Chapter 13 Coming Up Roses #2
Jesus, did Wes know what she was doing? He couldn’t possibly.
No one in their right mind would rope an innocent bystander into a solo wank.
Maybe she was imagining that his voice changed.
More than likely, she heard the voice she wanted to hear—because, on some secret level, she craved it.
But the chance that he was aware? It made the whole thing riskier, more dangerous.
God, she was going to regret this in the morning.
She was going to regret this forever. On her deathbed, she’d remember this moment with bone-deep mortification.
But right now? Oh, right now she was in shambles.
Wes Dane owned her. She was hanging on his every syllable.
“Sasha.”
His voice was hot wax dripping down a candle. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was teetering on the edge, her orgasm building to perilous heights. The whole world was narrowed down to this. His voice in her ear.
“Y-yes?” she panted.
“Come.”
It sent her to the fucking moon. She sucked in a loud breath, clenched, and finally, fucking finally, after who-knows-how-many-years, she came. And it was so overwhelming, so piercing, that she squeezed out a small tear.
Some dizzy-floaty moments later, she came to.
She felt a light sheen of misty sweat on her skin.
Her breathing was starting to slow, but her heart continued to pound.
And then, she noticed that her phone had slid to the ground.
With a yelp, she yanked herself out of her postorgasmic haze, and picked it up.
“Are you there?” she asked. But the call must’ve disconnected when it landed on the ground. Wes was gone. Had she made noise? God, did he know? What was so hot five minutes before was now depraved beyond all human comprehension. What had gotten into her?
She drifted to sleep before she could answer.
It was impossible to tell when the nightmares would come.
Sasha could be having a perfectly status quo day.
Smooth sailing. But then, as she drifted into sleep, the terrors would come.
A disjointed, unsettling collage of feelings—nothing tangible—just remembrances of feeling hunted, chased, and gripped in paranoia.
No people were in these dreams; just shadows darting in and out of sight.
Sasha was lost at sea. And then a hand would come out of nowhere, grasping at her clothes, her hair, an arm—anything to pull her to safety.
It always ended the same way. In Sasha’s dream, the hand was disembodied, but she knew who it belonged to.
This time—the night after her Rose encounter—she rushed into consciousness with a breathless gasp, and her phone was ringing.
Startled and disoriented, she reached for her phone on the nightstand. She had no idea what time it was.
“Hello?” She was groggy, and still halfway stuck in nightmare-
world.
“You up?”
It was Wes, with uncanny timing. His strong hand just pulled her out of a nightmare.
And now he was speaking in her ear. She was suddenly, blisteringly wide awake.
Omigod. Omigod. It all came rushing back to her.
Was Wes calling to talk about her insane Rose call?
Of course he was. What could she possibly say?
She was too mortified and ashamed to speak.
Her insides were screaming. Did he know?
It was the morning after her risky call.
After she hung up the night before, Sasha had been on pins and needles for ages before falling asleep—replaying the conversation, again and again.
The way he’d sounded. The way she’d sounded.
The shocking impulsivity that was so unlike her.
What had possessed her? It’s like she’d had a personality transplant.
One thing was true—Wes opened something up in her.
It couldn’t be denied. But she didn’t know what it meant.
Wes was everything she didn’t want. Too handsome, a bit of a lothario, definitely aware of his charm.
Sasha’s dad was like that. And he’d given her mom a lifetime of heartache. Wes Dane wasn’t an option.
Second, it felt like cheating on Seat F. She realized this sounded insane, given that their relationship began (and ended?) over the length of a transatlantic flight.
Third, was it a breach of moral code to nonconsensually ride the waves of someone’s voice to completion?
But the worst part was what it revealed about herself.
The orgasm that had so frustratingly eluded her, for years, just roared back into town.
And not because she had a gorgeously spiritual, man-decentering, fall in love with your yoni style erotic breakthrough.
Or because she was fantasizing about her fated soulmate, Seat F.
No, it was because she was imagining Wes Dane simply existing on the other side of the line.
Wes Dane, who was minding his own business, trying to process why she’d chosen T-Mobile over Verizon.
Wes Dane, her recently reclaimed friend, with whom she was supposed to respect professional boundaries.
She tried to convince herself it was cool. It was a small moment of sexual weakness. Men were always getting caught doing some weird sexual shit. Look at politicians and university presidents. Far be it from a woman to let her hormones take over, for once.
She’d been holding her breath since she woke up that morning, hoping against hope that Wes hadn’t picked up on what was happening on her end of the call.
In between meetings, she turned off all the lights and hid under the covers, feverishly scrolling through social media.
She had to distract herself or her mind would snap.
But it was time to face this.
“Did I wake you?” Wes was asking.
“Yes, I . . . no. Sorry, I’m a little off.”
Should she bring it up? If she did, and he wasn’t aware, she would die a thousand deaths. If she did, and he was aware, then she’d also die. If she didn’t bring it up, and he was aware, the awkwardness might also kill her. So, no matter what, death was imminent.
“You sound weird,” said Wes. “I know why.”
Dear God.
“You had another nightmare.” He’d fielded a similar call before, the previous week. “Here’s what you do. Go get some ice. Hold it in your hand, and let it melt. Physiologically speaking, it’ll calm your nervous system.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you some other time.”
Her fears were, haltingly, beginning to subside.
Wes didn’t sound like someone who telephonically overheard her enjoy the most exquisite orgasm of her life.
He was being his usual self—candid, sweet, thoughtful.
The ice thing was a sweet suggestion. If Wes had any awareness of what she’d done, Sasha would’ve picked up on some awkwardness.
He probably wouldn’t have called her at all.
Actually, no; Wes was so direct that he would’ve immediately called her back after the phone cut off last night, demanding an explanation.
In any event, the fact that he hadn’t mentioned anything was a good sign.
Hesitantly, she allowed herself to believe that things were status quo.
“When’s the last time you left the house?” he asked.
This question left her stomach in knots. Wes could tell she’d been a shut-in for days? She was so embarrassed. There was no rhyme or reason to her anxiety episodes. She could be relatively fine out in the world for two days, but then retreat into hiding for a week.
“When we were at Seraphina.”
Her words were met with a weighted silence.
“That long, huh?” His voice was measured and nonjudgmental. But it was clear he was worried. “I’m going to regret this. But will you come with me to the bench dedication tomorrow? It’ll be good for you to get out. And you’ll feel safe with me, right? I apologize in advance for my feral family.”
“I thought you weren’t going.”
“I wasn’t. But I thought about your offer to be my emotional support person.” He took a breath. “I’ll allow it, if I can be yours.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Or a terrible one.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
She heard him let out a terse chuckle. “You’ll be the only one.”