Making Up (Shacking Up 4)

Of course, my stomach has to be an asshole and ruin the moment by rumbling. Loudly.

Griffin pushes up on his forearms with a smile. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

Now that all the intensity seems to have dissipated I feel . . . vulnerable. I need to do something to make it less awkward. So I start clapping, because that makes it so much better.

“Well done. You should win some kind of virginity-taking award for that performance.”

His smile falters, and his gaze shifts away. I don’t like it. I’m ruining my own first time by being an immature idiot.

I place a warm, slightly sweaty palm on his equally warm, slightly sweaty cheek, urging him to look at me. I need to fix this. “That was amazing. Since I don’t have anything to compare it to, I have no idea if sex is always supposed to be like a fireworks show inside my body, but that was hands down the best orgasm I’ve ever had. I’m actually worried that you’ve ruined me for life with that. I mean, how in the world are you going to top that next time?”

That brings his smile back; actually it’s more of a smirk. “You’re already looking for a next time?”

“Um . . . did you miss the part about it being the best orgasm ever? I’d like more of those whenever you’re ready to provide them. Although maybe you need some recovery time?”

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.”

My stomach growls again in protest. My vagina shoots it the middle finger.

“Or maybe orgasms should be on the dessert menu.” He glances at the clock on the nightstand. “We can still make our dinner reservations if you’re interested in going out, otherwise we can order in.”

“I vote we order in.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Let me get the room service menu.” He sits back on his knees. He’s still between my legs—and still sort of inside me.

I prop myself on an elbow, so I can watch him ease out. It leaves an odd, empty feeling behind. There’s a vague throb between my thighs. Not painful, just this strange longing that doesn’t make sense since I don’t think my vagina can actually experience longing at all.

He appears to be about half hard, so the condom is wrinkly and the tip sags under the weight of its liquid contents.

I flick the end as he slides the condom off, perversely fascinated. “Look at all those swimmers. Poor guys don’t even realize the sole purpose of their existence has been thwarted, and now they’re going to suffocate in a plastic bag.”

Griffin snorts a laugh. “That’s a disturbing observation.”

“Yet very accurate.” My legs are still spread wide, all of me on display. I close them, not necessarily because I’m feeling suddenly shy. If anything, I’m riding the high of the sex and feeling pretty damn good about myself. I don’t necessarily feel any different, just relaxed, but not. Content, but restless.

Griffin disappears inside the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I consider getting dressed, but my casual clothes are sweaty and dirty, and the only other thing I brought was a dress. Not very practical for ordering in. Maybe he has a shirt I can borrow.

I roll off the bed and wander across to what I’m assuming is his closet. I debate whether I should wait for him to come out of the bathroom before I go snooping around, but it’s not like I’m going through personal files, or a purse, or a dresser or anything. It’s just where he likely hangs his suits. Maybe I can rock one of his button-downs. That would be sexy.

I open the closet, expecting to find a whole bunch of suits. Which I do. What I don’t expect to find are women’s clothes. Dresses to be exact. Plural. And shoes. Heels. Three pairs of the ones with the red soles.

“Oh my God.” I slap a palm over my mouth. I think I’m going to hurl.

I just gave my virginity to a cheater.Chapter Eight: Overreaction. Or Maybe not.Cosy

I pick up one of the shoes—the heels could definitely work as a murder weapon—and spin around as the bathroom door opens. Griffin’s all fucking smiles and nakedness, hair smoothed out, looking refreshed and totally at peace with the fact that he’s a lying sack of shit.

“You bastard!” I hurl the shoe at him and am highly impressed when he has to dodge it to avoid getting hit in the face. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the floor.

“What the fuck, Cosy?”

“Don’t you what-the-fuck me, you cheating cheater who cheats!” I wish I were less naked right now. I flail toward the flashy dresses in the closet and latch onto a clutch hanging from a hook. The strap gives way—it’s made of gold chain—and I heave it at him. “You’re a disgusting bag of assholes.”