Anthony : (Foxy's Rent-A-Date) by Brown Nina

Author:Brown, Nina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2025-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter thirteen

After Shocks

Paige

I don’t bother changing, just grab my clothes from the locker, ball them up under my arm and take the elevator up alone. My pulse is still racing from the sauna, though I can’t tell if it’s the heat, the almost sex, or the truth I finally let out of my mouth. Probably all three. The hotel carpet snuffs out my footsteps, but I hear my own blood in my ears like an offbeat drum, a reminder that everything is different now and also exactly the same.

In the room, the air is frigid and white-noise silent, like the universe is daring me to fill it with the sound of my own freak-out. The only movement is the digital clock by the bed, counting time I’m not sure I want to pass. I don’t even glance at the closed door, where Anthony is probably still a hundred degrees of naked and maybe, hopefully, too stunned to do anything except breathe. I make a beeline for the bathroom, lock the door, and tear the robe off like it’s on fire.

For a second, I nearly catch my reflection in the mirror, but I dodge it, turning instead to the shower. I crank the hot water until the pipes rattle with protest, and the tile starts to fog. The room fills with steam almost instantly, an encore performance of the sauna, only now it’s private, no witnesses, no Anthony, just me and my newly unboxed embarrassment.

The shower should be a sanctuary, but I can’t keep my hands from shaking, even under the pounding water. Under the spray, my skin is lava. I brace both hands against the wall, let my head hang, and watch the water trace its way down the slope of my arms, over my chest, and away. The line of heat and sensation follows the same route Anthony’s hands took not five minutes ago.

It should be mortifying, the way my body remembers him, how every nerve still shivers from the memory of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the blunt pressure of his cock between my legs. Instead, it’s electric, almost addictive, and I hate myself for that. Every pore in my skin still tingles from his touch. Everywhere he put his hands, everywhere I wanted him to touch.

I scrub at my body like I’m prepping for surgery. Hard, methodical, over and over, until my skin blooms pink and the scent of whatever spa lotion they use is erased by plain hotel soap. Like I can suds away the feeling of straddling him, naked, in a cedar coffin hot enough to boil an egg.

But it doesn’t work.

My body is still tuned to him, the pulse in my chest slow but forceful. Even my own hands don’t feel like mine. Every time my hand passes over a part of myself he touched, a shoulder, waist, breast, that embarrassing little patch of perpetually dry skin just below my hip, I flinch. Not because it hurts, but because I want him there again, and I don’t know what to do with that kind of honesty.

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