3. Joey
3
Joey
I moan awake, shards of glass stabbing my head. My mouth is so full of cotton I can barely move my tongue. But through the intense pain, I sense an arm around my waist, a hand cupping my breast, and a hot, hard body snuggled up to me.
All signs indicate it’s a man, based on the size and weight of the build. There’s also the scruff on the cheek pressed against my shoulder and the wiry hairs on the wrist that I’m holding, as if I’m trying to keep his hand on me. And the biggest sign of all—the erection that’s growing by the second against my buttocks.
My body stiffens in shock while my brain registers what’s happening and struggles to fully awaken. The hand on my breast twitches, then starts exploring. The movement is hesitant, leisurely, as if the owner of the hand is still asleep. I lay deathly still, afraid to make any movement that would wake the person pressed against me, hoping he’ll fall asleep again so I can sneak away.
Too late. Whoever is behind me stirs. The hand lightly squeezes my breast. A thumb brushes my nipple. I jerk in response. A purely physical response that instantly turns to fear. Who the heck is touching me? Just as I’m about to jump out of bed in a panic and risk my head exploding, I hear a deep, sleepy voice.
“Mmm. Good morning.”
Brent?
My eyes open wide at the low murmur and warm breath next to my ear. I jolt in shock, bashing my temple into Brent’s face. The impact adds to the excruciating pain in my head, making me moan.
“Shit, Joey!”
I flip over to find him scowling at me, a hand to his jaw. Fragments of the night before come crashing into my consciousness. Despite the rising nausea, I roll back, pulling the sheet over my head. “Oh God,” I moan in agony and embarrassment.
“Are you okay? Wastebasket is on the floor if you’re going to hurl.”
“Let me die,” I groan.
I hear a chuckle.
“Had a little too much fun last night?” He pulls on the sheet to uncover my face, but I hold on with a death grip.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble from under the sheet. Denial seems like a good idea at the moment.
I brace myself when the mattress shifts, unsure of which direction Brent is going. I wilt in relief when his voice comes from a little farther away. “Really? You don’t remember?”
Why does he sound disappointed? When I don’t respond, he continues, “Okay, go back to sleep if you want. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
When I hear a door close, I peek over the edge of the sheet. Brent has gone into the bathroom. I attempt to sit up, but the slightest movement causes the hammering at my temples to resume, and my stomach to pitch dangerously. Staying on my back, I glance around without moving my head and realize I’m in a hotel room. An expensive one, judging by the size and decor.
I have no memory of how I got here or what happened once I arrived. Did Brent and I have sex? If so, I mourn for the memories I’ll never have of my first time, even more so since it was him, the one I’ve crushed on for far too long.
A quick check of my clothes—all still intact, minus the jacket—tells me it’s unlikely anything happened. I’m disgusted by the disappointment that fills me, knowing I’m still a virgin. Because yes, while I’d have been sorry not to remember it, at least it would have happened and Brent would have been my first, the way I’d always dreamed.
I’ll have to continue dreaming about it, since I’ll never get drunk again, and that’s the only reason we somehow ended up in the same bed. But at least my fantasies from now on will be improved by recalling the reality of having his bare arm wrapped over me, his body him pressed close to me, his hard—
My breath catches at the thought of his body, which is naked and wet—and still hard?—only feet away from me on the other side of the bathroom door.
Rather than focus on the sounds of him showering and the images that come with it, I turn my attention to remembering the night before. The effort causes my head to hurt more. Moaning, I close my eyes, willing the pounding in my head to settle down so I can think clearly.
The sound of the bathroom door opening has my eyes snapping open. I must have dozed off while trying to force my brain to function.
My breath catches at the sight of him, only a towel wrapped around his lean hips. I take in my fill of his big, beautiful body, honed to perfection from hours of daily workouts and a lifetime of playing sports. His chest appears even wider without a shirt, and his sculpted abs ripple as he rubs another towel over his head.
“How are you feeling?”
I slice my gaze back up to his face. A blush heats my cheeks at being caught staring, but I can’t prevent myself from following his hands as he moves the towel to dry the droplets from his broad shoulders and chest. I wonder, not for the first time, how it would feel to run my hands over his bare body. Warm? Hard? Yes to both, recalling the moment when I first awoke.
“Joey?”
I start, my gaze darting away, unable to meet his eyes. “Oh, um, I’m okay.” I gingerly sit up, staring at my hands clutching the sheet. From the corner of my eye, I track him as he crosses the room. My attention stays on him, even when he drops the towel to pull on his clothes, which he left on the sofa. Afraid to be caught staring again, I close my eyes while the image of his broad shoulders, long back, and taut buttocks burns into my brain.
I wish I were the type of woman who could be blasé about a man dressing in front of me. I’ve touched the bodies of many male athletes as part of my job as a physical therapist, but when it comes to a more intimate relationship, I can’t get past my innate self-consciousness. Brent certainly doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, used to being naked in front of teammates—and women.
“Listen, I need to leave. I have a couple of meetings this morning. I’ll be back in a few hours. Rest until then, call up for whatever you need, and I’ll give you a ride home when I’m done.”
Opening my eyes to peek at him, I’m relieved to find him clothed, dressed in the same outfit I remember him wearing last night—thigh-hugging dark pants and an untucked black button-down shirt tailored for his muscular torso, and black designer sneakers. I’d been struck dumb and mute when I’d turned at the sound of his voice, calling my name as I was about to leave the club. He’s always had that effect on me.
I’d stared at him, drinking in his tall powerfully-built body, the tousled dark-gold hair, and his gorgeous face with the deep grooves in his cheeks when he smiled. He hadn’t been smiling then. But then, he almost never smiled at me, and when he did, it was brief and polite. Just another reason I kept my distance from him as much as possible.
So how did I end up in a hotel room alone with him?
“How did…Why did you bring me here last night?”
“You really don’t remember?” He finishes rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and grabs his phone.
I shake my head.
“You wouldn’t tell me your address, and you misplaced your purse.”
I frown. “My purse?” Then I remember and I gasp in dismay. “Oh no! My wallet, phone—”
“Don’t worry. DeShawn’s girlfriend found it.” He lifts his phone. “He sent me a text. I’ll tell him to drop it off at the concierge desk, or I’ll go by his place and pick it up after my meetings. Guess you’re stuck here until then.”
“Oh.” I had planned on leaving as soon as my head stopped its incessant pounding, but I can’t leave without my wallet.
He heads for the door. “Get some rest. Order room service when you’re up to it. I’ll be back in a while.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room and groan. My fingers become stuck in the tangled mess when I try running them through my waist-length curly hair in an attempt to minimize the resemblance to Medusa. The thought of leaving the bed to wash up is too much for the pain hammering in my head. I swipe under my eyes to remove the worst of the eyeliner smudges so I don’t look like the hungover mess that I am. The waterproof makeup forces me to give up that attempt as well.
This is not how I imagined a morning after with Brent would be. Sighing, I slide back down on the bed and close my eyes, trying to remember exactly what happened last night.
It all started when my coworkers at the physical therapy clinic invited me to go out to dinner with them. In the midst of a quarter life crisis, I’d recently promised myself to be more social, so I accepted impulsively without asking for details.
That was mistake number one. The surprise on their faces when I actually agreed to go out with them was a testament to how lame my social life had become since graduating last year. Not that it was anything much to begin with.
Mistake number two was not going home after the dinner in SoHo. Instead I let them drag me to the nightclub, where I felt so out of place. That’s nothing new either, but I was seriously underdressed—or overdressed, depending on how you would compare my calf-length skirt and lightweight blazer to what the other women were wearing. In deference to my six-foot-one height, I wasn’t even wearing heels. Not that I ever do. Around most people, I feel conspicuous enough, literally standing out like a sore thumb.
I became more self-conscious as I stood awkwardly, unable to relax enough to make my rigid body move in any semblance of what could be termed dancing. I usually avoided it, as I did anything that would make my breasts jiggle. And dancing as exuberantly as my coworkers would have proven too much, even for my industrial-strength bra.
I decided to throw in the towel on socializing when some drunk guy rubbed his crotch against my behind. But on my way out to catch the last train home, a bouncer had stopped me and escorted me up to the VIP lounge. Positive I’d been brought there mistakenly, I was about to leave when Brent invited me to meet his teammates.
Staying at the private party might have been my biggest mistake of all. If I hadn’t felt so awkward around Brent and all the new people he introduced me to, I wouldn’t have downed that first shot of whiskey one of his teammates handed me. Things are a bit hazy after that, but it seemed a drink was always in my hand.
At some point, I had danced with DeShawn’s girlfriend Alicia and a group of women—beautiful women with their breasts spilling out of their barely there dresses and heels so high they were almost as tall as I was. I had felt…almost…comfortable, enough that I’d taken off my blazer and danced freely.
Then I’d done the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life. I’d asked Brent to…Oh, I remember that moment all too clearly. It was the first thing that popped into my head when I heard his voice next to my ear this morning.
Everything else is murky, and it’s making my head hurt more trying to remember.
How many drinks did I have?
Way too many, judging by the pounding in my head. I let sleep take me under, hoping to escape the pain.