43. June
JUNE
“You know, when you mentioned needing to clean up something at The Drift, I didn’t think you meant month-old body paint.” I take the fresh rag and wipe at a smear of neon yellow from the mirror. Seriously, the room is a disaster.
“It wasn’t a month, and if I’d told you, would you have still come?” Ford counters.
A half-hearted scowl is all he gets in response.
Why? Because let’s be real. I’m pretty sure he could’ve mentioned a prostate exam, and I still would’ve been willing to tag along.
I think I’m addicted. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but the more time we spend together, the more I miss him when he’s not around.
Whether it’s his snark or his intellect or his presence in general, there’s something about him I can’t get enough of.
Add in how hot and bothered I was when he was teaching me math earlier, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve agreed to anything.
With a laugh, Ford tosses the rag in his hands at me, and I dodge it at the last second.
Slap! The damp fabric slides down one of the mirrors before landing with a plop on the floor. He reaches for a fresh rag from the side table and starts on another mirror a few feet away.
I’m almost sad I didn’t make it to this one.
The room of mirrors. There has to be a hundred of them.
Combined, they create a maze of reflections.
Imagining the purple flashing black lights, men in black, and neon face paint from the event, it would’ve been a crazy place to wind up.
Thankfully, the paint is pretty easy to clean off with a little water.
I can’t imagine how difficult it would be if I had to scrape it off the reflective surfaces with a putty knife or something.
We’ve been at it for a solid thirty minutes.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, inspecting my handiwork.
“So, why did this room get missed when the rest of it was cleaned up the night of the party?” I ask.
“You sure you want to know?”
My brows furrow as I meet Ford’s gaze in the half-cleaned mirror I’m working on. “Should I be worried?”
“Of course not, my sweet,”—he takes a step toward me—“innocent,”—his hand finds my wrist—“June.” He winks. “This way.”
Okay, I have a feeling I definitely don’t want to know why this room was missed, but I follow him anyway. He leads me to another spot in the maze and waves his arms to a particularly dirty batch of mirrors. “And this is why we sent the cleaners home.”
“I’m sorry, what are you trying to show me?” I ask.
“Keep looking. You'll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” My jaw hits the floor. “Wait, is that—”
“Yup. That’s an ass.”
A giggle erupts, and my cheeks heat. Sure enough, a pair of two round, lime green orbs is imprinted on the glass, along with one smeared, sky blue handprint at head height.
It looks like it was from a person who was balancing themselves against the smooth surface while holding the lime green orbs with their opposite hand.
“Okay, seriously?” I say with a laugh.
“Yeah, apparently my little sister caught them in the act from the cameras, so Roman shut it down, then left the task to me to clean up since he did me a favor after—” His mouth snaps shut, and he clears his throat. “We should keep cleaning.”
Uh, what was that?
My forehead wrinkles as I take him in. Did Ford just filter his words? As in, the Ford Harden who has no filter and says whatever comes to his mind come hell or high water? Uh-huh. Yeah, he’s most definitely keeping something from me.
I step in front of him. “You were saying?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
My eyes thin. Yeah, I call bull crap. “What kind of favor did Roman do for you?” I ask, replaying his statement. “Wait, did you say cameras?”
A grimace spreads across Ford’s stupidly handsome face. “Maybe?”
Piecing together what exactly he isn’t saying, I gasp. “Ford, were there cameras? When you and I, you know—”
“Roman erased the footage, I swear.”
I smack his chest with the damp rag. “Ford!”
“I’m sorry I forgot to tell you.”
“I asked if anyone could see us!”
“No, you asked if anyone could walk in,” he counters, “and I said no because they couldn’t.”
“Yeah, because why not host a virtual event of you feeling me up, am I right?” I all but squeal.
Seriously, the man deserves to be smacked upside the head.
Oh my gosh, if there is video evidence of Ford sucking on my boobs, I’m going to curl up in a ball and die.
I shouldn’t find the whole thing amusing, and maybe if I didn’t share the moment with Ford, I’d be more frustrated, but for some reason I can’t explain, it’s kind of…
comical. Ridiculous, but comical. I shake my head and wipe at the corner of my eye.
“I cannot believe Roman saw that footage.”
Reaching for my wrist, Ford slowly lowers my hand and juts out his bottom lip. “I’m sorry, June Bug.”
“Sure, you are.”
“I really am,” he reiterates, sobering ever so slightly, giving me a glimpse of his sincerity.
I could make him grovel. I could yell at him for lying to me or keeping the truth hidden, but honestly, I don’t even really care. Not when I can feel his sincerity and regret about the whole thing. “I forgive you.”
Relief flashes in his emerald eyes. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm, but only because—what is that?” My attention catches on something behind him, and I move forward to inspect it.
A little black ball of lacy fabric smeared with bubble-gum-pink neon paint is tucked at the base of one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
Is it another rag? Maybe from before? What in the world?
I bend down to pick it up before jerking my hand back like it’s a venomous snake at the last second.
Nope. Definitely not a rag.
“Okay, that is so gross,” I mutter under my breath. I turn to Ford, my nose scrunching in disgust.
“What is it?” He moves closer to inspect the balled up fabric the same way I had, though he’s much braver than me. He picks it up between two pinched fingers protected by latex gloves.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask.
“Yup. That’s underwear.”
“So, someone else had sex in here?” I squeal.
“Considering the sky blue and lime green on the mirror compared to the hot pink on this specimen…” He gives the underwear in question a pointed look and wiggles it back and forth. “Seems that way.”
“Gross.” I step back as if the thing is contaminated with an STD. Then again, it very well might be. Who has sex in public then leaves their underwear for someone else to find? Like, seriously?
With a flick of his wrist, Ford tosses the underwear into the garbage bag and takes off his gloves, adding them to the growing pile. When he realizes I’m watching him, he meets my gaze. “What?”
“I’m sorry, that is so nasty. Who has sex in public?”
He gives me a pointed look. “You do remember what you and I were doing that night, right?”
My cheeks heat at the reminder. “I believe we already covered that.”
“Yeah, and if it wasn’t our first time, I would’ve bent you over and fucked the shit out of you.” He moves closer. “And you would’ve let me.”
The burning in my cheeks grows as I look at the ground, unable to hold his gaze. “Okay, even if there is some truth to that statement, you were there to make sure no one could see us.”
“True.”
“And these…whoever they were, most definitely did not have the same connections to the cameras, let alone the doors. Someone could’ve walked in.”
“Maybe they were okay if someone walked in,” he offers with a shrug.
A cackle escapes me. “You’re joking.”
“What? Is there something wrong with the idea of people enjoying watching other people get off?”
“Oh, so you’re into it?” I tease.
“Are you asking if I get turned on when I watch other people orgasm?”
My face heats even more at his candor, but I don’t reply. How can I? Other than a couple of movies here and there, I’ve never even come close to watching someone orgasm.
Reading my expression as a confession, Ford’s jaw drops. “Don’t tell me you’ve never watched porn.”
My eyes bulge. “Excuse me?”
“Answer the question.”
“Why no, no, I have not.”
“Are you serious?” He laughs.
“As ED,” I return, tossing his well-used phrase back at him.
His grin stretches even more. “All right, June Bug. I’m officially intrigued. Have you ever touched yourself?”
While I do appreciate his genuine interest, admitting I’ve only orgasmed with him feels a little…I don’t know. Pathetic, maybe? Add in the differences between our sexual experiences in general, and I feel like a fish out of water.
Our cleaning task forgotten, I drop the rag to our feet and cross my arms. “Where are you going with this, Ford?”
We’re still close. He moves around me in the hall of mirrors, his hand sliding along my torso until my back is to his chest and our fronts are to one of the many reflective surfaces.
Angle upon angle, I can see us. The too-sexy-for-his-own-good Ford with his arms wrapped around the girl-next-door-dental-assistant June.
It’s a stark contrast. The height difference.
The tan to pale skin. The strong muscular build to supple curves. The auras.
I peek up at him over my shoulder. He grabs my chin, shifting my attention back to the many mirrors.
Dragging his hand along my throat, he murmurs, “Okay, June Bug. Let’s play a game.”
“Ford.”
“A hypothetical game,” he returns. “Humor me.” His fingers drag along my outer breast, making my stomach tighten.
“If we opened the haunted house event where girls could sign up to hide, and guys could sign up to find said girls and do what they want with them if they were found…would you sign up as a spectator or a participant?”
“If I knew others were watching?” I shake my head, attempting to focus on our conversation instead of his hand trailing lower and lower on my body. “No to both.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I don’t know?” A shiver races down my spine. “No?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s private.”
“Yeah, no, totally get that,” he says, though I don’t miss the humor in his tone.