Chapter 21 Alessia
I draw in a sharp breath. And before I can think—before I can stop myself—I slam my phone face down onto the tabletop with a sharp, involuntary gasp.
Chris startles, looking at me with a confused look on his face.
“Everything okay, Aly?” he asks.
Great. Everything’s totally, completely great.
I’m really tanking this attempt at a first date. I don’t even know what my face is doing right now, but my body knows. My body knows it wants to leave and go back to him.
“Yes,” I say too quickly, swiping my wine glass and taking a deep gulp. Half of this and I’m at my driving limit, even if Gabriel’s house is only a mile walk away.
“Yes,” I repeat, forcing a laugh and slowing down my sip. There’s no way I’m going to drink anymore. I’m too hot. Too flustered. “I just got a text from my new roommate that surprised me.”
That’s not a lie.
Chris tilts his head, eyes sharpening with curiosity. “You said you live with the owner of this bar? Everything okay there?”
I press my teeth into my bottom lip, rolling them under thoughtfully. How do I even begin to explain this? Do I want to? I don’t want to lie to him, but is there really any need for an explanation? This is a first and last date. I already know this. Plus. there’s nothing to explain.
Except for the fact that my neighbor-turned-roommate just emptied himself inside me, so deep and full that I know he did it so that I’d be sitting here, across from another man, still feeling him drip out of me and thinking of him.
So that every shift of my thighs, every slow leak, would keep him at the forefront of my mind. So that my date would be ruined.
I need to change the subject before I combust.
“So, tell me what you like most about living in Brookhaven,” I ask, tilting my head, letting my smile pull a little wider and trying desperately not to think about Gabriel’s text message that’s still waiting for a response. “I’m still new in town and trying to find my way around.”
Chris leans forward, his interest shifting with ease. “I don’t live in Brookhaven. I’m based out of New York City. I work mostly on the roads that connect the city to here, so I’m around a lot. I usually crash with my aunt when I’m in town.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Is that where you’re staying tonight?”
He nods, setting his drink down with a casual confidence. “Yeah, but don’t worry. She’s out tonight and not home so we won’t be disturbed.”
I blink. Whoa. That’s a bit forward.
And maybe I don’t have the right to judge because I was even worse during my disaster first date with Gabriel, but still, there’s an art to these things, right? There’s some playful flirting, some teasing that leaves the question open on whether we’ll actually sleep together after dinner.
Before I can decide how to respond to that, my phone—face-down on the table, not turned off like I said it would be—buzzes again.
“I’m so sorry, I forgot to silence it.”
I reach for it, heart already hammering, dread and shameful excitement curling tight in my gut because I know who it is. And I hate that more than anything I want to know what he’s saying now.
I flip the phone over, thumb hovering, pulse skittering like static electricity just under my skin. Then I read the message.
Gabriel: How does it feel to have me dripping out of you while you’re sitting across from another guy? My seed oozing from your cunt.
Gabriel: Does each drop remind you of me?
I inhale sharply, but the sip of water I’d just taken goes down the wrong way, and suddenly I’m choking.
And it’s not a delicate cough—oh no, my body betrays me.
My pelvic floor squeezes with the motion and shakes and the force alone sends a thick, slick gush spilling out of me in one mortifying rush.
Oh. My. God.
My panties are no longer just ruined, they’re decimated. They’re liquid. There’s no coming back from this. A spare hair dryer in the bathroom couldn’t save them now.
Heat rushes up my neck, my thighs, sticky, my panties, ruined. Thank fuck for the black dress because there’s no way there’s not a dark, damp spot on the back of it now.
Chris is out of his chair in an instant. “Are you okay? Are you choking?”
No. I’m nowhere near okay. I have blue-clit from being brought to the brink of a powerful orgasm by the most handsome, infuriating, blue-collar man I’ve ever laid eyes on and then having it yanked away by my new roommate before this date.
And I’m also oozing semen all over my dress and the bar chair.
I nod, swallowing hard, voice barely functioning as my fingers fumble for another sip of water. “Yeah—just—can you give me a second? I need to run to the restroom.”
Like a savior, our server reappears at our table, setting down our meals.
“Get started without me,” I tell him, grabbing my purse and phone before he can protest. “Please don’t wait.”
He nods, already digging into his plate as I make my escape with my purse slung awkwardly over my backside hoping it’s concealing whatever wetness is visible.
The second I push through the restroom door, I beeline for a stall, locking myself in like I can somehow escape the literal mess Gabriel has left inside me. In some cruel twist of irony someone carved into the wooden door a heart with the letters G+A in the center.
I glare at it.
No.
I yank my panties down, gasping when I see just how soaked they are.
The fabric clings to me, damp and humiliating, like I stepped out of the shower fully clothed.
I quickly grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe between my legs, my thighs, my fucking soul—but it’s pointless.
Nothing but a good wash and dryer will get these to be wearable again.
I have three options:
One. I toss the panties, go commando, and pray I don’t gush again like a water balloon.
Two. Put them back on and deal with the squishy mess for the rest of the meal.
Or three. Take Chris back to my freezing home right now, fuck him out of sheer spite, probably not get off and end up disappointed but let Gabriel stew in his jealousy.
Or…
I guess there’s a fourth option. One I shouldn’t even consider.
I scrap this entire screwed-up date and go straight to the man who did this to me. The one who started this. The one who’s been on my mind since the moment he pinned me against that shower wall and made my body hum with pleasure. The one who said, very clearly, that it was just sex.
The bathroom door opens, and two giggling girls enter.
“Oh my god. He’s so hot.”
“I know. But he’s a plumber. Blue collar men just don’t do it for me. I want a guy with a desk in a high-rise in New York City who barks orders and tells everyone else what to do.”
I want to open the door and tell them just how wrong they are. That a man who uses his hands for his work means he knows how to use them in the bedroom.
I hold my breath instead, hoping they don’t notice there’s a woman in one of the occupied stalls having a quarter-life-crisis with damp panties in her hand and thighs that can’t be dried with just toilet paper.
My phone pings again. I know who it is before I even look. But when I see what he’s sent me this time, I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth to smother the sound.
It’s a picture of himself. My red thong from the night we hooked up in the shower two weeks ago is stretched tightly around his bare cock.
It’s so tightly wound it looks like it’s cutting off the circulation.
His hand is there too, gripping the base of his shaft, fingers pressing into the thick length like he’s mid-stroke.
A fresh wave of heat slams into me.
He’s hard and covered in... me.
My stomach twists. My thighs clench. My pussy squeezes. My nipples harden.
And then another message—
Gabriel: Alessia…you’re reading my messages but not responding.
Gabriel: That tells me your date isn’t capturing your attention.
Gabriel: Do I need to come pick you up and take you home?
There’s that word he keeps using... Home.
I swallow hard, my pulse is roaring in my ears, and I can no longer hear the girls outside the door.
He doesn’t mean it. It’s just temporary. He said it was just sex.
And yet…I’ve never had a man this feral for me. Never met a guy who was so desperate for my time and attention. Not even my husband when we were first married. Not even before he stopped loving me and we still made love.
Do I like it?
Does it feel good to be wanted this badly? Worshipped this much—even if it’s only because he’s jealous that I’m sitting across from another man?
I don’t think about it anymore. I don’t consider my four options or the damp panties in my hand or the guy who’s only one month out from his divorce and thinks I’m going to sleep with him tonight when I forgot his name.
I was never going to do it anyway.
The bathroom door shuts, telling me I’m alone.
Panties—off. Stuffed into my purse to add to Gabriel’s collection.
Excuse—made. A polite, regretful smile, a murmured, “I think I’m coming down with something. We should reschedule.”
Pussy—wet and ready. I deserve this. I deserve to be fucked by a man who’s jealous of anyone who gets to look at me and isn’t him. Even if it’s all just physical. Even if there’s no future for me and Gabriel beyond tonight.
I walk out.
Out of the restaurant. Out of this date I should have never taken. And straight toward the arms of the man who started this. Who needs to finish this.
And who needs to finish me.