Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
She smiles as I play Fiona Apple. "Are you trying to seduce me?"
"Of course," I say.
"Do I get a clue?" She drops her purse between her legs. "To where we're going?"
"One." I pull out of the parking lot. "Malibu."
"That's not a clue. That's an answer."
"Technically." How can I increase her anticipation without pushing her too far? "Somewhere you fantasized about."
"Somewhere I told you I fantasized about?"
I nod.
She presses her palms together, thinking. "Hmm." She looks to me. "No."
"Maybe."
"Maybe." She nods. "Malibu. The beach?"
"We're not playing twenty questions."
"Answer one question."
"If you answer mine first."
"Okay." She smiles. "Shoot."
"What are you wearing under that?"
Chapter Thirty-Seven
IMOGEN
We flirt for the entire drive up Pacific Coast Highway. My boldness fades as we turn into a neighborhood.
We're moving toward the ocean, but there isn't beach access here. Is there? And I didn't tell him about any fantasies of sex in the ocean. Or did I?
That's one side effect of growing up on swim team. My sexual feelings developed on the swim team. They attached to the guys on my team. In their swimsuits, gliding through the water, smooth and fast and gorgeous.
I've only tried sex in the water once. It was terrible—no lubrication and no friction either—but I still have all the fantasies my swim career bloomed.
We pass a row of mid-sized mansions. They're "only" worth five or ten million apiece. Four or five bedrooms, pools, beach views. Not the twenty million plus places further up the 1.
They remind me of the houses in Newport. A mix of modern glass, white and blue beach shack, mission style. They have the same feel. Expensive in an easygoing way.
We part at the end of the street, in front of a mission-style house with white walls and a clay red roof.
"Is this it?" The house is beautiful. And quiet. There are lights on upstairs, but that's the only sign of life.
"Other side of the street."
The side facing the ocean.
"Two doors down."
"It's dark."
"It's that kind of party," he says.
The place—one of the modern mansions with an Apple Store aesthetic—looks empty at a glance. But there are dim lights on upstairs. There's music coming from the house. There's a sign over the door and a bucket of roses on each side of the wood. "Is this an orgy?" Are orgies real?
"It's explicitly not an orgy."
"But…"
"It's for open-minded people."
"What does that mean?"
"People won't care if I fuck you in the pool," he says.
My cheeks flush. "Will there be other people…"
"Having sex?"
I nod.
"Upstairs. That's what my friend told me. The further you go, the weirder it gets."
"The pool isn't upstairs."
"It's past the main house."
"So other people will be out there?" I don't add having sex, but it lingers in the air anyway.
"Probably." He undoes his seat belt and turns to me. "Is it too much?"
My cheeks flush. My chest too. My brain wants to scream yes, of course this is too much, are you crazy? It doesn't even want to stop and excuse my use of the word crazy.
But my body?
It's completely and totally on board.
"Is it too much for you?" I ask.
"I don't know." He reaches over and undoes my seat belt. "But I want to try."
"Me too." I grab my purse.
Patrick nods, pushes out of his seat, helps me out of the car. "You have your jacket?"
"My what?" I ask.
He smiles. "Take mine." He takes his leather jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
It feels good. Warm and heavy in that perfect, comfortable way. And it's his. It smells like him. It feels like him. "Won't you be cold?"
"I have a hoodie in the trunk."
"A hoodie? For your Sinful Serenade shirt?"
"Fuck yeah." He smiles.
He looks good. Jeans, a button-up shirt, boots. Smart casual. Is that what you wear to a not-orgy? I don't know.
But we're not here for other people.
We're only here for us.
And it's explicitly not an orgy. (Which is more damming than saying "it's totally an orgy").
But I don't care about that either.
I'm officially out of my mind.
Well, I've been officially out of my mind for a long time. But I'm on some new level. One reserved for people with another diagnosis.
Or maybe I'm finally acting normally, thinking with the brain below my waist. Everyone expects men to do it. Why not a book-smart science loving woman too?
"Ready?" I ask.
Patrick nods, wraps his arm around me, and leads me to the house.
Nothing about the place screams sex club. Maybe the quiet EDM. Otherwise, it looks sleeker and safer than every frat party I've ever attended.
A woman in a designer suit checks our name is on the list. It's all perfectly normal until she explains the guidelines. The main room is for mingling. Outside, things get a little more open, but mostly people are watching. Upstairs? Anything goes. The bar is here. Drinks are welcome anywhere, but no party drugs.
She doesn't want to ask us to leave, but she will.