He’s gone when I wake up the next morning.
I didn’t expect him to stay. Hell, I didn’t want him to stay. But I don’t recall him leaving. All I remember is coming so hard I nearly blacked out, all under his touch. A touch I never expected to feel, despite my dreams to the contrary.
For an instant, I wonder if the whole thing was a dream. There’s no way I let Daniel Santiago fuck me, right? And there’s no way he would live up to my fantasies. Exceed them, even.
But my body can’t hide the truth. Every inch of me hurts in a good way—a way I haven’t felt in years. I haven’t dated or been in a relationship or even had a casual hookup since college, and I graduated four years ago. This was long, long overdue, even if it was with the last person I expected.
The proof of our night is littered across my hotel room floor: my shoes, my dress, my lingerie, the empty condom wrapper. I might be mortified about it all if he hadn’t worked me over so well and given me what was undeniably the hottest night of my life. He took me hard, despite saying he’d go easy on me—at first. I’m going to feel this for at least a week.
Knowing I’d likely be hungover after the holiday party, I preemptively took today off. My train back to Baltimore doesn’t leave until this afternoon, but I don’t know how I’ll walk the six blocks to Penn Station or how I’ll sit comfortably on a train for three hours. My inner thighs are sore, and just perching on the edge of the bed makes me wince. I’m no doubt bruised to high heaven down there, but fuck, it was worth it.
Relishing in the memory doesn’t stop my stomach from twisting into knots though, because I have no idea how to handle things with him now. What’s the protocol for speaking with a coworker one fucked on a slightly drunk and angry whim? Is there a published source of rules I can reference before our next daily Zoom meeting?
For the time being, I’m resolved to ignoring it until I’m forced to bring it up again, while simultaneously praying I never have to.
I eventually drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I ignore my reflection in the mirror as I flip on the light, uninterested in what I look like right now. No, I’d rather imagine myself in the way I hope Daniel saw me last night—sexy enough to take to bed and edge until I begged for release.
I want to be the Selene of yesterday for a little longer. Because as soon as I leave this hotel room, it’s all over. And I don’t want this feeling to disappear just yet.
I’m drying off when my phone buzzes on the bedside table.
Wrapping a towel around my body and grabbing another for my hair, I step out of the bathroom and check the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, putting the call on speaker so I can get dressed.
“Good, you’re alive,” Nikki greets. Her scratchy voice is evidence that her night didn’t end nearly as early as mine. “Hang on, let me get the girls in on this.”
A minute later, Zoe and Ella have joined us, also sounding a little worse for wear.
“I am so viciously hungover, it’s not even funny,” Nikki announces. “Which one of you wants to come put me out of my misery?”
“Sorry, babe, but I’m not coming all the way out to Brooklyn,” Zoe says. “Ella, honey? How ya doing?”
Ella’s only response is a whimper and the sound of her chugging water.
“Valid,” Nikki says. “Okay, let’s get down to it: Selene, you abandoned us last night. How could you?”
I’m fighting with my bra clasp when the words register. Panicking, I freeze. There is absolutely no chance I’ll ever tell them what happened between Daniel and me. I’ll never live down the shame of it, because how does one go from declaring their hatred for a person to fucking them in a matter of hours?
I guess the typical answer would be they don’t, but apparently, I missed that memo.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I wasn’t feeling too hot after all the drinks and fried foods, so I got an Uber back to my hotel. I texted you.”
Ella lets out a breath like she’s finally coming up for air. “We still missed you.”
“We went out after,” Zoe adds. “When the party finally shut down, a bunch of us went to a bar nearby.”
“Thus, the vicious hangover,” Nikki groans. “Be glad you didn’t go. You’d be suffering like the rest of us right now.”
I relax a little as they recount their night out, relieved they didn’t notice that I left with Daniel. As long as I don’t accidentally spill something incriminating, no one ever has to know. I can’t imagine Daniel will say anything either, especially if he values his job.
This was a one-time thing, and now we can go back to the status quo of hate. Just as it should be.
By the next morning, I’m feeling remarkably better. But there’s no way I can get on my Peloton.
“Why are you just staring at it?” Carly asks from her stationary bike next to mine. She pats the empty seat. “Come on, hop on the horse.”
On Saturdays, we force ourselves to work out together in the makeshift gym we’ve set up in the corner of our living room. Just like with the Naiad girls, I didn’t tell her what happened Thursday night—and I’m not sure I ever will, considering she also knows how much I hate Daniel. So I can’t tell her that my pussy is so fucking sore that the mere idea of getting on this tiny, hard bike seat makes me want to cringe.
“I don’t know if I can,” I admit. It’s the truth, but I follow it up with a lie. “I wore heels to the party, and it really messed up my hip.”
I do have a history of hip injuries, so this is an excuse she should buy. The first, during my freshman year of college, ended my potential dance career early, and she was witness to the second one during senior year, when a game of flag football turned physical after I taunted a drunk frat boy about his lack of talent. She’s well aware that I have my good days and bad ones, though in the past few months, I haven’t had issues.
“You wore the Louboutin stilettos, didn’t you?” she accuses with a grin. “Girl, I know those shoes are sexy as hell, but they’re going to kill you one day.”
She’s right about that. And it’s exactly why I didn’t wear them to the party. My legs would have looked even better thrown over Daniel’s shoulders with them on, but the way he kissed up my calves as he undid the straps of the block heels was still sexy as hell.
“I know, I know,” I reply, backing away from the bike and its menacing seat. Even on days when I’m not nursing sore parts, it does a number on the downstairs. “I’m just gonna do a yoga class and hope I can make this feel better.”
“Wow, willingly letting me get ahead in the cycling challenge,” she teases. “You really must be in pain.”
Part of me wants to tell her what happened, but a stronger part wants to keep this my little secret. It’s one I plan to relive later when I’m in bed with no one but the memory of Daniel, just like I did last night.
That might be even more embarrassing to admit—that I touched myself while fantasizing about him and will absolutely do it again. I need to get him out of my system, because one night together really shouldn’t have reduced me to this. Come Monday morning, I have to be over it. I will be.
I can’t let Daniel Santiago get the best of me.
