Page 8 of Wicked Sinner

brIDGET

The next morning, I wake up sore in places I'd forgotten could be, and some that have never been sore before.

Every muscle in my body aches as I roll over in bed, wincing at the sharp reminder of last night's activities. My thighs burn, the soft flesh between them is tender, and that delicious soreness sends heat spiraling through me as I feel it in every muscle.

Oh my god, what did I do?

It’s not as if I don’t remember it. I remember it all too well, actually.

I bury my face in my pillow, groaning as my body tightens with the clear memory of how good it all was.

Caesar Genovese. The Ferrari. The way he looked at me, like I was something he wanted to devour.

The way he did devour me, right there on the hood of his car in my garage, doors wide open to the night air.

I've never done anything like that in my life.

Never had a one-night stand with a stranger, never let someone talk to me the way he did, never responded to anyone the way I responded to him.

The things he said, the way he touched me, the way he made me feel—it was like nothing I'd ever experienced before.

And it was probably the stupidest thing I've ever done.

No harm done, though, right? I tell myself. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to pester me for a second round—although if he did, I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t say yes. It would be hard to turn him down after the way he made me feel last night.

I didn’t know sex could be like that. I didn’t know it was possible to come that hard, to feel anything close to the kind of sensations that Caesar dragged out of me. I have a distinct feeling that sex with anyone else is going to be downright disappointing after that.

I’ll have to give it some time, let the memory ebb a bit, before I find some poor guy to follow that up.

I drag myself out of bed, my legs shaky as I make my way to the bathroom.

One look in the mirror and I can see evidence of what happened written all over my body.

There's a faint bruise on my hip where his fingers gripped me, marks on my thighs from his stubble, and there’s even a bite mark on my shoulder.

Luckily, nothing that can’t be covered up, but just seeing the marks makes a strange feeling wash over me.

He fucked me like he was claiming me. Like he owned me. I touch my lips, remembering the way his tongue swept through my mouth, the way he groaned when I kissed him back.

The sound he made when I wrapped my lips around his—

And the piercings.

I shake my head, raking my hands through my hair as I go to turn on the shower.

I need to stop this. I need to stop thinking about him, stop replaying every moment of last night in my head like some kind of masochist. It was one night.

One incredible, mind-blowing night that I'll never forget, but it's over.

Done. He's gone, and I'm never going to see him again.

Hanging on to the memory of it like a fantasy is only going to serve my love life in the future poorly.

It’s for the best that I won’t see him again, I remind myself firmly as I step into the shower. The hot water stings the tender places on my body, but it feels good too, like it's washing away the evidence of my temporary insanity.

Caesar Genovese is exactly the kind of man I don't need in my life.

Rich, arrogant, used to getting whatever he wants, whenever he wants it.

The way he showed up at my shop, demanding I fix his car, waving money around like it could solve any problem—that's not the kind of man I want to build a relationship with.

Hell, it’s not the kind of man I want to give any more access to me at all. One night is one thing, but to let him think he could keep coming back…

I bite my lip, remembering how hard he made me come. How his tongue felt between my legs. I reach down as the hot water cascades over me, sliding my fingers in between the tender folds of my pussy.

I’m too sore to slip them inside of me. It wouldn’t be enough anyway, not with the memory of his thick, pierced cock pounding into me while I screamed his name last night. But I roll my fingers over my clit, tilting my head against the tiled shower wall as I let the desire consume me again.

So I’m not going to see him again. That doesn’t mean I can’t use him to have a few more good orgasms from the memory of it.

It takes me a shamefully short amount of time to come thinking about him.

All it takes is the memory of his pierced cock in my mouth, his tongue sliding over my pussy, and the sight of his tattooed, muscled body looming over me as he slid all that thick, decorated length inside of me to make me cry out and shudder, fingers rubbing frantically between my legs as I come again, hard, to the thought of Caesar Genovese.

Okay now, Bridget, I tell myself as I come down from the orgasm, leaning back into the hot water as I reach for my shampoo and start to work it through my hair with more force than necessary. You had your fun. Now move on.

He might have been all muscles and tattoos, piercings and sexy nicknames in Italian—I think it was Italian, anyway—but he’s trouble I don’t need. And a distraction I don’t need, on top of that.

By the time I'm dressed and ready for work, I've almost convinced myself that I'm over it. That last night was just a blip, a moment of temporary insanity that I can file away as a good memory and move on from.

Almost.

I shove a microwaved breakfast burrito into my mouth, eating as I head out to the garage, thankful that I don’t have a commute, at least. I got to sleep in this morning because I only have to walk to the other side of the house and out the side door, and I’m at work.

The garage feels different when I walk into it.

I can't help but look at the bay where his Ferrari was parked, where he bent me over the hood and made me scream his name.

The concrete floor where I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth, where he made me feel things I didn't know I was capable of feeling.

Focus, Bridget. You have work to do.

But focusing proves to be easier said than done.

Every time I lean over a car, I remember the way he pressed against me from behind.

Every time I hear an engine, I think about the purr of his Ferrari.

Every time I use a tool, I remember the way his hands moved over my body with the same confidence and skill I use to fix engines and repair brakes.

By lunchtime, I'm a mess. Distracted, jumpy, and completely unable to concentrate on the simple oil change I'm supposed to be doing. When I drop my wrench for the third time, I finally give up and decide to take a break.

I need to talk to someone about this. Someone who can help me get my head on straight and stop obsessing over a man I barely know.

I head to the office to call my best friend.

Jenny picks up on the second ring. "Hey, girl. What's up?"

"Can you come over for lunch?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. "I need to talk to someone."

"Uh oh. That tone usually means boy trouble." I can hear the grin in her voice. "What did you do?"

"Just… come over. I'll make sandwiches."

"I'll be there in twenty."

Jenny Santos has been my best friend since high school.

She's a nurse at Miami General, which means she's seen enough of humanity's stupidity to not judge me for whatever dumb thing I've done. She was also there for me throughout my father’s illness, pulling whatever strings she could for me at the hospital, helping me at home when I was his caregiver whenever she could. Without her, I don’t know how I would have made it.

She knows why the shop is so important to me, why keeping it running is everything. Why what I have left of my father is so precious.

She shows up an hour later with a big bag of salt and vinegar chips and a knowing look. "Okay, spill. What happened?"

I lead her inside to the kitchen, getting her a Diet Coke out of the fridge as I get turkey, cheddar cheese, and all the rest of the fixings for sandwiches out of the fridge. I don’t even know where to start without sounding like an absolute idiot. “I… uh… had an encounter last night.”

Jenny snorts, sitting at one of the stools at the kitchen bar as she cracks open the Coke. “Like an alien encounter? Come on, Bridg. I know it’s a guy, so tell me everything. Don’t leave any details out.”

I swallow hard, imagining her face if I described Caesar’s dick to her. I bet she’s never seen anything like that either. Well—maybe at the hospital, but never so intimately.

“Come on,” Jenny prods, and I set down the butter knife I’m using to spread mayo onto bread.

“The kind where a ridiculously hot stranger shows up at my shop with car trouble and ends up fucking me senseless on the hood of his Ferrari."

Jenny chokes on her sip of Coke. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me." I slide her sandwich across the counter and lean against it, suddenly exhausted.

"I don't know what came over me. He was just…

God, Jenny, he was the most gorgeous man I've ever seen.

And arrogant as hell. And I should have told him to take his car and his money and get the hell out of my shop. "

"But you didn't." She smirks. “Don’t be shy, Bridg, I want to hear all about this.”

"No. I didn't." I take a bite of my sandwich, though I'm not really hungry. My stomach is churning, saying all of this out loud. "He offered me ten thousand dollars to fix a blown fuse. Ten thousand, Jenny. I couldn't turn that down."

"Holy shit. Ten thousand for a fuse?"