Yellow sunlight streams through the balcony door, and the cool morning air hits my skin. I look over to the empty space in my bed that Caulter occupied last night, then out through the open balcony door. He’s not there.
Not that I would expect him to be after what happened last night. I’m mortified. I’m going to be too embarrassed to look him in the face, after the things I said, how I threw myself at him -- and the fact that he, the guy who sleeps with anyone, turned me down.
I slink down the hallway, grateful to remain unnoticed. After I brush my teeth and shower, I feel considerably better. But not about the thing with Caulter. One of the unfortunate downsides of last night is that I remember the whole thing clearly.
I’m dressed and back in my room when Caulter shows up on my side of the balcony, coffee in hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Completely humiliated.”
Caulter’s face is expressionless, which makes my heart skip a beat. He probably hates me. “Here,” he says, handing me the coffee. “Are you hung-over?”
I shake my head. “No. The pill she gave me just made me pretty out of it, I guess.”
Caulter laughs. “Fucking amateurs.”
“Shut up. I’d never taken anything like that before.”
He smiles. “Well, you might not want to, ever again.”
“I’m not exactly planning to.” I pause, sipping the coffee. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
Caulter shrugs, leaning against the wall. He’s wearing this blue t-shirt that looks soft and weathered. It makes me want to touch it, but I just sit there. “Not a big deal.”
“It kind of is,” I say. “Sorry for...um...acting like an ass and stuff.”
Caulter walks over and stands in front of me. His crotch is at eye level, and I want to rip off his jeans, but I don’t, because I’m a chickenshit. But he slips his finger under my chin and pulls my face up. “As I recall, you took off your clothes and threw yourself at me.”
My face flushes. “I was drunk. Or high. Whatever it was. Sorry.”
“Are you sorry?” he asks. “I’d be very disappointed if you were.”
I bristle at his words, even as he takes his thumb and slides it along my lower lip. I want to wrap my lips around his finger, but I don’t. “You’re the one who blew me off last night. I throw myself at you and tell you I want to suck your cock, and you say no.”
He groans. “You were drunk, Kate.”
“So?” I ask. I’m angry but I don’t move his hand, don’t tell him to stop it when his thumb catches on my lower lip, pulling it down. I want his lips on mine. I ache to feel his touch, the desire is even more amplified by the fact that I spent last night pressed up against him.
“Is that what you want, Kate?” he asks, leaning down and placing his hands on the sides of the chair I’m sitting in. His face is close to mine, our lips nearly touching, and I’m immediately holding my breath, my heart racing. “You want me to fuck you when you’re so drunk you don’t know what you’re doing? Or do you just want me to fuck you at your beck and call, whenever you're feeling horny?
“No,” I protest. “That’s not what was happening.”
I arch up and touch my lips to his, the movement gentle, but Caulter grabs my jaw, squeezing my face as his mouth crashes into mine. The act is so hard it’s painful, somewhere between exquisite pleasure and absolute agony.
He yanks me up to a standing position, unbuttons my jeans, and shoves his hand down the front of my pants. With one hand, he yanks my jeans down over my ass and buries the fingers of his other hand inside me, the movement rough, but aided by my wetness.
“Is this what you want?” He breathes the words into my ear. “You want my fingers in you, my cock inside you whenever you’re horny?”
Waves of pleasure rush over me, my body’s automatic response to his touch. I’ve missed his touch. I’ve longed for his touch. “No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Yes. I’m not sure. That’s not it.”
He looks at me, his face screwed up in anger. “That’s exactly it, Kate.” Then he slides his fingers out and pushes me away, the void between my legs excruciating.
“You’re mad because you wouldn’t fuck me last night?” I ask. I don’t understand.
“Yeah, Kate,” he says. “That’s it. Or maybe it’s because you got all dressed up so you could go pick up other guys and then when no one put out, you came home and thought you'd screw your dear ol' step-brother."
“What the hell are you talking about?” I say, my voice going higher. I button my jeans, furious at myself for letting my guard down with him at all. He’s insane, I tell myself. He's hot and cold all the time. I don’t need this shit. “Some guy was rubbing up on me at a party and now you’re jealous? I'll wear what I want and go where I want.”
“Yeah, Kate,” he says. “I'm totally jealous. That must be why I didn’t screw you last night.”
“Why are you being such a jerk-off now?” I ask. “Last night, you were nice. That’s the thing about you -- one minute you act like you give a shit, and the next minute you don’t.”
“Of course I give a shit, Katherine,” he says. “You’re a nice piece of ass.”
It’s like he’s purposely trying to be a dick. “That’s all it is, then?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m just a nice piece of ass, then. Nothing more.”
“Oh, right, did you think I was going to be your Prince Charming or something?” he laughs. “We’re having a little fun, that’s all.”
“Get out,” I say. I bite down on my lower lip, because I think I might cry. It’s not like I’m in love with Caulter or anything remotely that stupid. But does he have to be such a jerk all the time? His mood swings, between nice guy and asshole, are exhausting. “Get the fuck out of my room.”
“Whatever you say, Princess.” He turns and leaves through the balcony, the way he came in, and I hear his glass door on the other side slam shut.
I sink into my chair, unable to hold back the tears that spill down my cheeks. I’m more angry than anything else.
It’s more than a few minutes later that I see my sketchpad lying on the desk, the one I usually keep carefully tucked under the mattress. Except for last night. Last night, I’d shoved it under the pillow when Jo had shown up in my room early. How could I have forgotten?
I’m so mortified I just want to crawl into a hole and hide. The thought of Caulter seeing the sketches of him...of his cock, holy shit, how many are there of his cock? It makes me want to vomit. He probably thinks I’m obsessed with him, some pathetic virgin who got laid and can't let go.