Page 88 of The Bad Girl

Chapter 32

Nadine

I wake from a nap to a throbbing head and dry eyes. Jenna is nowhere to be found, but there’s a glass of water with an aspirin beside it on my nightstand.

Holy fuck, am I really day drinking?

Why yes, it’s a coping mechanism Good Girl Nadine would never resort to.

Progress!

I pop a pill, taking a long drink of water, then proceed to cough it back up.

Get yourself together, girl.

I’ve been holed up in my luxury prison for too long, but tomorrow, I make a bid for freedom, because after I sign those legal documents and deposit that check, I’m a free woman.

And the first thing I’m going to do upon release—coffee with Tom!

My phone says it’s six-thirty, which doesn’t feel right, but I don’t think hard on it because my attention is drawn elsewhere, to a text message from Tom.

Tom:I just saw your name in the news. I hope you’re okay. If you need to reschedule, I understand.

My lips curl into a smile. The words are what anyone would say, and my logical brain knows this, but my overly-dramatic heart is telling me that he’s worried about me, and considering my needs.

A friend can be worried about you, you idiot—don’t read too much into it.

I go to reply, but then remember that I shouldn’t appear to be overeager.

There’s no need to make myself look desperate.

Finally, I decide to say something innocuous.

Nadine:No worries, I’m fine. Coffee’s still on.

I stretch, then pull myself out of bed and walk to the coffee maker to grab a cup of liquid magic.

While I wait for my cup to brew, I look at pictures of Tom, his lean, taut muscles begging to be explored.

God, he’s even more handsome than when I last saw him.

He keeps a permanent stubble, his clothes are never too polished, and his posture is never slouched, but always relaxed. It’s a fine blue-collar look that is a welcome change from the pressed suits of the business world.

I close my eyes and think of the trail of hair leading from his tight abs downward, to a place I’ve only ever dreamed of exploring.

But for some reason, I don’t feel the familiar rush I get when thinking of him, and my mind soon wanders somewhere unexpected, or rather, someone.

To Maxwell.

I rub my eyes with the palms of my hand and inhale the fresh aroma of coffee, hoping to give myself a jolt.

There is no denying Maxwell’s attractiveness. To most, he’s a ten out of ten. But he’s my boss, or was, and is totally not my type. I don’t like pressed suits and men who go to fancy dinners. That’s not me.

But that doesn’t stop my brain from going back to our time aboard the boat, to his chiseled chest, to his thick cock pressing past my lips.

Now the rush comes, and it’s surging. I feel myself growing wet with want, and I wish so badly that I could go back to that boat, to the unexpected delight it delivered.

Stop it! Think of Tom—it’s Tom you want.