Evangeline

He pulls me into the guesthouse, and once we’re inside and I lock the door, I know there’s no turning back.

And, God, I don’t want to go anywhere but forward. With him, and my life, and just everything.

He follows me into my bedroom, where my bed is unmade and my clothes litter the floor. It looks like the maid hasn’t come in yet today.

I don’t care; the sheets will just get rumpled anyway.

He’s sliding off my belt, and then his fingers run across the neckline of my dress. His hands are big and capable, and maybe it was listening to him tell me about his life, but I want to do whatever I can to make him smile. To make him laugh.

It should be a day to celebrate. My dad only signs the best talent, and that is Cash. I can see it—how soulful he is. I imagine his lyrics penetrate something deep and raw and real. I bet he’s incredible on stage.

He’s making me feel incredible right here.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Evie,” he tells me, wrapping his large hands around my waist, making me feel small in the biggest sort of way—a way that makes my heart bloom with petals soft and full.

When he tells me I’m gorgeous, I believe him.

He unbuttons my dress, and I step out of my flats. When he reaches for the hem of my dress and lifts it over my head, I let out a small sigh, because I can’t believe I’m doing this—can’t believe how badly I want to do this, how badly I want to do something I have never once done before.

I’m standing before Cassius, in a black bra and black panties and nothing more, and I want him to like what he sees. He’s the opposite of me in so many exterior ways, but is it crazy to think that inside, deep down, we aren’t that different?

That’s crazy, right? Cash is this gangster or something, in his Adidas and his gold chain and tattoos. And me in my what? My La Perla bra that cost three hundred dollars, and my trust fund and rich daddy. Me and my untouched skin and my innocent everything. Me, a girl who needs tequila to make good on what she craves, because God knows I’d chicken out if left to my own devices.

Cassius looks me up and down, and I want to look at his body the same way. I want him undressed; I want his skin against mine and I don’t want to wait.

I reach for his shirt, and he pulls it off. With his shirt gone, all that’s left is the chain around his neck, but now with his skin exposed, I see a body etched with a story that’s deeper than I can understand. He says he needs a notepad to write down words, but lyrics are engraved across his skin.

“Cassius,” I say, stepping closer. The window is open; the curtains flutter as a breeze washes through my room, and the sunlight casts a glow across us both. “You are a piece of art.”

He licks his lips, slowly shaking his head as he moves his hands over my chest, running across my belly and over my ass.

He pulls me to him. “No, you’re the masterpiece, Evangeline. You.”

I sink into him, wanting his chest pressed against my body, tight. The fact that he has a history I can’t comprehend draws me to him so quickly. My life is private camps and fancy schools and piano lessons.

So. Many. Lessons.

But what have I learned?

I learned that the first time I take chance on myself, I am nearly naked in the arms of the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

I should have taken a chance a long time ago.

His jeans are slung low on his hips, and a deep V leads down to something I know will be very good, but I don’t have the nerve to make that move. I don’t know how much tequila I’d need for that sort of bravery—the kind that would give me the resolve to unbutton his jeans and slide them off and reach for the hardness that I feel against me, that I want inside me.

He will need to make some of those moves on his own, because even now, with his fingers reaching for my bra clasp, with me sliding it off and my breasts falling from the cups, I can hardly breathe. I’ve forgotten again. But I don’t need to go outside for fresh air.

I just want his oxygen.

I kiss him, deeply, running my hand through his hair, over the shaved sides, and then the longer strands on top. I hold onto his hair, my mouth filled with his warm tongue, his soft lips, his breath. I pull him closer to me.

“Oh, girl,” he moans, his hands on my breasts, his fingers running over my hard nipples. My pussy tightens—because, oh, it feels so good when he caresses me with such devotion. I swear it’s like he only has eyes for me, like he sees me as more than a hook-up—which I know we aren’t. But, as he touches me, it almost feels holy.

“Do what you want with me, Cash. Please.” I’m begging him, because I know being with him is going to be a heck of a lot better than the rabbit vibrator in my dresser drawer.

He doesn’t hesitate; it’s like something has been unleashed when I give him complete control. He picks me up, his hands tight against my ass, and my legs wrap around him. He sets me down on the bed, my legs hanging off the edge, and he kneels down on the floor.

“Aren’t you coming up here?” I ask, patting the mattress.

“Not yet, honey. First I’m going down.”