Sugar Baby Beautiful

My first rational thought was that couldn’t be healthy. You couldn’t just go out and screw people. A one-night stand here and there was fine, but to live like that…. Wasn’t there something wrong with that?

He had said the reason I thought like that was because of societal guilt. That we lived in a society that was so hung up on sex, we boiled it down to stupid questions concerning who we should have it with and after how many dates it was okay. Or had thoughts like not to have too many partners or else we were sluts and man-whores. Too little and we were prudes. Why? Why? There wasn’t really an answer because the most important questions, the questions we should only consider when having sex were:

One: was it legal?

Two: was I safe?

And three: most importantly, was I happy in the situation I was in?

That’s it.

Turning off the water, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me as I stepped out onto the plush white mat in his bathroom. I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I needed to. I slipped my dress on before taking another towel for my hair. I tried to dry it off as much as possible, even though I knew it was useless. Part of me wished Cleo had somehow magically put a mini blow dryer in my purse. However, the toothpaste and toothbrush were a godsend.

“Jesus,” I gasped as I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was a wet, wavy mess, my dress was wrinkled, and to top it off, I could clearly see the dark red hickeys he’d left on my neck and the tops of my breasts. What was worse was I remembered how I’d gotten each and every one of them.

Touching the one on the right side of my neck, I clenched my legs together as I remembered how he’d kissed and sucked on me while I’d held on to him tighter as he thrust harshly into me.

“Stop,” I whispered. I packed up all my things, took a deep breath, and opened the bathroom door. But he was no longer in bed. The only evidence either of us had been there were the messy sheets, which I had the urge to fix.

Leave, Felicity.

“Right,” I muttered as I grabbed my shoes. That I had made it to the bedroom with them on was amazing in and of itself.

I eased the door open and tiptoed toward the exit.

“You’re trying to escape like a sinner in church,” he said behind me.

So close.

I spun around, and the moment I did, I wished I hadn’t because he was wearing nothing but gray pajama bottoms. My gaze drifted along each one of his abs, down to his….

“Aren’t we all sinners in church?” I shot back, trying to clear my head as I stood straighter.

“Touché.” He drank wine from his glass. “But before you go, I need your help with something.”

“This isn’t an excuse to get me in bed again, is it?” I blurted.

“Why would I need an excuse?”

“Touché.” I walked toward his living room that overlooked the city. “What do you need?”

“What was the name of the music you played last night?” He sat on the couch and took his tablet from the coffee table. He didn’t bother to look at me now that he’d gotten what he wanted.

We both had.

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“The piece number or the name of the composer would suffice,” he said as he typed something quickly.

“It has no number, and I guess I would be the composer.”

He paused and finally graced me with his full attention. “You wrote that?”

“No. I played it. I had no plans to write it down. I just went from feeling.”

“But it was mixture of other works?” He looked at me like he no longer understood what I was saying.

“I don’t know. Isn’t everything a mixture of something? I came in, saw the piano, and felt like playing, so I played what I felt. Why?”