Chapter 24 The Fault in the Plan
The Fault in the Plan
— T ODAY —
We enter Ian’s room in a rush, his strong arms wrapped around me as soon as the door closes. He gives me space to take the lead, to touch him like I need to. And then he does, and every single noise that comes out of him as his lips slide along my neck and his hands travel up and down my thighs is sinful perfection.
“Are you sure about this?” His mouth is on mine as I begin pulling down his joggers. I haven’t even taken his T-shirt off yet and I’m shooting directly for the stars, so I’d say I’m pretty sure. There’s no stopping me tonight.
“I’m sure.”
“But you understand one night is all I can—”
His joggers are down his thighs, his briefs stretching in an unmistakable way. One glance is enough to know that when he said he was “not that well-endowed,” he once again lied. I reach forward, careless of his warning, but just as my hand feels his hard length under the thin layer of black cotton, his fingers tighten around my wrist. He unceremoniously pulls me closer, and as I land against his chest, he whispers in my ear, “Feeling greedy, are we, Amelie?”
I shiver, his deep, raspy voice reaching corners inside me that have been shut down for a long time. Letting out a shaky breath, I hold on to his shoulder and use my hand, trapped between our bodies, to gently brush my fingers over his shaft. “Yes.”
His breath, hot and trembling, fans against my ear and, taking a step forward, he guides me to the bed. He gently sits me down, his hand leaving my wrist only to get rid of his joggers, then his T-shirt.
Fuck me, I could stare at him for days.
Every single furrow and muscle in his body has been put in front of me to lead me down a road of temptation I honestly want no GPS for. Let me get lost in there. Let me roam around for hours, not knowing exactly where I am but enjoying the view greatly. His shoulders have muscles. His hips have dimples. There are even those delicious V lines that disappear into his briefs. He’s all perfection. A god among humans. So good.
Almost… too good.
“Amelie?”
I look up at his face, my chest heaving. “Yes?”
“I feel like I lost you.” He looks down at himself with a cocked brow. “That doesn’t usually happen when I take my clothes off.”
“No, no.” I smile, though my stomach is twisting. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”
But I’m not fine, and he’s not either. He’s so fucking gorgeous.
I’ve never slept with someone so good-looking. I’ve never slept with anyone but Frank at all. How am I supposed to compete with Ella? With the dozens of women Ian must have slept with? How can I match his experience? How can I even fathom making it enjoyable for him?
“I’m fine, huh?” He smirks. “Well, I’m flattered, but I have to warn you, Amelie, that if you run for the door, I’ll chase after you naked. Nobody wants to see that.” He rests his hands on his hips. “I’d probably get arrested. You’d have to bail me out. It’d be pretty embarrassing for me.”
“I’m not going to run,” I whisper as I stand.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly as he leans forward and strokes my cheek. “I understand. There’s a lot of history—too much for a one-night stand.” He threads his fingers through my hair, tilting my head up. He smiles, then kisses me gently. “I’m kissing you. Kissing you, Amelie. After everything that happened, I never thought I would, and now I am. Sleeping with you would be…” He shakes his head as he stares down at my dress. “But a kissing one-night stand with you is enough.”
“It’s not enough for me,” I insist. “Please, just give me a minute.”
He studies my face, his brows wrinkled as if he’s not convinced, so I kiss his lips, bite them, and when he tightens his hold on my hair, I kiss his jaw all the way to his neck and ear. Then I whisper, “Just one minute.”
“Okay.”
Thank God. His hands drop to his sides. I smile, quickly squeeze his hand, and walk to the bathroom. When I walk back and grab my bag, his gaze follows my movements. “Just… female hygiene products.”
“We’re on the fourth floor. Do not try to escape from the window.”
Ignoring him, I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me. I go to the sink, and once the tap is open, I strut to the window. Phone in hand, my fingers frantically tap. Each beep that follows makes my heart quicken, my muscles tense. Until eventually I hear “Hello?”
“Martha?”
“Ames?” she asks in a doubtful voice. “Where are you? Why are you whispering?”
I release a breath, relief washing over me. I called her not even knowing why she’s the person I’d run to, seeing as we haven’t talked in so long, but now that I’m hearing her voice, it’s crystal clear. I love Barb, but I met her later in life, when moments like this one were mostly done with. Martha? She was there when I freaked out about a boy wanting to touch me for the first time. About my first period, my first service at the restaurant. She’s always been the person I call from the bathroom.
“I’m—” I imagine what I’d look like to a casual observer. Crouched next to the window, speaking into my hand, water flowing from the tap to cover the noise. “I’m about to have sex and I’m… I’m freaking out.”
“Oh.” She clears her voice. “Not with Frank, is it?”
“There isn’t enough money in the world.”
“Right. Why… why are you freaking out?”
Because he’s too beautiful. Too experienced. Too different from what I’m used to. Because he’s not just a random guy. He’s Ian. And if it is disappointing, I won’t be able to look past it, not anymore. If it is bad, it will be the end. But if it’s as good as I expect it to be—if it’s the best sex I’ll ever have in my life… well, it’ll be the end too. All he’s giving me is tonight.
“Is he the first person you’ll have slept with since Frank?” she asks softly.
“Yes.”
“I see.” There’s a moment of silence, then: “I know this isn’t the right moment to talk about it, but I spoke to him today.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And the reason I’m bringing it up now is… he actually mentioned your agreement. Your… engagement.”
My stomach clenches. Seriously, with everything he’s done, now he can’t even respect my wish that our friends not know that I debased myself?
“Don’t hate him for it, because I basically forced it out of him. I was… well, I was bitching about you. Blaming you for everything that happened.” She sighs loudly. “Actually, you know what? Do hate him for it. What do I care?”
I bite my bottom lip, sensing there’s more.
“Anyway, he explained. And I see why you’d be anxious about being intimate with someone. When the man you were the most intimate with betrays you like that… when he…” She sniffles. “I’m sorry, I’m making this about me again, aren’t I?” she asks in a choked-up voice. “I just wish I’d known, Ames. I wish you’d felt free to tell me, because I would have never judged you for it. I judge him a lot. In fact, I told Trev that if he comes to the wedding, I won’t be there, so if you know of someone who wants to be a last-minute best man…” she says with a chuckle.
“He’s Trev’s best friend,” I remind her, shock ricocheting through me. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Oh, but I do. I’ll kill him if he shows up. And I’m not just saying that, Ames. I will take my heels off and stab him in both eyes.” She groans. “Trust me, Trev isn’t too happy about him either. How could he ask you something like that? And how did I not see it? You were obviously unhappy, and you never said more than two words about the wedding, and—”
“Martha,” I whisper, “I appreciate this, but your timing is really unfortunate.”
“Yeah, of course, you’re right. This isn’t the moment for apologies. This is the moment to leave it all behind. All the pain and the self-doubt and the heaviness of the last year of your life. You leave it here, Ames, because now it’s time to reap the fruits. And I hope with all my heart that what’s waiting for you is a huge banana.”
A chuckle bursts out of me and, holding myself against the radiator, I breathe out slowly. “I haven’t had sex in so long, M.”
“Oh, it’s like riding a bike. Takes a lot of effort and doesn’t always get you too far.”
Breaking into laughter again, I shake my head. God, I’ve missed her.
“You’ll be fine, Ames. If he’s a good guy, someone who cares about you, you’ll be fine.” She sounds like she’s smiling as she continues, “Just make sure he’s as far from Frank as possible.”
She’s right. She’s totally right. Ian and Frank might as well be from different species. I’m being utterly ridiculous. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Are you well… groomed?”
“Bye, weirdo,” I whisper with a smile as I stand. Once the call is disconnected, I walk to the mirror and close the tap. I finger-brush my hair to one side, move it back, then smell my armpits. My breath’s fine, too, and with a groan I pull my dress up and take a look under my panties. “It’s fine.”
“Amelie? All good?”
“Yes!” I call back, turning to the door. I let my dress go, and just as it grazes my ankles, the breath is kicked out of my lungs.
Fuck, fuck, fuck ! I didn’t shave my legs. I wore a long dress and didn’t shave my legs and I’m about to sleep with a god of sex. “Holy shit,” I whimper as I hold both hands against my face. I wasn’t planning to be intimate with anyone tonight, and now it’s all I’ll be thinking about once I get naked.
I yank open the first drawer in the bathroom vanity. I could die from relief when I see a razor, but upon further inspection, there’s no soap or shaving cream. With sweat dampening the back of my neck, I spin around, panic sneaking its way around my throat until I can hardly breathe.
When I see the corner of something red poking out of my bag, I stop short.
Ian’s nose, scrunching, comes back to me.
He wrapped it in a napkin and shoved it in my bag.
Butter.
I swallow, taking two seconds to consider it. When I see no faults in the plan, I take my dress off, grab the stick of butter and the razor, then enter the bathtub. I really should have worn a bra today. Using the showerhead, I wet my legs, praying that I won’t activate Ian’s lactose intolerance, and rub the stick of butter on both. Setting it aside, I begin shaving, and my anxiety settles a little.
This is working out. Everything’s fine.
When there’s a knock at the door, I flinch, immediately blowing out a breath of relief when I notice I haven’t cut myself.
“Amelie? Please come out. Let’s have a drink and just talk—”
“No, no. I’m just”—I squeeze my eyes shut—“refreshing my makeup.”
“Is it cocaine? I’ve heard it’s a problem in the restaurant industry.”
“You’re exhausting.”
His chuckle is muffled by the door, and once I’m convinced he’s gone back, I continue. The first leg’s done and washed off. When I go for the stick of butter to rub some more on my right leg, it’s not where I left it. I’m getting clumsier, limbs flailing about as I look for the damn thing, until I finally spot it by the drain. Excellent. I’m working out a plan to set my foot down without slipping when the room’s pirouetting around me and my body violently hits the tub. The sudden pain in my right shoulder is so severe, the breath is forced out of my chest.
Now lying on my back, I stare at the ceiling with a whimper and blink my tears away. I try to pull myself up using my healthy arm as my heart hammers in my chest, but as soon as my fingers grip the tub, they slide off.
I guess there is a fault in my plan, and it might just be too relevant to ignore.
Butter is fucking slippery .