I adjusted myself, moving my errant erection carefully away from the front zipper of my slacks, intending to carefully set it loose from its suddenly tight confines. I squeezed my tip hard in an effort to get myself under control.
Iris straightened suddenly and caught sight of my dilemma. She grinned wickedly. “Should I be hurrying? What time will the photographer be over? Do you even have time for any of that?” She waved a hand at my crotch.
I shook my head, saying, “Maybe.”
She laughed. “What does that mean?”
I’d gotten myself dressed before I’d woken her for just this reason. I really didn’t have time. I’d used all of it up sleeping in too late. “She’ll be here in half an hour.”
She was studying my face with probing eyes, her expression closing off.
“And I need to be gone by then?” she asked very slowly.
I nodded, jaw clenched, hating the way she was looking at me.
“Well then, we really don’t have time. I’ll just need a minute.” She moved into the bathroom.
I counted to one hundred, watching the slightly ajar door.
She turned some music on, something on the old little iPod she carried around, I thought, since I recognized the song. It was one of the songs she played on repeat all the time, the one about the drunk chick waking up in the kitchen. She must have hooked it up to the small speaker in there, because it was blasting.
She was going to leave without another question, just like I needed her to, but it didn’t feel right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I went into the bathroom and instantly regretted/loved it when I found her putting on makeup standing up, wearing nothing but a neon orange thong and those damned white gladiator sandals of hers, her body moving slightly to the beat, even while applying her mascara.
I pulled up a chair, watching her. I knew she’d get ready and go quickly. She never took long to go from looking naturally beautiful to utterly polished. She’d be out of here in ten minutes, tops.
I couldn’t stand it.
I sat and sulked, hands on my knees, stewing until I was close to boiling over.
“Why are you wearing those shoes at eleven in the morning?” I said loudly to be heard over the music. “And why so much makeup? Where are you planning to go?”
She took that little mascara brush thingie away from her lashes and met my gaze squarely in the mirror.
I looked away.
“I’d answer you, but unless I’m mistaken, you want me out of here before your photographer shows up. You don’t want her to see me, right?”
I swallowed, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. She’d grasped the situation right away and too clearly.
I felt like a scumbag.
It wasn’t that I was ashamed of her. Not her. Someone her age, though, yes, I was ashamed of that.
“It’s not you—” I began.
“It’s not you, it’s me? Is that what you were going to say? Are you asking me to leave here for good?”
I felt the moment when I broke out in a hard sweat.
My hands gripped hard into my knees. “No, please, don’t do that. I’m not saying that at all. I was going to say that it’s not you I don’t want her to see.”
“What is it then? Why do I get the feeling that you want me out of here bad, like I’m on some kind of a timer to get out of your house?”
I shook my head, over and over, trying to fish for a lie.
I’d always been a terrible liar.
“It’s not you…it’s your age.” I knew right away that I shouldn’t have said it. The whole thing had gotten away from me, and I knew after that statement there was no going back.
“You don’t want her to see my age?” she asked tonelessly, applying gloss to her lips. “Want to tell me exactly what that means?”
“I’m too old for you. You’re way too young for me. The photographer is a friend, and she’s going to think I’m a complete creep if she gets a load of you.”
She twisted her lip-gloss shut slowly, then set it down very abruptly, turning to look at me. I tried hard to keep my eyes on her face, but she was topless, and I only half succeeded.
She leaned a hip on the counter, hands on her hips, utterly unconcerned with her lack of clothing. “What about me makes you look like a creep?”
I shook my head, determined that I wouldn’t give her more of an answer than that.
I was only digging a deeper hole with every word. Even my socially awkward self could see it.
She walked to me, but slowly, one of her favorite songs playing loud in the background, her h*ps swaying to the beat.
I kept my hands determinedly on my knees as she moved between my legs, one of her hands reaching up to grip my hair. “Tell me, Dair, what is it about me that makes you look like a creep?” she said it quietly, tipping my head back while she leaned forward, her heavy tits dangerously close to brushing my jaw.
“Because there’s only one reason people our ages get together.”
“And what reason is that?” Her voice was so quiet I nearly didn’t catch her words.
I shut my eyes. “To use each other.”
“That’s the only reason, huh? I suppose I can guess how you would use me. My body is the only thing you could possibly be interested in, I presume? Is that how it is?”