by Olivia Dade
One hour later, Helen lay on the comforter of Wes’s bed, fully clothed except for her panties and leggings, which lay in a heap somewhere in the darkness of his bedroom. He’d raised her dress to her collarbones and pushed her bra down beneath her breasts. One of his hands was on her exposed breast, squeezing gently, while he braced himself above her with his other arm.
From all indications, she assumed he was nearing the end of things. His steady, measured thrusts into her body had become erratic and more rapid, and he’d begun to breathe hard. With a gasp, he shuddered above her as she stroked his corded arms, his laboring chest, whatever she could reach. He collapsed on top of her a moment later, and then rolled them both to their sides.
It hadn’t hurt. Not like she’d expected, at least. Despite all those tales of blood and torn hymens racing through her mind when he’d nudged inside of her, she hadn’t felt anything rend or alter inside herself. She figured her thighs might be a bit sore tomorrow, that’s all.
But it also hadn’t felt that good, either. Not after the first bit, where he’d kissed her to distraction and stroked her clitoris with brisk but gentle fingers until she’d shivered in a brief climax. Even that, though. . . she’d had better. Which, coming from a virgin, said a lot. She gave him points for technical ability. But artistry? Not so much. She’d made herself come harder many, many times over the years. Both with and without her trusty vibrator.
Then, after a brief dip of his finger inside her vagina to determine her readiness, he hadn’t spent too much more effort on preliminaries. He’d pushed inside her and gone to work. And now, a couple of minutes later, he’d finished the job, she supposed.
She wanted to believe his lack of time and care in their encounter was due to his immeasurable passion for her. That he just couldn’t stop himself from making love to her, couldn’t wait another minute to plunge within her body.
She wasn’t a fool, though. So she wasn’t actually surprised when he eased out of her, disposed of the condom, and headed for the bathroom without a single word of praise or affection. Still, she didn’t get up and get dressed. Part of her hoped maybe she was wrong. Maybe she hadn’t given her virginity to a man who didn’t give a shit about her.
Not that she considered her virginity so valuable, of course. But her pride and sense of self-worth? She probably should have valued those a bit more. By sleeping with a man who saw her as something more than a passionless lay, for example.
She’d wanted to act like an adult. Wanted Wes in her life and her bed. But maybe she hadn’t fully understood herself and her own desires until now. She didn’t just want sex, not even with Wes. She wanted sex with someone who considered her more than just a warm, willing body. And from what she could tell, that wasn’t him, no matter how much she’d longed for him from a distance.
When he came out of the bathroom and stood next to the bed, silent for a long moment, she knew. She braced herself before he even started talking.
“Um, Helen?” he said into the cool darkness of the bedroom. “I’m so glad we got the chance to see each other again. But . . .”
She closed her eyes. Yup. Here it came.
He continued, his voice oddly shaky. “I . . . I probably shouldn’t get involved with a library employee when I’m asking for increased library funding.”
“Okay,” she said.
“It’s a conflict of interest,” he explained in a rush. “And it would bring up bad memories of the last mayor. God knows I don’t need another reason for the City Council to fight against my agenda.”
On the one hand, he wasn’t wrong. Any echoes of the previous mayor would not go over well in Niceville. Not after Richard “Dick” Udall had diverted city funds to his mistress and her restaurant for over three years. But what Wes was saying was a crock of shit, nevertheless. They both knew it.
He wanted her out of his house. If she hadn’t been a library employee, he’d have found another reason. An early-morning appointment. An allergy to redheads that only manifested itself after an hour in bed together. A claim that he wasn’t ready for a relationship right now. Anything. Anything to send her, his convenient fuck, on her way.
“Okay,” she said again.
Getting dressed didn’t prove difficult. All she had to do was pull up her bra, tug on her panties and leggings, and smooth down her dress.
He guided her back into his truck with a gentle hand on her back, and she didn’t move away from it. No point.
With steady fingers, she texted Sarah.
You’re the designated driver tonight, right? Are you still at the bar?
A moment later, Sarah replied. Yes to both questions. Are you okay?
Fine. I could use a ride home, though.
“Please take me back to the bar,” she told Wes as he backed out of his driveway.
We’ll stay until you come, Sarah wrote. Love you Helen.
Helen put away her phone, and she and Wes drove in silence back to the bar. When they pulled into the parking lot, she could see Sarah’s car. Her lower lip started to tremble, but she forced it into stillness.
Not yet, she told herself. Not until he drives away.
Wes parked in front of the door to the bar and twisted in his seat to face her. He took her hand again, and she let him. “Helen,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about the conflict of interest earlier.”
Her tongue came untethered at the repetition of that excuse. “Bullshit,” she said. “That’s not why we left your house in such a rush.”
He dragged his free hand through his hair, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest. “Shit. I’m sorry. Again. I shouldn’t have started this.”
“I agreed to go home with you,” she said dully. “You didn’t force me. Didn’t make promises. It’s fine, Wes.”
She reached for the door handle, stopping when she heard him say something under his breath. “What?” she asked.
“You’re . . .” he said, raising his head to look at her. “You’re not the kind of woman I can do this with.”
His eyes pleaded with her to understand. And she did. Oh, she did.
“I see,” she said. And then she got out of his truck, shutting the door very carefully behind her. She didn’t watch to see him drive away. She simply walked into the bar and let the door swing shut.
Then, thank God, she could let the tears in her eyes spill over. She could wrap her arms around herself and sob without having to surrender the last ounce of her pride to him. He’d taken enough from her already.
Yes, she knew he hadn’t taken anything she hadn’t offered to him freely. With enthusiasm. But that didn’t mean she didn’t hurt. That she wasn’t angry with both herself and him. That she didn’t feel empty and broken in a way she knew, she knew, was ridiculous.
It didn’t mean she would offer a single inch of herself—mind, body, or soul—to Wesley Ramirez ever again. Even if he asked. Even if he begged.
Not like that would ever happen, though.
Right?
Photo credit: Photo by C.S. Smith Photography
Olivia Dade grew up an undeniable—and proud—nerd, prone to ignoring the world around her as she read any book she could find. Her favorite stories, though, were always romances. As an adult, she earned an MA in American history and worked in a variety of jobs that required her to hide her bawdy interior under a demure exterior: Colonial Williamsburg interpreter, high school teacher, academic tutor, and (of course) librarian. Finally, though, she realized the call of the hussy could no longer be denied. So now she writes contemporary romantic comedy with plenty of sex, banter, and nerdery. When not writing, she cooks alongside her husband, dabbles in photography, and tries to hide her collection of throbbing-intensive romances from her curious daughter. Visit her on the web at oliviadade.com and sign up for her newsletter at http://eepurl.com/bDS6Z5.
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