The Naughty Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Jesse?” I say.

  He glances at me. “Hi,” he murmurs.

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling at him.

  He frowns, wrinkling his brow. “What? Why are you thanking me?”

  I laugh. “Because that was—that was the most—” I shake my head, unable to encapsulate how I feel in words. “You made me feel—”

  “How you should always feel,” he cuts in. “How it should always be.”

  “But that’s not how it’s always been, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt how you made me feel, so…thank you.” I rest my hand on his chest, lean up on an elbow against him—his eyes roam my body, his hand still clutches the curve of my hip, but he’s tensed and restless, and his eyes won’t meet mine.

  “You shouldn’t be thanking me—I should be thanking you,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “For the gift of yourself,” he says. “For…just for…you.”

  I blink, unsure how to respond to that, and he won’t look at me.

  He shifts under me, restless.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He nods. “I just need to get this off and clean up,” he says.

  I roll away, and he gets up. I watch him go, enjoying the sight of his beautiful nude body as he goes into the bathroom. I kick my feet under the blankets—the bed had been neatly made, and the vigor of our sex sent all the blankets and sheets askew. Now that the heat of the moment has faded, the air is drying my sweat and cooling me off.

  When Jesse returns, he stands a few feet away from the bed, staring at me. As if trying to come to terms with the sight of me in his bed. I didn’t bother covering with the sheet, only tugging up enough to warm my legs. His eyes skate over me, as if he can’t help devouring me with his eyes, but his expression is not one of arousal now, but of…

  Discomfort.

  Tension.

  There’s an awkwardness in the room that I don’t know how to identify, how to rectify, what to do with.

  I want him to climb back into the bed with me, and I want him to touch me, and to kiss me. I want to feel his body against mine. I want to drowse with him in the silence and the afterglow. I want to cling to him.

  I want to slide into arousal with him, and take him a dozen different ways before dawn.

  He blinks at me. “I—” but he doesn’t finish.

  And realization hits me. The usual clichés apply—like a freight train, like a ton of bricks, with all the force of a hurricane. They all apply.

  He doesn’t want me in his bed, now that it’s over.

  He’s never brought anyone here.

  Which means he doesn’t do…this. The afterward scene. I bet when he’s done, he leaves. Maybe a drink or a smoke between, some chitchat, another go, and then he leaves. That’s why he’d never bring anyone here—he can’t make his escape. If we’d done this at my house, he’d have made an excuse for leaving. He has to work early. Maybe fake an emergency phone call from James—but no, it’s one thirty in the morning, and James is out of town, and Jesse guaranteed no emergencies.

  So what now?

  I realize my mistake—I assumed intimacy where there is none.

  This was just sex.

  For him, and for me.

  Incredible, stunning, breathtaking, earth-shaking, life-changing, expectation-shattering sex.

  But still just…sex.

  And now it’s over.

  The cuddles afterward, resting my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, his arm around me, cradling me…that’s not what this is, and not what he wants. He never promised that, or anything like it.

  I choke back whatever stupid thoughts and emotions are boiling inside me—I deny them, shove them down, shut them down, and fake a breezy, unaffected casual confidence I in no way feel.

  “So, I should go.”

  Jesse doesn’t react. Fists clenched at his sides, jaw ticking, chest rising and falling—if I didn’t know better I’d think he was warring with his own thoughts and feelings.

  I kick my feet free of the blankets and leave the bed. I don’t feel sexy or sensual or powerful anymore, but somehow, neither do I feel self-conscious in my nakedness. I wait for a response, but, uncharacteristically, I get nothing from him.

  I’m baffled, now. I stare at him, trying to figure this moment out. He’s not the single-word, grunty, macho, no-reply kind of guy. I’ve known those, and dislike it intensely. You know what’s sexy? A guy who can communicate. That’s what I like about Jesse, what has me falling for him—

  Oh.

  Oh shit.

  Oh no.

  I breathe through my panic. I’m not falling for him. I’m not. I can’t be.

  I make for the bedroom door, naked, panicking inside, still faking a confident casualness that’s less and less believable by the second. I need to get away from him before I lose the ability to fake it anymore. I’m a terrible actress—I don’t fake orgasms, and I don’t fake emotions. This feels illicit, yucky, trying to make him feel like I’m unaffected when everything inside is a mess.

  I want to cling to him—I want to beg for more of him. Give me more orgasms. Let him taste me. Take me until I’m ragged with exhaustion.

  But I can’t have that, it seems.

  That’s not what this is.

  He got what he wanted, and so did I.

  I don’t let myself run, as I head for the stairs. I force myself to not hurry, to act like everything is hunky-dory fantastic fabulous, like I’m ready to go, like I got what I wanted and I’m as done as he is.

  I feel him following me, feel his eyes on me, and feel the weight of unspoken words between us.

  I ignore it.

  I dress in the kitchen, facing away from him—step into my thong, tug it into place; hook my bra in front and spin it around, shrug into the straps, tuck the cups into place, tighten the straps a hint; step into the dress, zip it, and find my purse.

  Where are my heels? I had them on—how long? I don’t remember. Did I have them on during sex? Maybe. I think I had them on for part of it, and then kicked them off at some point. I don’t know where they are and I don’t care. I just need to get out of here.

  “Imogen,” Jesse says, sounding wildly uncharacteristically hesitant. “I’m not—I don’t want you to think—”

  “I have to go,” I say, going for breezy and fine. “Can you drop me off? If not, I can call a cab.”

  “I’ll take you,” he murmurs. “Cab would take an hour to get out here.”

  I wonder what we could do with that hour? I think it, but I don’t say it. We’re past that, I think.

  Why does that hurt? The loss of the witty, clever, lascivious banter hurts.

  He finds his jeans on the kitchen floor and shoves his legs into them one after the other, tugs them up, tucks his junk into them and carefully zips them up. His shirt is by the front door, but he ignores it, finding instead a faded black pullover Blackhawks hoodie hanging from a hook by the front door. He tugs it on and nudges open the front door. He’s out onto the porch before he stops abruptly.

  He snorts in frustration. “Keys. Need keys.”

  It should be amusing to see Jesse this obviously flustered, but it’s not—it hurts. It’s confusing. And I don’t want to ask what’s wrong because I don’t want to know the answer. I wait on the porch while he snags his keys, phone, and wallet, and then we both climb his truck.

  The drive back to Billy Bar is long and quiet.

  He’s deep in thought. He has his window open, his left wrist draped over the wheel, right elbow on the console between us, fist clenched, his thumb repeatedly and obsessively switching from finger to finger, cracking the knuckles.

  I try to speak a dozen times, but can’t figure what to say that won’t open a can of worms I know I can’t handle.

  I just need to go home and be alone. Maybe ice my vagina, because holy shit, am I going to be sore—I’ll savor the soreness, and I’ll hoard the memory of sex with Jesse.

  Back in the
parking lot of Billy Bar, he pulls to a stop next to my little POS Camry, slamming the shifter into park. I don’t get out right away, hoping he’ll say something. Hoping, deep down, that he’ll say or do something to salvage this situation.

  He doesn’t, and I can’t hold back a sigh.

  I shove open the door and unbuckle. “Thanks for the ride,” I say. And then, in one last attempt, I smirk at him. “And for driving me back to my car.”

  His smile is slow and unsure. “Imogen, listen—”

  I hold up my hand. “Jesse, don’t. I’ll ask you no questions, you tell me no lies.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “Thank you, Jesse. You made me feel beautiful and wanted in a way that—in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever felt, ever in my life. So thank you for that.” I smile, but it’s sad, regretful, and I can’t hide that. “I’m going to go now, Jesse. Goodbye.”

  “Imogen, wait.”

  I don’t. I close the truck door, unlock my Camry—the old-fashioned way, with my key in the lock—get in, start the motor. Thank god it starts—with a sick, rattling squeal, but it starts.

  I pull away, seeing Jesse jumping from his truck and jogging after me—I hear him telling me to wait.

  But I don’t.

  I don’t want to know his reasons. I know he has them, and I’m sure they’re good reasons.

  He was clear at the start that he doesn’t do heartbreak. He keeps things clean. I went into this knowing exactly what it was—no-strings, no-expectations sex. And as sex goes, it was goddamn spectacular. Fireworks. Ten out of ten.

  Hell, twenty out of ten.

  But that’s all it was, and I don’t need to hear what he has to say. Excuses, reasons, logic, justifications—I just need to clarify my own emotions, get myself clear of the assumptions I was fostering. The hope I was nurturing.

  I make the fatal mistake of looking in the rearview mirror—and I see Jesse, hands in his hair, looking distraught.

  I take the extra precaution of shutting off my phone as I drive home, just in case he tries to call.

  I don’t cry, but I want to.

  14

  I hide from Jesse and Audra for three days. They both blow up my phone, but after six calls from each, I shut it off and leave it off. I ask for, and receive without question, three days off from Dr. Waverley. I buy a plane ticket to Florida, rent a convertible at the airport, and I visit my parents. They’re overjoyed at my unexpected visit, as I haven’t gotten down to see them more than once or a twice a year for the past several years, even though I talk to them regularly.

  We don’t have the kind of relationship where I would ever, ever, ever talk about what’s currently bothering me—they certainly sense it, as I’m out of sorts and mopey most of the time. Instead, they go out of their way to make sure we have lots of fun, keeping the conversation light and happy. We drink wine on their back porch and go see movies at the luxury theater nearby, and go to a comedy show and binge on a season of a period drama on their Netflix account and, honestly, it’s a much-needed getaway from everything.

  I finally turn on my phone in the waiting area at my gate while waiting to board my flight home: I have nineteen texts, mostly from Audra, and several from Jesse. I don’t read the ones from Jesse, because I’m chickenshit. The preview line for the thread reads: —always been bad at that, and I’m sorry. Call me if you want.

  I don’t dare read the rest.

  Audra’s texts are angry. Mostly along the lines of how dare I ignore her, we’re fighting, I promised her details, she knows I’m having a breakdown and if I don’t call her we’re over, we’re totally having a BFF breakup.

  I shut my phone off for the flight back home; leave it off for the drive home. It’s late evening by the time I get back to my neighborhood, and as I prepare to turn onto my street, I have a panic attack. What if I go there and he’s there. He could totally be there, if he’s not there already. If I see him, I’ll spill everything.

  And I don’t dare do that.

  We had casual sex. That’s it. No big deal. People do it all the time. He’s a pro at it. I’m not, but I can figure it out. Audra will teach me how. Maybe I’ll go to a club with her and pick up some younger guy and we’ll have casual sex and I’ll become a casual sex junkie like Audra and Jesse.

  The thought is so patently ridiculous that I actually laugh at myself—as I drive right past my house.

  There’s only one place to go, and it takes me less than ten minutes to get there.

  Audra’s place is a sixth-floor condo, and I have a key. I’m not thinking as I let myself into her building and ride the elevator up—I’m acting on instinct, avoiding thinking or examining my emotions until I know it’s safe, and it won’t be safe until I’m in Audra’s condo, wrapped up in her giant king-size microfleece throw blanket, eating Thai delivery and drinking a vat of wine.

  I let myself into her condo, and it’s not until I’ve let the door close behind me that I realize I’ve made a serious mistake.

  Audra is bent over the arm of her couch, miniskirt up over her butt, a guy at least ten years younger than her drilling her for all he’s worth. Audra is biting down on a throw pillow to muffle her shrieks, and he’s muffling his grunts by biting her shoulder.

  They don’t even notice me at first.

  Actually, they don’t notice me at all, and I’m too stunned to move.

  He finishes with one last hard slam, grunting, biting her, and pulls out.

  She gasps, spitting out the pillow, straightens—and shrieks in surprise when she sees me. “Imogen! Holy shit! What—what are you—?”

  The guy is blanking totally. His jeans are around his ankles, his shirt hanging off the back of the couch—he’s still hard, the condom full, and he’s dazed, staring at me, and then at Audra, and then back to me again.

  My mouth is open, and I’m struggling to look away.

  Audra recovers first. “Price—go clean up,” she snaps, shoving her skirt down.

  He blinks at me, and then her. “Uh. Yeah.”

  He tugs his jeans and underwear up most of the way—awkwardly, clumsily, and vanishes into the bathroom.

  I blink at Audra. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. I’ll leave.”

  Audra snorts. “Don’t be stupid. Just give me ten seconds to get rid of this guy.”

  “Audra, for real, I’m leaving. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

  Audra grabs my arm to prevent me from leaving. “Imogen, please, it’s totally fine.” She grins at me. “He got his O, I got mine, and we’re good. One and done, babe, you know that.”

  I’d normally give her friendly grief about that, but under the circumstances, I dare not.

  A moment later the guy, Price, emerges from the bathroom, and beelines for Audra, snagging his shirt on the way and digging his phone from his pocket. “So, can I get your number?” he asks. “So we can meet up later?”

  Audra pats his cheek, her tone cold and condescending. “We talked about this before I brought you up, Price.”

  “But I thought—”

  “That I’d change my mind once I got a taste of the D?” she interrupts, her tone amused; he clearly did think exactly that. “Nope. You can go, now, buddy.”

  “Audra,” I hiss. “At least be nice.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, but offers him a nice smile and a less bitchy tone of voice. “I really did enjoy myself, Price. Or rather, you. But I’m not really in a place for anything more than that, okay?” She rolls the excuse out with practiced smoothness. “It’s just where I’m at. It’s nothing personal.”

  He nods. “I gotcha.” He offers her a grin that’s probably meant to be sexy and charming, but just seems goofy, at least to me. “If you change your mind—”

  “You’ll be the first person I call,” Audra says, ushering him to the door and out of it. “Bye, Price. Thanks!”

  He waves and grins and tries to get another word in even as she closes the door in his face, turns the lock and a
ttaches the chain and the deadbolt, and then whirls on me.

  “What the hell happened, Imogen Catherine Irving?” Audra demands. “You vanished on me! No calls, no texts, no details, nothing. You ignore me for three days, and when I hunt you down at your new job your boss says you took time off to go visit your folks? Spill it, bitch!”

  I head for the couch, but think better of it considering what I just saw. “You couldn’t even get to the bedroom with him?”

  Audra laughs. “Oh, we made it to the bedroom. And the bathroom. And the kitchen. He was getting ready to leave and I decided I wanted one more. He’s young and virile enough that he had one more in him.”

  I cringe. “Oh.”

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. “You think I’d go to all the trouble of bringing a dude to my condo for one measly fuck? Forget the one and done motto. If that’s all I’m after, I’ll jump him in the car. No, they don’t get to come up here unless I’m sure they can go the distance.”

  I make a face. “Audra.”

  She just laughs. “What? I met him at the gym a week ago. I let him take me to his place after a workout for a nooner, and we got it on like Donkey Kong. He had the goods and the stamina, so I let him take me on a date, and I brought him home. He’s lucky. Most guys don’t even get a date out of me.”

  I laugh. “God, you’re crazy.”

  “Hey, I have very high standards. My condo is a sacred space, and I only allow the best sex up here.”

  I sigh. “I wish I could be more like you right now.”

  “You wear your heart on your sleeve, honey.” She frowns, and then turns her attention to me. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Something happened.”

  “You think I’d vanish to Florida for no reason?”

  Audra eyes me. “Do I need to order Thai and open a bottle of wine?”

  Too overwhelmed to care anymore, I slump onto her couch—on the opposite end from where the action took place. “Yes. Order everything on the menu, and a case of wine.”

  “Oh boy.”

  While we’re waiting for the food to come, Audra takes a quick shower and emerges in her bathrobe, hair wet around her shoulders, makeup gone—without makeup and her hair loose and damp instead of in a tight updo, she looks both older and younger than usual. Softer, less polished, less perfect, but more beautiful in a personal, informal sort of way. I realize the face she puts on for just about everyone—even me, most of the time—is a careful mask meant to hide a facet of herself I think few ever see.