The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(20)

Only now could she begin to admit how taxing that selflessness had been. She’d wanted to give back as good as she got, but what she got was so perfectly executed that she had no idea how to return it in equal measure, and that kept it from being as good as it should have been. She’d worried that her moans were too loud, her movements too awkward, her caresses too tentative, too rough, not in the right place. What if she was taking too long or her breath was bad or her thighs were jiggling? What if she farted?

All that stress.

It would be so different with Panda, so easy. He’d only be out for himself. And who cared what she did or what he thought about it? She could respond or not respond, however she felt. She wouldn’t need to worry about how her words, her actions, her moans—or lack of them—affected him.

The idea of simply taking what she wanted from a man who expected nothing except access to a female body tantalized her. All through high school and college, she’d fantasized about the wild men she sometimes encountered: the son of a wealthy socialite who’d supplemented his income dealing drugs, the college basketball player with the mile-wide grin who’d cheated on his exams, the guys with the cocky struts and cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths, the ones who drove too fast, drank too much, worked their bodies instead of their brains. And now Panda.

How would he react if she walked out naked? She couldn’t imagine that he’d turn away.

This trip was nearly over. She understood that, even if he hadn’t spelled out the exact timetable. Any day now, he’d be dumping her. Would she ever have a better chance for free, dirty, uncommitted sex? This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Was she going to let it pass her by?

Two weeks ago, she was engaged to another man—a man she still loved in so many ways. Jumping into bed with Panda would be unforgivable.

Still, the idea wasn’t altogether repellent.

She felt an irrational urge to talk this over with Ted. He was always clearheaded, and she wasn’t clear about anything right now.

Even as she dried off, she was still thinking about it. She knew what she wanted. Didn’t know what she wanted. Finally she decided on a coward’s compromise. She wrapped herself in the threadbare towel, opened the bathroom door, and said, “Don’t look.”

He looked. Not even being subtle about it but studying her in a way that made her skin hot. Long seconds passed before he spoke. “Are you sure about this?” No games. Straight to the point. Pure Panda.

“No.”

“You must be fairly sure.”

“I’m not.”

He took more time thinking it over than she’d expected. Finally he rose from the bed and jerked his T-shirt over his head. “I need a shower. If you’re still wearing that towel when I come out, lose it.”

She didn’t like this. Not the fact that he intended to shower—she knew exactly how grimy they were from their long bike ride—but she didn’t like having more time to think than she wanted. Was this the best way to move on from Ted or the worst?

The bathroom door banged shut. He’d left his phone behind, proof that he’d wiped it out again. She made a call. “Meg …”

“Luce? Honey, are you all right?”

“I’m … fine.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because …” Lucy paused. “Would I be … like … a total skank if I slept with another guy now? Like in about ten minutes?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Do you like him?”

“Kind of. He’s no Ted Beaudine, but …”

“Then you should definitely sleep with him.”

“I want to, but …”

“Be a skank, Luce. It’ll be good for you.”

“I guess if I’d seriously wanted to be talked out of this, I’d have called somebody else.”

“That tells you a lot, then.”

“You’re right.” The water shut off in the bathroom. Panda had taken the fastest shower on record. “I have to go,” she said in a rush. “I’ll call when I can. Love you.” She hung up.

The bathroom door opened. Now there were two of them wrapped in threadbare towels, Panda’s draped so low she could see the entire plane of his stomach … and the bulge beneath.

He held his discarded clothes in one hand, his hair a long wet tangle, his lips thinned in something approaching a scowl. Water beaded on his chest and on his bare legs, which were—no surprise—free of any disfiguring scars. What was surprising, considering the lack of sunlight they received, was how tan they were. Even more surprising was how foul his mood seemed to be for a man about to get lucky.

He cocked his head in the general direction of her towel.

“I’m still thinking,” she said.

“No, you’re not. You made up your mind.” He yanked his wallet from his jeans pocket, flipped it open, and pulled out a condom. “I only have one of these, so you’d better be good.”

“Might be. Might not be,” she said. “It depends on my mood.” Her words exhilarated her.

He dropped his clothes, walked over to her, and dipped his index finger into the fabric between her breasts. With a single tug, the towel fell to the carpet. “Time to taste the forbidden fruit,” he said in a barely audible rasp.