Scratch the Surface

And then it hit me.

My gasp was loud, and it was my turn to grasp something for balance.

“Cam?”

I had fallen asleep coiled around the man, my head on his chest, my thigh draped over his hip, my arm across his abdomen, without offering him a dime. It had never occurred to me when I asked him to stay. I’d wanted to kiss him some more, and have him inside of me again, and that had happened. There was no doubt I had a bruise on my thigh from where he’d held it so tight, lifted it up off the bed when he took me on my side. I had turned my head and kissed him, and when he had to break the kiss to breathe, he leaned his head forward, over my shoulder, and I bit the back of his neck. I’d never bitten anybody in my life, but he smelled so good, like whiskey and leather, smoldering firewood and a trace of vanilla. I wanted to inhale him into my lungs.

The shiver ran through my body, and I looked at Doug and wondered if he could read the hypocrisy on me.

“So he was a good guy, then. Not a hustler like I thought.”

I was not going to clear that up, and technically, nobody had paid the man.

Horrible. I could die of embarrassment.

Perhaps it was a good idea no names were exchanged, and if I never saw him again. The instant shard of pain in my heart let me know what I truly thought about that. I wanted to see him, desperately.

“I’m taking a shower,” I announced, pivoting and heading for my bathroom.

Naked, I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw the story of the night imprinted on my skin. My lips were still swollen from his kisses. I had bite marks and stubble burn on both sides of my neck, and farther down there were faint bruises on my hip. All of them, I knew, would quickly fade, and just thinking about that was disappointing. I would love to carry those marks for weeks.

In the offices of the Rauch Group, I sat there and made a list of who I could talk to when I got back to the hotel.

“Mr. Gallagher?” Madeline Nichols, head of acquisitions at Rauch, asked me. “Did you have anything to add to the discussion?”

Did I…have any–– “There were too many undisclosed liabilities.” I clipped the words, clearing my throat, glancing at Doug, who was squinting at me. “And even with their receivables being impressive, it’s not enough to balance out the concerns.”

“So you would have us––”

“Not acquire Dunbar,” I told her, taking out the stack of coil-bound documents I had brought with me. “And because I feel there should always be an alternative, since we found during our asset account review that the company you’re interested in is not a good option, I researched the Lass Corporation here in Sacramento and found them to be a much better fit for your business, starting with the fact they are on solid financial footing.”

I should have stood up, walked around the large meeting table, and placed the individual documents I had prepared for them in front of each person. Instead, I separated them, checked the names, and slid them fast across the table, one after another, as though I were back in college, dealing cards in one of Mike’s penny-ante poker tournaments.

Mrs. Nichols was surprised, as evidenced by her black eyebrows lifting quickly to her bangs even as a trace of a smile made her lips twitch. Mr. de la Cruz, head of account reviews and director of new sales, snorted out a laugh as he opened his presentation. There was some chuckling, one of the assistants giggled, and Drake Holmes, media director, who had never really liked me, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a “huh” and gave me the oddest smile. Doug was more obvious, with his mouth open in absolute shock.

I was not myself. I should have called in sick. I felt disjointed, unhinged, not at all grounded or focused. And the why was ridiculous. One did not have a life-changing interaction in a hotel room, in downtown Sacramento of all places. I was making far too much of sharing the night with a stranger who seemed to know exactly what I needed. But every time I came to that conclusion, tried to berate myself for my flight of reckless, romantic fancy, I came back to his warm gaze locked on mine as he moved inside me.

It had been more than sex. I’d had quite a bit of it in my life, not as much as many of my friends, but enough to know the difference between sweating between the sheets and what had happened last night. There had been communion. There had been sharing, joining, and anyone I told would assure me I was making too much of a one-night stand, but no matter what spin I put on it, the fact was this: I felt different this morning. I was altered, as though some tether came off and the person I was yesterday was not who I was today.