Believe: Not Until You, Part 7

Slowly, my breath returned to me, and I blinked out of the haze of the dreamland—my heart still pounding but my body cooling. My living room came back into view. The boxes. The ugly walls. The emptiness. Despair rolled through me.

I pushed myself off the couch and dragged myself into the shower, sitting on the floor of the tub and just letting the hot water pound against me.

Afterward, when I caught a view of myself in the bathroom mirror, I barely even recognized the person staring back at me. I’d changed out of scrubs into pajamas, but other than that, I didn’t look much different than when I’d woken up this morning. No makeup. Hair hanging limp around my cheeks. It was the face of a girl who had totally given up on being presentable.

I stared at my reflection, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. Was this what my life was going to be? Sitting around in my half-unpacked, That ’70s Show house, fantasizing about some guy who I hadn’t talked to in over a month? I’d become a goddamn cliche. All those times I’d rolled my eyes at movie heroines who ended up on their couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, watching Lifetime network, and now here I was. The only thing different was that I’d chosen Hungry-Man potpie instead of Ben & Jerry tonight. Pathetic.

I flicked the light off, getting rid of that girl in the mirror, and strode into my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the charger. Enough of this shit. I scrolled through the numbers, looking for the one I needed, then hit Call.

“Cela?”

He was clearly surprised to be hearing from me. But before I lost my nerve, I let the question fall from my lips. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to tell me?”

“I’m saying yes, Michael.”

I could hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all night. Pick you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready.”

And hopefully, I would be.

Chapter 34 (#ulink_26e92b7e-071a-5e7a-8cef-318a352324a7)

Sixty-seven, sixty-eight …

Foster counted in his head as he lowered back down to the floor for another push-up. Sweat slid down his neck and bare back as he repeated the motion again and again. The numbers ticked off in his head as he breathed through the count. A flash of Cela tied up in the garden came to him. Fuck.

Seventy-three.

That night she had counted aloud for him, her tawny skin glistening with the exertion of receiving the stings of his crop. But she’d been counting down. Not up. Not like he was doing. This had nothing to do with that day. His cock stirred. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Eighty.

He lifted one foot off the ground, trying to increase the difficulty of the push-ups and block out any thoughts of her. Music blared in the background, his new neighbor probably hating him already for all the noise.

Eighty-one.

She’d wanted to come so bad that night, she’d fallen to her knees and would’ve begged him for it, would’ve given him those doe eyes and pleaded. He’d wanted to break his plans that night. He’d wanted to spread her right out in that bed of flowers and fuck her until everyone inside the restaurant heard her scream. He gritted his teeth as his cock went from intrigued to full, throbbing hard-on.

Refusing to relent, he pushed through to hit one hundred. Afterward, he rolled onto his back, his stomach rising and falling with exertion, but the ache in his dick not relenting. He tucked his hands behind his head and with a locked jaw, started a round of sit-ups. He would not fucking give himself the satisfaction of thinking about her and jerking off. If he wanted to get laid, he could damn well go find a willing partner.