7. Just a Fantasy
7
Hadley
As shitty as I feel this morning, I wish I’d drunk more than I did last night. A lot more. Like straight-from-the-bottle, dancing-on-the-bar, so-shitfaced-I-don’t-remember-a-goddamn-thing more.
Because this morning? I do remember. Everything.
Including that little gem I dropped on Foster as he tucked me into bed last night. My face heats as I make my way up the stairs, the sounds of dishes clanking together in the kitchen following me up to my room.
Breakfast was delicious, and Foster was right…I do feel better. The aspirin, coffee, and food knocked out my headache, and Foster’s behavior took care of my worries.
He was downright solicitous, insisting on not only cooking breakfast but taking care of the cleanup afterward. But more than that, he acted normal.
No weird energy.
No uncomfortable questions.
No indication whatsoever that he heard my little drunken confession.
And if he didn’t hear those slurred, mumbled words, I have nothing to worry about, right?
Walking into my bedroom, I push the door closed and turn the lock. Shuffling across the room, my eye catches on the bed as I pass it on my way to the bathroom. My steps stutter as flashes of last night roll through my mind like a carousel of bad decisions.
Too much tequila. More than I could reasonably handle.
Attempting to drunkenly flirt with Foster. Calling him “stud.”
My eyes fall closed as a quiet groan vibrates in my chest. I must’ve sounded like an idiot.
Telling him I liked his laugh.
Foster telling me he liked mine, too.
The feel of his arm around my waist, his deep voice going on to tell me he thinks I’m sweet.
And pretty.
Not the sexiest of compliments, but more than I’d expected. My mind jumps off the rails, and I imagine him telling me he thinks I’m gorgeous. Enchanting. Sexy.
That he wants me in his bed.
My blood starts to thrum, and I glance from the bed to my nightstand, where my high-end vibrator waits, fully charged and ready to buzz. Biting my lip, I shift my weight from foot to foot before making a decision.
A nice, satisfying release is exactly what I need.
Making the decision, I spin on the balls of my feet and tiptoe back to the door. Unlocking it gently, I ease it open a few inches and poke my head through the opening. Tilting my head, I listen for any telltale signs of Foster’s location. A second later, I hear the clink of dishes coming from downstairs. He’s still down there cleaning up.
Closing the door as soundlessly as possible, I relock it and rush toward my bed on light feet. Hopping onto the mattress, I crawl toward the pillows and reach over to slide open the top drawer of my nightstand. My lips curve upward as I reach in and pull out my battery-operated boyfriend.
Rolling onto my back, I turn it on and crank it up to the fastest speed. This needs to be quick. I’ve suffered enough humiliation in the last twelve hours. The last thing I need is for Foster to come up and hear me pleasuring myself.
With that thought, I reach over and grab the remote for my television. Turning it on, I increase the volume to a level that’s not suspiciously high, but loud enough to drown out the buzzing of B.O.B. or any heavy breathing I may end up doing.
Satisfied any noises will be camouflaged, I drop the remote and relax my head into the pillow. Lifting the buzzing vibrator, I glide it over each of my nipples briefly, making them pucker before pushing it down between my legs.
My head tilts back, my mouth falling open as I guide the device over my p.j. shorts and underwear, blazing a trail between my center and my clit. I start to warm up, and images of Foster flash through my mind. His handsome face. His strong arms, ripping his shirt off in the one-handed way guys do while he watches me with those blue, fiery eyes.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he tells me to keep going. To make myself come.
Using my free hand, I yank the crotch of my shorts and underwear aside, pressing the vibrator to my naked flesh. My back bows with pleasure as the full power of my B.O.B. hits my bare clit, and a groan slips out despite my resolve to remain quiet.
I’m beyond control, now. My hips buck as my whole body starts to tingle. My calf muscles tighten as I dig my heels into the mattress, Foster’s phantom voice in my ears, telling me to come like a good girl.
That particular imagining throws me over the edge, and I come with a shout. I snap my jaw shut, the waves still crashing over me as I turn the vibrator off, sit up, and toss it back into the nightstand. Sliding the drawer closed silently, I look back toward the door and listen carefully.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I can’t hear anything over the television. Hopefully that means if Foster was in the hallway when that unintentional shout burst through my lips, he either didn’t hear it or thought it was coming from the T.V.
Picking up the remote from where I’d dropped it to the mattress, I turn the volume down a few clicks, my gaze still centered on the door like I might somehow see through it to the hall on the other side. But of course, I can’t, and I don’t hear anything either.
Some of the tension slides out of me, and I drop the remote again before climbing off the bed. I leave the T.V. on as I head for the bathroom. If Foster can hear it, I don’t want him to wonder why I only turned it on for two minutes before shutting it off.
That would be suspicious, wouldn’t it?
“Christ,” I mutter as I pad toward the shower.
I’m being paranoid. And not the smallest bit ridiculous.
Turning on the water, I head back out into my room to strip out of my clothes. Tossing them into the laundry basket, I head to my dresser, pulling open the top drawer and plucking out a pair of clean underwear and the matching bra. I shake my head as I finger the soft satin. This is something I’ve started doing since Foster moved in––making sure my undergarments match.
I’ve never cared before. My only concern was comfort. But now?
Now I want to make sure I’ll look feminine and pretty, just in case…
What? Foster loses control and strips me out of my clothes?
Ridiculous.
But regardless, I take the pretty lingerie set into the bathroom and set it on the counter before stepping into the shower. The hot spray feels amazing on my head and shoulders, and I stand there with my head bowed for several minutes, letting the spray wash away the last of my worry and regret over last night.
My mind wanders back to a few minutes ago when imaginary-Foster watched me masturbate and told me to come like a good girl. Would he be demanding in bed? Strong and commanding, bending me to his will?
Or would he be soft and gentle, coaxing each and every response from me with soft praise and featherlight touches?
Which would I prefer?
Fuck, I don’t know. Both?
I could be completely wrong on both counts, and we could be totally incompatible in bed. The thought makes my stomach turn with dread, and irritation floods through me.
It doesn’t matter. None of it. I’m never going to find out how Foster performs in bed, because he doesn’t see me that way. That much is obvious.
He was humoring a drunk girl, telling her she’s pretty so she wouldn’t get emotional. So she wouldn’t get wound up and weepy.
And those fantasies I was having were just that––fantasies.