CAMILA
My eyes flutteropen with a slow blink. It takes a moment for them to adjust to the dark room. A glance at the window, and the lack of light shining through the small crack in the curtain, indicates it’s still early morning.
My eyes drift back closed, and I’m so comfortable that I want to go back to sleep, but it’s the last thing I need to do.
You know when you read in books and see in movies when the person first wakes up after a night of doing something they shouldn’t and they forget for a blissful moment. That is definitely not happening right now.
I remembered before I even opened my eyes what I had done. I became the woman who slept with a married man.
I hate that I’m that person. I hate even more that it felt so good. But what I hate the most about myself right now is that I don’t ever want to leave the comfort of Brady’s strong arms. The way his chest is pressed into my back. The feel of his warm breath lightly grazing the back of my neck. The wiry hairs on his legs as our limbs tangle together. The tight embrace he has around my waist. The top of his bare thighs and his pelvis cupping my legs and butt. All of it feels better and more real than I’ve ever felt with any other man.
How is that possible? How can simply lying in Brady’s arms feel so right when there’s no chance of him ever being mine? Why is life so cruel?
I let my eyes close for a brief moment and soak in the perfect way we fit together. I don’t let the feeling it gives me time to fully form.
Taking a slow, deep breath, I open my eyes. Gently wrapping my fingers around Brady’s wide wrist as much as I can, and praying he doesn’t wake up, I carefully move his arm. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and freeze when his breathing changes. After a moment or so, when he doesn’t wake up, I continue. With slow movements, I slide my body away from his. A sudden chill causes goosebumps to pop up all over my skin when the contact between our bodies is gone. I already miss his warmth.
Once I’m off the bed, I turn around to face him, half expecting him to be watching me. He’s not. His eyes are closed and his chest goes up and down with his steady breathing. The arm he had wrapped around me rests on the pillow where my head was. It’s hard to see, but from what I can tell, his expression is relaxed. I wish I could reach forward and run my fingers over the light scruff on his cheeks.
The sheet covering him stops at his waist. Just a few short hours ago, my tongue and lips ran over those firm muscles. He tasted divine and felt so strong beneath my hands.
Licking my lips and pushing away the tempting thoughts of throwing caution to the wind and rejoining him in bed, I turn away and quietly search for my clothes. It’s difficult to see, but I manage to find most of them. The only thing that’s missing is my panties. They’re probably under the bed or tangled in the sheets somewhere. No way am I taking the time to search for them. Just my luck, Brady will wake up, and that’s the last thing I want to happen. It’s better for both of us if I just sneak away unaware.
I take one last, longing look at the man who’s starred in most of my teenage fantasies, then head to the door, grabbing my purse from the small table beside it. I thank my lucky stars the door opens without so much as a squeak.
It’s not until I’m facing the nearly empty parking lot and spot Brady’s Lexus that I remember he drove us to the motel last night and my car is still at the bar. It’s a good thing Uber drivers work all hours of the night. It’s also good that we’re not in Silver Falls because if we were, I’d be trucking it to the bar in bare feet. There’s a hundred percent chance that I’d know any Uber driver in our small town. It’s also almost certain that by the time I made it back home, over half the citizens would know exactly what Brady and I were up to last night. And that’s not a good thing. Especially if Addison finds out.
I give a little shiver.
Ten minutes later, I’m sliding in the front seat of a green sedan. I give the driver the address to the bar and off we go. The further we get away from the motel, the more my stomach sinks, and I’m not sure which feeling is overpowering the other.
Shame for sleeping with a married man. Or wishing I could do it again.