I hated the feel of the silky sheets on my naked skin, hated the feel of Lon’s rough leg on mine even more. I peeled my body away from his hot, moist skin and sat up, wrapping a sheet over my body. He snored so loudly, the pillowcase quivered with each rise and fall of his chest. My dress and undergarments lay on the floor beside the bed. I’d died a little inside each time Lon removed a piece of clothing. I cringed, remembering the heaviness of his hands, fumbling to unfasten a button, only to resort to ripping it in eager frustration. I had numbed the pain with champagne. Too much champagne. And now my head spun. I closed the bathroom door and vomited into the toilet, purging the contents of my stomach and the memory of last night. I felt a sudden urge to bathe, to wash every breath, every fingerprint of Lon’s from my body. I turned on the faucet and watched as the water fell like raindrops from the steel showerhead, ricocheting off the marble tiles. I’d polished hundreds of showers, maybe even this one, in suites at the hotel, scrubbing the grout with precision.
What do You think about Blackberry Winter: A Novel?
