by Jess Bentley
I draw my hand away and walk over to the dresser. I should get dressed. There has to be some old clothes here. I pull open the underwear drawer and find some old panties I used to wear and a bralette. The bralette is aqua-colored and lacy, and the panties are cotton with an aqua lace trim with the day of the week printed in girlish script on them. The bra goes on easily but the panties are a little small, though they’ll do. They only cover half my butt. I imagine Mr. King again.
“Jordan...” he says, running a finger under the lace. “You’ve grown up so fast, but you’ll always be a little girl to me.” His hand snakes between the fabric and my soft skin, flirting with the cleft between my buttocks. “Have you been behaving yourself since I saw you last?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, and my voice comes out squeaky. It always does when I’m nervous. Then I fall onto the bed, and with a few strokes of my clit, I explode into a violent orgasm, bucking on the bed.
When I wake up, I feel a tightness on my cheeks that means I’ve been crying in my sleep again. Realizing I’m exposed on the bed, just wearing the little panties and bralette I had on, I clutch the duvet around my body. What am I doing?
I’m filled with shame and embarrassment. Fantasies are one thing, but anyone could have come up here, including Mr. King, and seen me at any time. My cheeks burn and I cringe into the pillow.
Jordan, you’re out of control.
My funeral clothes are strewn around the floor. In the dim twilight, they’re just losing their definition. In a few moments, you might not be able to tell what they are, but if anyone came by the door while I was asleep they would have seen the remains of my impromptu strip show.
I have to get out of here. Being at my parents’ house in my old room isn’t doing me any good. Everything is just too close.
Maybe I should take the money that Kelsey apparently left me and go somewhere else. Just get out of town for a while, where nobody knows me and I don’t have to answer to anyone. That would be perfect.
She and I used to talk about that kind of thing all the time. In her dorm at college she used to have a map over her bed, and she’d put red push pins in every place she wanted to visit, and blue ones in places she had already been to. The yellow ones meant first priority and Paris had a few yellow stuck in it, for good measure.
If she did leave me money that is. I can’t imagine spending it on anything else. Besides, it would be a nice tribute to her to go to one of the places we’d always talked about. Why not start with her favorite?
This thought makes me feel a little bit better, and so I grab an old pair of shorts and a Victoria’s Secret sweatshirt and toss them on to wander back downstairs. I’m not up to eating anything yet, but I could use some water. The food from the wake is still sitting like a stone in my stomach.
The stairs creak as I walk down them, running my hand along the oak bannister. I stop for a second. Is Mr. King still here?
I hear my dad’s voice. “Thanks for coming back, King,” he says.
“It’s my pleasure,” he says with that low rumble. “Good to see you again, and I’m glad that we had a chance to talk about this opportunity.”
“Me too,” my dad says thoughtfully. I hear them coming to the front hall, and while part of me wants to run back up to my room and hide, the other wants to lay eyes on Mr. King again. I wish I could hide and watch them.
“Jordan,” my dad says. “You’re up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was just coming down to get a glass of water.”
“Funerals are exhausting,” my mother says. “Were you able to nap?”
“For a little while.” I look away. I want to memorize the way Mr. King’s body looks with his clothes stretched over his muscles. Most guys I know don’t work on their bodies, but you can see his six-pack and pecs through his shirt. The forearms are tanned, with golden hairs, and the definition of his muscles makes me want him to take off his shirt and see more. “I decided to go to Paris,” I say.
“Paris is beautiful,” Mr. King says.
“Sure, it’s beautiful,” my dad blusters, “but you don’t want to go there now, do you?” His eyebrows knit together. “Not after everything? You don’t know what could happen.”
“Anything could,” my mother says sagely, nodding her head. “Now’s not the time to do such a thing. Isn’t that right?” The last statement she directs to Mr. King.
“Paris is an incredible city,” he answers her. “I might be heading there myself for business. If she were to get in any trouble, I’d be happy to help her out.”
“That would be great,” I squeak.
My mother looks to me, then to Mr. King. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, as it’s a moot point. Where would you get the money, anyway?”
“I’m getting something from my best friend in her will,” I say. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious in my shorts and shirt. “I don’t know how much it’s going to be, but I’d like to go as a tribute to her.”
“I don’t know about that,” my dad says.
“It’s a lovely idea,” Mr. King says at the same time. “I should be going, in any case.” He hands me a business card, and I clutch it in my palm, its crisp edges against my skin. “In case you decide to go to France, you know where to reach me.”
“Thank you,” I say. This time my words aren’t squeaky, just soft and breathless.
“Anyhow, great to see you,” my dad says to him. “Nice remembering old times and looking forward to new ones.”
“Most definitely,” he answers, his smile widening again. “And you too, Margaret,” he says to my mother. Then he looks at me. “Jordan.” The way he says my name thrills me to my core again, sending tingles through my body.
Did he just wink at me?
To read the rest of King, click here!
About the Author
Jess Bentley is a contemporary romance author who adores writing about adventurous young women--and the hot sexy men who love them. She spends her days reading and writing, tending to her flower garden and growing vegetables, as well as playing the guitar.
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