I take in all of her responses, etching them into my memory.
She stiffens, another orgasm twisting her stunning face, her neck taut. She throws her head back and screams, everything tightening around me, and that’s all it takes for me to join her in the most intense climax of my life.
But five minutes later, my dick isn’t satisfied. And neither am I.
Chapter Five
Becca
Something intrudes, a faint sensation on the limen of consciousness, and my eyes slowly open. I turn a little in bed. Mr. Batman is sleeping, his chest like a warm and comforting poultice against my back, his arms wrapped loosely around me. His face is flush against the base of my neck, and his breath tickles my bare skin.
The man is either the incarnation of some ancient sex deity or he’s on steroids. I could write an epic poem about what happened last night. The festivities went on and on and on until the pale dawn light began cutting through the windows.
Sated at last, he got up and shut the blackout curtains tightly before letting me drift off. And at some point he must’ve left a small light in the bathroom on, because dim illumination is coming through the door that’s cracked open. Probably in case I woke up to pee or something, I wouldn’t trip and hurt myself in an unfamiliar setting.
Surprisingly thoughtful, especially considering the one-night-stand-ness of it all. He could’ve done it for himself, but I doubt it. He came to my rescue last night when Isaac was putting his hands all over me like a creep. Apparently, Batman is simply a nice guy. I feel my mouth quirk with amusement at the name he picked out for himself. If he wants to be anonymous, I’m okay with that. It isn’t like I told him my real name.
I shift slightly, not wanting to wake him up. My throat feels raw, and I’m pleasantly sore in a lot of unusual places. Soreness from a guy being rough or impatient wouldn’t be a surprise. But I didn’t know it could happen from a surfeit of sex, because I can’t say Batman was rough or impatient. There isn’t a spot on my body he didn’t lavish attention on.
If sex were an Olympic sport, he’d get straight tens across the board.
Now that the night of debauchery is over, I nibble on my lower lip. What should Bad Becca do next?
To be honest, I can’t really think of anything. If this were an old Hollywood flick, I’d take out a cigarette and start puffing. But I don’t smoke, and I’m not one of those glamorous bad girls who can pull off lounging around naked with a stogie.
Being bad during the day is hard. I guess that’s why people mostly do bad things at night.
Moving very, very carefully, I lift his arm off my waist. I don’t think I can survive another coital marathon if he wakes up. As the forearm comes up, I notice a tattoo: That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Something turns over in my heart at the sheer romance of the phrase. Maybe it’s something he got for a previous girlfriend. A sharp pang accompanies the thought.
Come on, Becca. You’re supposed to be acting all bad here. And a bad girl wouldn’t worry about something like that.
Mildly exasperated with myself, I move—gingerly—to get out of bed and start gathering up my clothes and shoes. I can’t find my thong, though. Batman ripped it off me, so it’s possible the thin straps broke and it’s lying somewhere in this huge, dimly lit bedroom.
Forget it. I can always get another one.
As I get dressed, I can’t decide if I feel any different after my first one-night stand. Or if I look less “good,” since I can’t see any changes for myself in the mirror. My eyes are still purple, and my features are about where they should be—nothing unusual, nothing that seems to indicate, “Becca did something bad.”
I stand at the foot of the bed, looking at my one-night stand, who’s now on his belly. For a fraction of a second, I wonder if I should leave him a note to let him know I’m gone and thank him for the great night. It was easily the best sex of my life—and has given me a new perspective on the breakup with Jeff, who’s so terrible in bed he gets an F even with generous grading. The next time I’m in a relationship, I need to be much more selective. And not settle for a guy who seems nice but can’t deliver the goods in bed.
Finally, I decide no note. Leaving one would be a good-girl thing to do, and I told Batman I’m B for Bad. He isn’t expecting me to behave any other way. Plus, it goes with leaving a hotel room commando.
I carry my shoes and tiptoe out of the room. After the door closes silently and I’m in the hallway, I put on my shoes and check my phone. Crap. Dead battery.
I finger-comb my hair in the elevator. It feels really weird and naked walking around without anything covering your lady parts. Nobody can see, of course, but the cold lobby air feels slightly perverted.
“Good morning, miss,” a uniformed hotel clerk says with a small nod and a smile in his voice.
He isn’t judging. Probably. Just being friendly. I wish I could interpret his face so I can be sure. I’ve never gone commando before, so my senses are off-kilter.
Doing my best to project nonchalance, I flag a cab to get back to my hotel. Man, it isn’t easy being bad. I need to practice more and cultivate my villainy. Tasha should have some ideas. She’s always brimming with cockiness and attitude.
When I’m back in my room, I stick the phone on the charger and go to the bathroom for a shower. As I shimmy out of my dress, I stop and gawk at my reflection. Is that a mosquito bite on my neck…?
I put a hand over it. No. There’s no bump and it’s not itchy. I bend closer to the mirror and tilt my head to see the spot better. It’s slightly reddish, and it throbs mildly.
Then I remember. Oh. My. God. Batman gave me a hickey.