so, so sorry.”
Something about the way she’s stumbling over her words snaps me out of my state of shock. Ever since I’ve met her, I’ve been the one who is awkward, nervous, uncomfortable, unsure of myself. She presents herself with such a bold confidence, and I’ve just wanted to make her like me.
I always feel the need to make everyone like me. To the extent that I can recognize it sometimes as a flaw. But it’s been different with her. I can’t entirely understand why, but for some reason, it matters with her. I haven’t wanted her to like me simply because I want everyone to.
I’ve wanted her to like me because I like her.
Now I’m here in her house, and she’s standing in front of me hiding her sex toy behind her back, clearly mortified.
And I do the only thing I can.
I start laughing.
It comes out of me in a short, unexpected burst at first. But it grows longer and louder until I’m cracking up, bending over at the waist with the force of it. Then she starts laughing too, and now we’re both cackling like idiots.
It takes a minute before we manage to calm down and straighten up. She’s still holding the offending toy behind her back, but she’s smiling at me. Hints of her embarrassment remain, but at the same time, she looks bold again. Unapologetic.
“Well,” she says. “That should have been in my nightstand drawer. I guess I forgot to put it back after its last adventure.”
I laugh again, my cheeks aching from it. I want to say something witty, but I’ve got nothing. Sex toy humor isn’t my forte.
“Um, you can go on up,” she tells me, nodding toward the stairs. “I’ll... take care of this. Then I’ll show you where the spare towels are.”
She nods toward the stairs again and waits until I start making my way up them before following me. I can still feel the sense of amusement in the air, knowing what she’s carrying with her.
She ducks into her bedroom while I go to the spare room to grab my toiletries and a change of clothes.
When I meet her back in the narrow hallway, she leads me to the bathroom.
There’s a linen closet inside, which she opens, instructing me to take whatever I need.
Then she tells me she’ll be downstairs and leaves me to it.
I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up before I step in. A few minutes later, I’m standing under the blissfully cascading stream, lathering shampoo into my hair. And that’s when the amusement finally fades.
All of a sudden, those dirty images of Addison that I conjured up flood back into my mind.
It’s silly of me to pretend I only want to be friends with her when I know in my gut that I’m interested in something more.
I’ve never had thoughts like this about a woman before, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.
My skin feels hot in a way that’s unrelated to the water temperature as I picture her in bed again. Brown hair against the pillow, brown eyes gazing at... me? It must be, although I don’t really see myself there. I only see her.
Smooth skin revealed as clothes disappear, round curves to map out. Her waist is thin, but her hips are a bit wider. Her legs are long. I know her calves are toned, but I wonder if she goes to a gym, of it that comes naturally from working on her feet all day.
The picture gets fuzzy somewhere between her legs, my imagination struggling to come up with something when the only frame of reference I really have is my own body. But the sound of a vibrator buzzing is loud in my mind.
I focus my fantasy on her face. On how hot she must look when she tumbles over the edge of pleasure.
And with that final image, I come back to myself, realizing what I’m doing. That I’m standing here in this woman’s shower. That my skin is hot and tight. That I’ve gotten turned on imagining her in an intimate moment that I’ve never actually seen, and in reality, probably never will.
I have no right thinking of her like that when all she’s offered me is potential friendship, a chance to get clean, and a spare bed for the night.
I have no right wanting things that I know I can’t have if I’m going to have any hope of saving my career.
Things that I’d likely be too scared to take if they were offered, anyway.
Hurrying through the rest of my shower and avoiding touching myself where my body is aching to be touched, I try to convince myself that everything is fine.
Nothing has changed. Addison has been kind to me, and I just want to get to know her better, to connect to someone besides my brother while I’m staying in Mayweather.
All these new thoughts and feelings and attractions I’m experiencing can be ignored. I need to focus on what’s important. Getting my career back to where it was before the kissing scandal, before the Skyler drama.
I can’t afford to lose everything I’ve worked for. I’ve been America’s Country Sweetheart for so damn long now that I’m not sure I even know how to be anything else.