Chapter Ten
Lula
He’d reserved me a single king suite with a mountain view. Which, judging by what I knew about the prices of rundown little motels I’d stayed at along the way, had to be around two hundred a night.
Not crazy money. But more than I felt comfortable letting him spend on me. Again.
I waited until he did a sweep of my room to make sure there were no creeps (or creepy crawlers) hiding in the closet or shower stall, then made his way down the hall to his own room to pull out my phone. I opened a new note and labeled it What I Owe Raff.
Then I spent a few minutes looking up room prices and jotting them down, along with my share for the restaurants, take-away, and gas station snacks.
When I was back on my feet, I would pay him back for all of this.
I’d barely gotten a chance to tour my room before there was a knock at my door.
And there was Raff.
In a fluffy white hotel bathrobe and shower shoes.
“What are you still doing with your clothes on?”
“Excuse me?”
He frowned at that and glanced behind me. “Didn’t you see your itinerary?”
“My itinerary? No. What itinerary?”
“I asked them to put it on your nightstand,” he said, moving into my room. “They promised—yep, there it is. They framed it and everything. Fancy.” He held the picture frame out to me.
In a fancy little font was a list of spa treatments: back massage, foot massage, facial, mud bath, lash lift, body wrap, and manicure. Next to each were times.
“Raff, what the hell is this?”
“Your spa package. And you’re cutting it close to missing your massage.”
“You bought me a spa package?”
“I got one too. Well, not the lash lift or manicure. And I’d never make someone rub my feet. But I’m getting a back massage. And I’ve always been curious about the mud stuff.”
The only reason he booked himself anything was that he knew I’d try to turn him down if he didn’t and would insist he go in my place.
And there was no refusing this. You paid up front, whether you actually went or not. If I didn’t take advantage of it, he was pissing the money away.
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” I grumbled, even as a little part of me started happy dancing at the idea of a little pampering.
“I did. Now go strip down and throw on your robe.”
I rushed to do just that, mentally trying to calculate what these kinds of treatments would cost at this kind of place. But I started to get a stomachache at that figure, so I went ahead and left that for future me to figure out and add to my list.
Right then, I slipped into a robe and shower shoes, double-checked for my key card, then rushed to follow Raff down to the treatment center.
Where, as I was led to a room, I saw Raff having what seemed to be a serious discussion with the woman at the desk, who nodded profusely at whatever he said.
I fretted over that for all of ten seconds. Until I was on a table and someone was massaging the tension I’d been carrying for weeks out of my shoulders, back, and hips.
I nodded in and out during the back and foot massages, so relaxed that I couldn’t even keep my eyes open.
By the time I’d had a scrub, mud bath, and facial, I was feeling more like myself than I had in a long time.
The lashes and nails were just icing on the already very decadent cake.
It wasn’t until my nails were done that I panicked, my stomach dropping as I realized I hadn’t been tipping anyone who’d been working on me.
“Don’t worry,” the woman, a pretty brunette with short, blunt nails of her own, said as she inspected mine. “Your man made it very clear he is handling tips. You aren’t supposed to spend a penny.”
Of course, that was what he’d told the woman at the desk.
“In that case, thank you so much. I haven’t had my nails done in a long time. I’ve been feeling naked without them.”
I didn’t even do anything crazy.
I did a mid-length almond shape with neutral shades, so they always went with my outfits. But I loved the longevity. How I would never have to worry that my polish was chipped before I left the house.
When I finally made my way out of the spa, I found Raff waiting for me, relaxing in his robe and reading a women’s magazine.
“Looking at bikini pictures?” I teased.
“An article about the side effects of hormonal birth control,” he said.
“Wait… really?”
“It’s almost as informative as the one about the new research on the mapping of the clit. Or the one about how autoimmune conditions mostly affect women. The takeaway of that one was: be a bitch so you don’t get autoimmune issues.”
“How’d you get there?” I asked as we made our way to the door.
“Chronic stress raises cortisol. Cortisol blunts the anti-inflammatory response. And that dysregulation can trigger a misfire, making your body attack healthy tissue. So… be a bitch. Stay healthier.”
“I feel like I should gift you a women’s magazine subscription for your next birthday.”
“Dunno if I can keep hearing about how you all get the short end of the stick biologically. Though, you do get the multiple orgasm thing, so it’s not all bad.”
I didn’t remember the last time I had a single orgasm, let alone multiple.
“Speaking of orgasms…”
“Must we?”
“There is a new lemon-shaped sucker sex toy that came highly recommended by the staff of that magazine. Gave it five out of five water droplet emojis. There’s a great sex toy store in Miami if you want to hit it up and get one.”
“You want me to go to a sex toy store with you?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not typically a group activity.”
“You underestimate me. I come with a lot of practice and knowledge. So you can come… well, so you can come.”
“And on that note, I’m going to wash off all those oils and serums they slathered on me before we talk food.”
“I’m pretty sure I still have that mud on my back,” he agreed as I unlocked my door. “Meet you here in half an hour? Forty minutes?”
“An hour?”
“Sounds good.”
“Hey, Raff,” I called to his retreating form.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I needed that.”
“Don’t have anything to thank me for.”
With that, he strode to his room and disappeared. Leaving me to step into my room, lean back against the door, and let out the pathetic, needy, aching whimper that I’d been tamping down since parting ways with Raff before the spa treatments.
I couldn’t tell you what it was.
Was it simply the talk about sex?
Just biological. Nothing personal.
Or was there more to it than that?
Something about him, in particular.
But why?
When he wasn’t my type. Not even close.
I couldn’t think of a situation in my past when I found myself attracted to someone that didn’t check off a list of very specific characteristics. Not the least of which being someone I could see a future with.
And Raff, well, Raff didn’t fit that future.
So maybe it was more about being close, being vulnerable, and being pampered by someone who felt safe and comfortable after being screwed over by someone who did check all my boxes but ended up screwing me over worse than anyone else.
And as much as my body may have been reacting, logically I knew that I couldn’t let anything happen. Not when it would be nothing more than an itch being scratched for me… and a lot more for Raff. It wouldn’t be fair to him to let anything happen.
I walked into the bathroom, shucked off the robe, and climbed into the shower, trying not to feel disappointment at my decision. But it was there underneath all the certainty that I was making the right choice. Because everything about Raff suggested it would be an incredibly satisfying time.
Even just the thought had desire pressing on my stomach, had a deep ache forming, had my heart racing.
It was going to be an impossibly long three more days in the car with him if I didn’t try to control my growing need.
My hand slid down my body and slipped between my thighs.
The problem was that when I closed my eyes and sank into the sensations, it was no longer just me in the shower. Raff was there in my mind, his hand replacing mine, his lips on my neck, his breath warm in my ear as he dirty-talked into my ear.
I came harder than I ever had on my own in that shower, loud moan and all, before I finished showering, dried off, and climbed out.
I removed my bonnet, fluffed my roots, smoothed my edges, and applied a small amount of leave-in conditioner to the strands. The dry heat had been stripping my hair of what little moisture it held onto naturally. Being in the car for days on end made wearing a bun less than ideal.
I skipped the makeup—thankful that the lash lift made it look like I had on mascara when I didn’t—then slipped into a lightweight sundress before stepping out of the bathroom.
And a small shriek escaped me.
Because I wasn’t alone.
Raff was sitting in one of the chairs near the window, hair still wet, legs out, looking at home. And like he might have been there a while.
But, God, how long?
Long enough to have heard me in the shower?
It should have been something akin to embarrassment that flooded me. Why, then, was it a warmth instead?
“How’d you get in here?”
“Two keys, remember? I took your extra one.”
“Why?”
“Because someone told me yesterday that you have a bad habit of losing cards.”
I did tell him that.
Leave it to Raff to remember such an inconsequential detail.
“Oh.”
“I did knock.”
The only way I wouldn’t have heard that was if I was in the shower.
All I could do was pray the walls at the hotel were thicker than they looked.
“I was doing my hair.”
The way his lips twitched ever so slightly told me all I needed to know. He’d been here a while. He’d heard. He knew I was trying to cover. But, bless him, he didn’t bring it up.
“So, food,” he said instead.
“Yes, food. I’m starving.”
“How willing are you to step outside of the box with food options?”
Normally, not at all. I was pretty rigid about my food. I wasn’t blessed with the kind of metabolism that allowed me to eat whatever I wanted and just take one Pilates class a week to maintain my frame. I had to be smart and careful.
But this was vacation.
Why not indulge a little?
“Depends on how wild we’re talking. I’m not eating weird meats.”
“How wide or narrow is your definition of ‘weird meat?’”
“What do you mean?”
“Hot dogs.”
“You want to eat hot dogs for dinner?”
“Wait. Wait. Not just any hot dogs. Sonoran hot dogs.”
“What is a Sonoran hot dog?”
“It is a bacon-wrapped hot dog on a bolillo-style bun, loaded with pinto beans, onions, tomatoes, mayo, mustard, and jalapeno sauce. It’s messy as fuck, but really good.”
“Well, you haven’t led me wrong yet,” I said, nodding. “Let’s get messy hot dogs for dinner.”
And damn if it wasn’t the best meal I’d had in my life. With some of the best company.
This road trip was shaking up everything I thought I knew about my likes, my wants, and what I enjoyed.
And that—well, that was dangerous.