Room at the Inn

She needed to.

“You’re fucking him,” he said.

And why did that release a pulse of slick heat between her legs? She’d have to analyze it later. Some primitive, disgusting reason having to do with possession and mastery and caveman sex.

“Now and then.”

Carson’s nostrils flared. “He any good?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Not really. How’d you two get together?”

“He asked me out.”

“Why’d you say yes?”

“He’s nice.”

“That’s all it takes to get into your pants these days?”

“I don’t know, Carson. If you were even capable of being nice, you could try it and see.”

Color rose up his neck to his cheeks, always flushed when he got turned on. His eyes black, his hair black, his mouth set in a cruel line. She’d seen this face when he was on top of her, his arms braced on either side of her head, holding her wrists down as he thrust. Vicious-looking, though there really wasn’t any viciousness in him.

Punish me, she thought.

Kiss me.

Oh my God, kiss me.

But he didn’t. The blather of the DJ on the radio gave way to the opening notes of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” and Carson surprised her by dropping his eyes and looking away out the window. For long seconds, he said nothing. Then he broke into a wide, lopsided grin that made her woozy.

“What?” she asked.

“We have a problem.”

They did.

They had such a problem.

“Seeing as you have a boyfriend, and I’m leaving town before too long, I’m going to do my best not to make it worse.” He turned the smile on her. “Can you help me?”

I don’t have a boyfriend, she wanted to say. But it wouldn’t be helpful to tell him that. And she did want to help, if by help he meant figure out a way for us to keep our hands off each other.

She defaulted to her frosty voice. “What might that entail?”

“I’m not exactly sure. You could start by not moaning my name in your bedroom.”

He’d heard her. Oh, Jesus. She hadn’t even known she’d said it, but it was all a bit of a blur, because she’d woken up from dreaming of him and slid her hand into her pajama pants, desperate for release. The orgasm had just about killed her.

And now all the blood in her body was painting her face red with mortification.

So much for frosty.

Carson shook his head, disgusted with himself, or with her, or more than likely with both of them.

But he was smiling—just a little bit.