Hey Girl (Turn it Up #9)

Chapter 15

15

REBECCA

I ’ve. Had. Sex!

I’ve had sex! I’m part of the club! I’m no longer a virgin! Oh my god, I want to crash the nearest slumber party, butt in on a game of truth or dare, immediately choose truth and demand they ask me if I’ve had sex before and scream yes! I have! I’ve had sex. Better than that, I’ve had sex with a rockstar on his drum kit, which makes me sound like a dirty whore, but I’m not because I’m dating him!

And get this … I’ve had sex with him multiple times! That’s right, I’ve been boinking his brains out for over a week, and I feel terrific!

Oh my god, I’m going to have to get on the pill! The pill!

I’m sprawled out across my bed in nothing in a tiny t-shirt and a thong as I work on one of my latest design projects for work. Seriously, Chris is in my shower and I’m just laying here on my stomach with my butt cheeks on display and going about my business like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I hear the floorboards in my hallway creek and approaching footsteps and my pheromones are already jumping up and down with anticipation.

I shriek when Chris gives one of my bare ass cheeks a playful swat before flinging himself across my bed, one of my blue towels secured around his waist but generously showing his epic V.

With his oceany body wash emanating off his dewy skin and the way he’s regarding me while propped on an elbow, I concede that there’s no concentrating on work and close my laptop. Slyly sliding it to the side, I face him, mirroring his position.

“I was thinking…” he starts in.

“Hurt yourself?” I quip and he reaches an arm around me, pulling me close to him.

“Aaagghh!” I shriek at the sting on my butt. Okay, that sly fucker was only trying to smack my ass again.

“Very funny, blockhead,” he growls playfully from between clenched teeth. “What if we went shopping?”

“Sounds horrible,” I quickly respond.

“Why? You didn’t even hear what I want to shop for.”

“Shopping equals people,” I explain.

“Don’t worry about that,” he waves off. “I was thinking we could get you more new clothes.”

I’m silent a couple of seconds as that came out of left field. “What’s wrong with my own clothes?” I follow up.

“Nothing,” he says with a firmness that’s uncharacteristic but kind of thrilling. “I told you, I wouldn’t change a hair on your head. But you said you liked how you looked the night at the St. Michelle. If it made you happy and empowered, I’d love to help keep that going.”

His tone has turned coy and cautious; quiet. Also off-brand for him. He’s trying to do something nice and trying to broach it in a way that won’t hurt my feelings.