Highly unusual. Extremely inappropriate. Completely unacceptable.

And oh-so-delicious.

I sneak out of Jason’s room before the sun comes up, wearing one of the hotel robes from his closet and holding my dress and shoes in my hands.

That didn’t just happen. It couldn’t have just happened. But the smile on my face tells me it did just happen. Very much so.

It’s a little bit rude of me to be sneaking out of his room before he wakes up. I am very, very much aware of that. But I’m sure he will understand. In fact, if the roles were reversed, I’m sure he would have done the same thing.

I get back to my room and slide my keycard into the door, pushing it open when I see the little green light switch on over the door handle.

And I flop down on the bed like someone who just ran into her crush.

That’s not not what happened, right? I just ran into my crush.

I think back to this one time I ran into Jason on the way home from school. I was a senior and he drove his Mustang up next to me. He asked me if I needed a ride. I got in because my backpack was really heavy and uncomfortable. Also because I wanted to be near him.

All I wanted around that time in my life was to be near him. I just wanted to sit next to him. I just wanted that chance he would see me as something more than the girl next door, as something...I don’t know. I didn’t know then, and I still don’t. Something like a peer. Someone who he could see run in his social circle.

Someone he could actually be interested in. Someone he could actually like, whatever the hell that means.

And I remember when I got home and saw my brother playing video games in the basement. He said my voice sounded weird when I said Jason’s name. It’s like he knew that I wanted Jason. I couldn’t figure out how, but I knew he knew.

And he told me Jason was trouble. And I believed him. That didn’t make me want him any less, though.

But that’s not why the best sex of my life with the man I’ve wanted my whole life is inappropriate and unacceptable.

It’s because women in my position are not supposed to act this way. They aren’t supposed to be running around with random men and going to their hotel rooms.

I shake my head and sit up on the edge of my bed. I feel so damn lost. Not because I’m confused about what to do. No, I know exactly what I want to do. It’s just that I don’t know what Jason wants.

Was this a one-night-stand for him, or something more?

I don’t even know if I care right now. I feel absolutely drunk on him. I can still feel his kiss on my lips, his touch on my skin, and his tongue between my legs.

God, it sounds crazy but I can still feel him.

Before I know what I’m doing, I lie back on the bed and undo my robe slowly, letting the fabric fall around me. I take my breasts in my hands and moan as I remember how Jason touched me, running his hands along my flesh until I just couldn’t take it anymore, until I just needed him between my legs.

His touch was so sweet, so hot, and so overdue.

I can hardly believe this happened. But then, maybe I can believe it just based on who he is.

Jason Anderson. Roadie. Security. Hired muscle for one of the rowdiest bands to ever come out of our hometown. Hired muscle to now look after a bunch of beauty queens flitting around for a week.

A womanizer, oh-so-accustomed to having sex in hotel rooms.

That doesn’t matter right now, though. All I can focus on right now is slipping my hand down my tummy and touching myself between my legs.

I close my eyes, remembering his gaze intently following the curves of my body. I remember wanting him to look at me for so long. Now, he finally has, and I think I might just lose my damn mind.

I must have cum four times last night, and it’s still not enough.

I let one finger slip lightly over my clit, and I moan softly into the dark hotel room. I have never been more grateful to have my own hotel room. If I had a roommate here, I think I would have to get into the shower to touch myself.

The heat inside my clit is unbearable. The pressure is building up so damn fast, even though I’m barely even touching myself. I achingly slide one finger down to feel my silky wetness, then drag my juices up and over my clit. With the other hand, I press two fingers inside me. Jason was so big...I can’t even believe how damn perfect his cock was. Thick and so hard but so silky smooth sliding in and out of me. It was every fantasy I’ve ever had, and more.

I rub my clit faster now, with two fingers, letting myself go. I cum almost immediately when I start rubbing myself faster, slipping my fingers in and out of myself quickly, and yeah, he was right, I am wishing it were him.

I can hardly breathe. The room feels hot and the air around me is heavy, even though the air conditioner is pumping cold air inside the room. Sweat is breaking out around my temples as I cum, riding the wave of my orgasm, silently cursing the fact that I had to sneak out of his room before he woke up.

My breathing is hard as I begin to come down from my orgasm. I still want more, incredibly, but I can’t lie here doing this all day. For one thing, I want Jason to be doing this to me. I want his crazy, sweet, delicious lips between my legs.

God, I have really lost my damn mind.

I sit up, pulling the robe around myself. I must be either crazy or dreaming. Either way, it feels pretty damn good.

I slept with Jason Anderson. I slept with Jason Anderson.

I groan and close my eyes, putting a hand on my forehead.

I feel dirty - in a good way. This is what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it?

Then why do I feel so strange?

I start to walk over to the bathroom to hop in the shower - I have a lot to do today. Technically, it’s still pre-pageant, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be any less busy today than I will be in the coming several days. But as I’m about to get to the bathroom, I hear my phone buzzing from somewhere in my room.

I don’t know where the hell anything is, between my dress tossed on the floor to the strap of my bag hung on the back of the chair at the small desk tucked into the corner, but I finally find my phone slipped between two straps on my black sandals. Good place for it.

I grab my phone. It is absolutely blowing up with notifications. There’s a missed call from my manager and one from one of the pageant organizers, and several texts. My heart sinks as a very bad feeling comes over me, and I feel my cheeks getting hot as I see the texts from my manager.

This is not good, the text reads. Below it, there’s a link to an article. My heart flies into my throat and my stomach drops when I click on it.

LOCAL BEAUTY QUEEN SLAMS LOVE

“Oh no, no, no, no,” I say out loud, stepping backwards to sit on the edge of the bed. I feel my chest go tight as I try to take a big breath in, but I feel like my lungs are filled with steel wool. I feel like I can’t fucking breathe.

Frontrunner and fan favorite in this year’s Miss Northeast Pageant, Cassandra Blake, may not be the bright-eyed optimist some of her fans believe her to be, according to sources close to the beauty queen.

“Cassie Blake is not what you think,” a friend of Ms. Blake’s has said, on the condition of anonymity. “It’s sad, really. Most girls her age have already had at least one serious boyfriend. Lots are in love and ready to get engaged. But Cassie? She thinks love is stupid.”

What...what the hell am I reading right now?

I scan the rest of the article and it’s as ridiculous as I could have predicted from the sensational, over-the-top headline to the fact that this so-called anonymous “source” is apparently a friend of mine. The article goes on to suggest I’m some party girl who doesn’t want to find a husband, which I interpret to be some kind of slut-shaming, which is mean-spirited and awful but also couldn’t be farther from the truth.

And my heart sinks when I consider how the hell this article could have been published. The only person I was with last night was Jason, and the only other person I even spoke to was Cynthia.

This had to have been her. This is a freaking hit piece on me. And it’s as superficial as marshmallow fluff. It’s hot air. And even though there is no byline - it’s just a blurb beneath my picture - I know it was Cynthia.

If something’s stupid, it isn’t love. It’s this freaking article.

I check the time, realizing that I’m supposed to meet Cynthia for an interview in a couple of hours, when my phone rings. It’s my manager.

“Hey, Mrs. Pathmoore,” I chirp in the most upbeat voice I can manage, even though it’s really damn hard right now. “I was meaning to call you. Good to hear from you.”

I hear nothing from the other end of the phone. Yeah, maybe she thinks I’m full of it. I certainly know I’m full of it right now.

“Cassandra,” she says critically, “surely you’ve seen the article I sent to you.”

“Oh, um,” I start, unsure of what to say.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asks, impatiently.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I reply, my embarrassment giving way to annoyance. “I didn’t write the article.”

“So you don’t dispute its veracity?” Mrs. Pathmoore barks.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I reply, “the whole thing smacks of nonsense. I...okay, I was talking to a friend at the bar last night, and I guess this reporter I’m friendly with overheard. It was a joke.”

“So you did say the things in the article? You’ve done the things in the article?”

“Mrs. Pathmoore, I assure you that anything in that article has been blown way, way out of proportion. I said the things in the article, yes, but my comments were taken out of context. Who hasn’t said love is stupid at some point in their life?”

I know I’ve said it on more than one occasion. I’ve said it more times than just last night.

“The most important thing for us to do now is damage control,” Mrs. Pathmoore sighs into the phone, a thick combination of pity and annoyance coloring her tone. “I have a meeting set up for us with the pageant organizers this morning. We’ll have to meet with them to come up with a way to get out in front of this thing.”

“Wait, is it really that bad?” I ask, springing to my feet. I swallow hard and the reality hits me - the crown really might be on the line for me.

I came into this thing a little bit cocky, I will admit. I thought I was really in the running. I mean, I was really in the running, that part wasn’t my imagination getting away from me. My stupid smiling face was all over the TV with a few of the other girls who are audience favorites, and the organizers of the pageant decided to do small bios on us in advance of the contest.

And now, suddenly, it appears that I’m about to be downgraded to the back row.

“Yes, it really is that bad,” Mrs. Pathmoore replies. “I don’t need to remind you that the contestants’ reputations need to be pristine. The little comment about love being stupid isn’t the worst of your problems right now, Cassandra.”

I groan, put my head in my hand, and start over to my closet to pick out a dress for the meeting. Something white. Something that screams virginal. Not virgin per se, because that would be somewhat unusual in this day and age - hell, it was unusual even back in the olden days when girls actually purported to be virgins on their wedding day. But today, at least in my world, you have to put forth the appearance of chastity to appease the old guard.

“Okay,” I say, “I get it.”

“I will text you the information, okay? And Cassie, please start thinking up a sincere apology for the organizers.”

It seems ridiculous to have to come up with a sincere apology in advance. You’d think a sincere apology would come from the heart. You’d think a sincere apology would be something you actually mean, instead of a speech you prepare at the behest of your manager.

“Of course, Mrs. Pathmoore,” I say, “I will be ready to explain myself and show how truly sorry I am for what I’ve said and done.”

“And try to make it believable,” she huffs into the phone before hanging up.

Talk about a wakeup call. I only slept a few hours because I was up half of the night with Jason’s hands all over me, and now I’m scrambling to get ready for this stupid meeting.

I guess I shouldn’t have been canoodling with Jason Anderson in public the way I was. I guess I opened myself up to this.

I grab a hanger from my closet, pulling out a pretty, sweet white eyelet dress. No, that’s not for today. That looks like I’m trying too hard, trying to make some kind of point. I scan my options while shaking my head and pursing my lips and being generally annoyed at this whole thing, while trying to put the bigger consequences out of my mind.

I finally land on a long white maxi dress. This will be fine. This will be appropriate. This will be perfectly acceptable.

Then I make my way into the bathroom, letting my robe fall to the floor, to let this mess of a day begin.