The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  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.”

  He manages to catch the clutch before it can connect with him, which is annoying. I don’t know if I’m going to be sick or cry. Maybe both. I need to find my clothes and get out of here.

  He glances from the closet to me and back again, eyes flaring. “Wait, Cosy, you need to let me explain.”

  “Explain what, exactly? That you’re cheating on whoever owns these dresses? I let you inside me!” I’m totally freaking out. I think I have a right. I’m going to punch my sister in the face for this. Okay, maybe just the boob, but she’s getting punched for suggesting I give it up for this asshole.

  He takes a few cautious steps toward me. “You’re not understanding. Those are for you. I’m not cheating on anyone. I would never do that. Not ever. Remember I told you I had something for you?”

  “What?” I’m so confused.

  “The dresses. They’re for you, and the shoes, and the purse. I wanted to surprise you with something nice for dinner tonight since I know I was vague about our plans. I thought maybe you’d want to pick a dress and some shoes, and we’d go out and . . . fuck . . . well, not literally, but then the bath happened, and dinner didn’t . . . and yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

  I thumb over my shoulder to the closet. “Those are for me?”

  He nods. “Everything’s for you. The tags are still on them. Everything’s returnable. I wanted you to have options. You can check for yourself.”

  I turn away—still naked—and search for the tag on the first dress. He’s not lying; it’s still attached. And the dress retails at $1500. I check the next one, it’s $2000. I grab the hanger, carefully, because I’m not ruining a two-thousand-dollar dress tonight. Who knows how much that purse cost and I just broke the strap. “What the hell, Griffin? These dresses cost more than a month’s rent.”

  He approaches me with his hands raised. “Please don’t be upset. I thought it would be a fun surprise. I didn’t even look at price tags.”

  “You went shopping for these?” I don’t know how to feel about that.

  “I did. I wanted to do something nice. I can take everything back. I’m not a cheater, Cosy. I’ve never cheated on anyone, ever. I’m not playing you, I promise. You gave me something precious that I definitely don’t deserve, and I don’t want to do anything to make you regret it.”

  I try to make sense of what he said, but I’m still naked and so is he, and I’m pretty damn confused. And now he’s closing in on my personal space, and I still don’t understand what’s going on.

  “Those shoes are more than a thousand dollars a pair.” Which is absurd. Who the hell spends a thousand dollars on a pair of freaking shoes? Not this bargain shopper, that’s for sure.

  “I got a deal.”

  “Please tell me you’re not in the mob. Oh my God. Am I part of some crime ring now?” I turn away and grab blindly for a shirt to cover myself. I manage to snag one of his button-downs, which is preferable to the thousand-dollar dresses in his closet. I shrug into it, feeling slightly more dignified.

  “I’m not part of the mob. I just have great connections because of who I work for. These are gifts. I won’t get charged for anything, so if you like something and want it, you can have it.”

  “This feels a lot like Pretty Woman, except I’m being paid for my virginity.”

  Griffin closes his eyes and exhales a long breath. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what’s it like?”

  “I was trying to . . . impress you, I guess? Which maybe was stupid in hindsight. I have access to things other people don’t. I wanted to make you feel special. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll take care of it.”

  I cross my arms. The shirt is huge, and the sleeves keep slipping down and covering my hands. “I’m not wearing a pair of shoes that costs a grand.”

  “Okay. I’ll send them back.” He takes another step closer. “I’m sorry.”

  I scrub my face with my hand. It smells like latex and sex. Between giving it up to Griffin, the stellar orgasms, and these extravagant gifts, I’m discombobulated. “It’s okay. I don’t think you actually have anything to be sorry for since I’m the one who overreacted.”

  He erases the distance between us with one final step.

  Now that I’m not freaking out, I feel like a total jerk. “I’m sorry I hit you with a shoe.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  “And I think I broke that purse strap. I can pay for that.”

  “Unnecessary. Besides, it can be fixed.” He brushes my hair over my shoulder.

  “I jumped to a pretty awful conclusion. I feel bad about that.” I run my hands up his bare chest.

  “There’s nothing to feel bad about. I understand entirely.” He tips my chin up and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Let’s order dinner, so I can make you dessert.”

  “Oh, I’d kill for some ice cream.”

  “I meant that you would literally be my dessert, but I’m sure we can also get ice cream.”

  “Right. Okay, well both of those things sound good, me being your dessert and the ice cream.”

  Now that I’m no longer panicking, I’m hungry again. And maybe horny. Griffin puts on a T-shirt and a pai
r of shorts while he cancels our reservation and orders room service. Then he heads to the kitchen to get us something to drink. I want to raid the cupboards for a snack, like chips or crackers. I’d even eat those ramen noodles straight out of the package dry at this point, but I don’t want to be rude. I think throwing shoes at him and accusing him of being a cheater has put me over my rudeness limit for the night, maybe even the week.

  Griffin retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge—it’s an apartment-sized one rather than the bar fridge one usually finds in a hotel—and a covered tray.

  “What’s this?”

  “Me being prepared in case we had time to come back here before dinner.” He lifts the stainless steel cover to reveal a cheese and fruit tray.

  “Oh my God. That looks amazing.”

  His smile would melt my panties, if I were wearing any. “Help yourself.” He uncorks the champagne and pours us each a glass while I pop a cheese cube in my mouth and force myself to chew before I swallow. There are little toothpicks with labels stuck in each cheese so we know what they are.

  I carry the tray into the sitting area, and Griffin follows with the champagne.

  “So you said you invest in hotel renovation projects, right? Is that how you get access to all of this?” I motion to the spread and pop a strawberry in my mouth. I’m trying not to shovel food in and ruin my appetite before dinner arrives.

  “Pretty much. Basically I run logistics on whether a hotel property will be profitable.”

  “That sounds numbery.” I’m snuggled into the corner of the couch, feet tucked under Griffin’s thigh. Only three buttons are done up on his shirt—yes, this is completely intentional—and I’m showing a decent amount of cleavage. I also had to roll the sleeves about four hundred times so I could have the use of my hands.

  “It can be.”

  I still don’t understand how he gets so many perks. “And what happens if a hotel is profitable?”

  “It depends on the situation and how profitable the hotel is. Something can be profitable in the short-term, but long-term investment is what I’m generally looking for.”

  “Have you ever invested in a hotel that’s tanked?” I imagine that would be scary, putting money into something that could fail. That’s sort of what my parents did with my sister and her education. They had all this money saved up for her, and she went to college, started three different programs, and dropped out of all of them. She ate all of their education savings, leaving me to pay my own way, which is the other reason it’s taken me so long to finish my degree. I managed to get a partial scholarship, but the rest I’m footing myself.

  “A couple of times, yes, but I learn from my mistakes. Generally, the projects we take on are grounded in data that supports the investment. Enough about my job, it’s actually not all that riveting. Tell me what you want to do once you’re finished college.”

  I shrug. “Mostly I want to travel. I figured working in hotel management would be a good way to do that. I love the event-planning side of things. If I can get a placement at one of the big chains and turn it into a job, then I can move around and see more of the world. Maybe even get out of the US at some point, spend some time in the islands, go overseas.”

  We’re interrupted by a knock at the door. I feel awkward being dressed only in Griffin’s shirt as the concierge brings the food in, but he’s super professional, calling Griffin sir and arranging the plates on the table—there’s an actual dining area in this giant suite.

  Once he’s gone, Griffin rearranges the chairs so we’re sitting beside each other. He’s ordered almost every appetizer on the menu because I said they all sounded good, so we stuff our faces—with manners—while we talk about travel and school.

  Apparently he went to Harvard. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I laugh when he tells me what year he graduated with his MBA. “I wasn’t even in high school yet.”

  He steals a fry from my plate. “What were you like in high school?”

  “Bored, mostly. I liked geography and gym and art and that was about it. Math was okay but not my favorite. I liked English well enough, and better in junior and senior year when we could pick our own books for independent projects. I always picked travel stories.”

  He settles back in his chair, eyes moving over me and snagging where the shirt gapes at my chest. “What about boyfriends?”

  “I had a few.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “I dated one guy for most of freshman year, but his dad was in the military, so they moved when the school year finished, and that was the end of that. When I was a junior, I went out with a guy for almost a year, but he was the one who went to college and decided he needed free rein to screw whoever he wanted.” I pick a pickle off a slider and pop it into my mouth.

  “He sounds like a real winner.” I like how unimpressed he is by this.

  “He definitely wasn’t one of my better choices, that’s for sure. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat it. After his first week in college he told me if I wouldn’t give it up, he would find someone who would. So I told him to have at it. Within twenty-four hours of breaking up, he was posting party pictures on his social media with mostly naked women, so that was that.”

  “What a dick.”

  “I was better off without him. I watched my sister blow through boyfriends like underwear. She had a pretty terrible reputation in high school, and I wasn’t interested in dealing with the same crap she did, so I kind of took the opposite stance. Anyway, in the second half of senior year I started dating this guy, he was part of the cool crowd, sort of out of my league, you know?”

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  “I was awkward in high school, and I didn’t care much about fitting in, not like Nev. So I’d been seeing this guy for a couple of months, and he hadn’t been super pushy like I expected. He asked me to prom, and I kind of had it in my head that was a good time to give it up, which is stupid and cliché, but there it is. A couple of weeks before prom, I found out the only reason he was dating me at all was because he wanted to claim my V-card. I guess it was like a thing because I was the non-slutty Felton.”

  “It sounds like you went to school with a lot of assholes.”

  “Pretty much. Needless to say, I didn’t end up going to prom with him. It sort of soured me on the whole relationship thing. Then I started traveling a lot, and college guys are worse than high school ones, so I ended up holding onto my V-card a lot longer than I ever planned to.” Man, champagne and orgasms make me chatty. I spin the conversation around. “What about you? Were you wild in high school? Did you play football and date all the cheerleaders? I bet you were popular.”

  “My younger brother Lex was the popular one. He had friends in every social circle. I was pretty quiet and kept to myself, but I did play football. Didn’t date any cheerleaders, though.”

  “Really?” I don’t know why that’s surprising. Half the time Griffin seems like an old soul trapped in a young-ish body.

  “I dated the same girl throughout high school, starting freshman year. She was a dancer, and we broke up when she went to France for college.”

  “She’s the one you popped your cherry with?”

  He smiles. “Yes.”

  “You dated for three years before you boned each other?”

  His smile widens. “She wanted to wait, so we waited. Don’t worry, I wasn’t deprived.”

  I poke my cheek with my tongue. “Nothing like a good consolation blow job to tide you over until she gave up the goods, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Have you seen her since high school?”

  “We kept in touch. She’s married to a French guy and has two little girls.”

  “What about in college? Did you screw your way through all the coeds?”

  “Nope. I met a girl during frosh week, and we dated until we graduated. She went to med school across the country, and we realized it wasn’t going to work, so we parted ways.”

&
nbsp; “And after college?”

  “I dated a bit, had a couple of shorter relationships and one longer one.”

  “What’s shorter for you?”

  “Less than a year.”

  “Geez. You’re like a serial monogamist. How long was your last serious relationship?” I don’t know why I’m asking these questions. Maybe because I find it fascinating that he’s been in so many committed relationships. I can’t imagine how much it would hurt to lose someone who had been such a huge part of my life for so long.

  Even though my high school exes ended up being dicks, they still left holes in my heart when we broke up. I didn’t like that feeling, that overwhelming sadness over the loss of someone who had been so important. Feeling used and emotionally vulnerable. So I never let it get that far again with anyone. Moving around a lot makes it easy to keep your heart safe because you know it’s coming to an end sooner rather than later.

  “Almost four years.”

  Morbid curiosity gets the better of me. “What happened?”

  “I travel too much for work.”

  “How long ago did it end?”

  He looks down at his plate, his eyes far away. “Long enough that I’m over her.”

  “Is it still hard sometimes? Do you miss her?” I feel like I’m picking at a scab that might not be healed fully, but I can’t help the curiosity. Maybe because I’ve never given my heart to someone like he has, for such a long period of time, more than once. Maybe his heart is too bruised and battered to go another round, which is why I’m here. Safe. Available for only a short period of time. I’m not a risk to his heart, and he’s not a risk to mine.

  “No. We weren’t right for each other. We were comfortable, and comfort was easier than acknowledging we shouldn’t be together. She was right to break it off.” He tosses his napkin on his plate. “And you? How long was your last relationship, and when did it end?”

  “Two months. It ended when I came back to Vegas.” I finish my champagne. I’m tipsy since I’ve had two glasses.