Left Drowning(59)

Only when the cab is a few miles from the dorm do I realize something. Something crucial. I cannot f*cking get into the dorm. It won’t reopen for another week. How could I be so dumb? Last year I heard someone in one of my classes bitching about getting locked out when he came back early because Matthews temporarily changes the locks or something, so I know that my key won’t work.

I direct the cabdriver back to downtown Madison while I do a fast search on my phone for a hotel. Fuck it. I’m going to stay in the nicest, most expensive hotel I can find for the next week. No homework or trekking across a frozen campus—instead, lots of bubble baths and room service. After filtering my search results by price, highest to lowest, I call the first one, the Madison Grand Hotel and Suites, and book a room. Technically, I book a suite.

Despite the rather generic name, the Madison Grand is indeed grand, and the staff is extremely gracious and professional as they check me into my room, asking about my day of travel, whether I’m hungry, whether there is anything else they can get me. Something to eat? Extra pillows? Towels? Dry-cleaning service? I’m sure they are thrilled to have a six-day suite booking at this dull time of year, and I laugh as I acknowledge to myself that I enjoy how they fuss over me. Hotel staff are not supposed to be substitutes for parental love, but I’ll take what I can get. I need pampering, and if I want to imagine their concern for my needs is the equivalent of parental caretaking, I will.

After my bags are delivered to my suite, I unpack almost everything. I hate living out of suitcases, and this suite is going to be my home for six days. The dark espresso furniture is modern and sleek, and the massive window overlooks the sparkling lights of the city.

In the bathroom there’s a whirlpool tub with shutters that unfold to overlook the bedroom, allowing for a view through the suite’s windows of the night sky. After a raid on the vanity basket of high-end products that will surely cost me plenty, I run a warm bath and soak for twenty minutes, trying not to think of anything but the sensation of the water. I shave everything that should be shaved, plus a little more, and wrap my hair in some weird mud product that is supposed to enhance the shine. Later, I rinse off and refill the bath with clean water and turn on the jets. Holy crap, this is awesome.

The swirling water dances over my skin, dances everywhere, and before I know it, my hand is between my legs. The chaos and emotion of my trip home weren’t exactly conducive to arousal, but clearly my body is needing to compensate for that down time. This tub could hold another five people, but I’d settle for just one more. I’m aroused enough, and I could probably make myself come, but I take away my hand after a few minutes. There is nothing particularly interesting about this for me right now.

It is not my touch that I want.

I know I shouldn’t fantasize about Chris, but I can’t help it. Giving in to my ache, my fingers move between my legs once again. My brain starts running a movie reel of what Chris and I could do together, how I would touch him, how he would sound and move. I brace my foot against the side of the tub as I shove a finger inside myself. Flashbacks of Chris doing this to me heighten the feeling, and I move faster. It’s easy to conjure up exactly what he did to me against the door to my room, exactly how he affected me. I remember his sound, his touch, and every graphic, perfect word that he said to me. I think about his touch between my legs, how he got me so totally wet, how I could feel his cock press against me when he held me tight …

I stop my hand. God, what is wrong with me? I’m momentarily surprised that I’m thinking in such raw, graphic terms, but have to admit that even though I’ve never said the word out loud, it suddenly seems exactly right. I remember the way Chris dirty talked his way through making me come so hard in my room and realize that side of him seems to have rubbed off on me. Maybe it’s no surprise I’m thinking with such X-rated abandon now.

Fuck. Fuck!

I take my hand away in irritation. I don’t want to come by myself. It’s not enough anymore. The fact is that I am a senior in college, and I want to have sex. To be more accurate, I want to get f*cked until I can’t see straight. Classy, I think. But that’s what I want. Unfortunately for me, that is not going to happen right now.

I stand up and check the vanity basket again to see what other products I can smear on myself. The foot scrub could be appealing, except that I hate the smell of fake raspberries, so I investigate further. There is, of all things, a vibrator in a discreet sealed box nestled in with the bath salts. I don’t pick it up—I’m not after that kind of touch, either. The pack of condoms and lube in there seem to be laughing at me. I scowl at them, hurl both through the open shutters, and watch them land them on the bed. Then I grab a nice innocent jar of salt scrub. This is not going anywhere erotic.

Later, after I’ve dried my hair and thrown on comfy black leggings and a snug camisole tank top, I order a huge dinner. There is no point in getting dressed up, and I’m happy to be wearing clothes I can stretch in. My muscles still feel limber because I was able to get a temporary membership to a gym back home, so all of my hard work wasn’t undone over break. As I reach for my toes, I am happy to notice that my flexibility continues to get better every week. By the time my food arrives, I am limber for no good reason.

I dim the lights, take the first of my dishes, fettuccine Alfredo, to the big armchair and stare out at Madison while I pick at my food. Now that I have three extraordinarily fattening entrees in the room, I’m not hungry. What I am is worked up and cranky and sexually frustrated. I sigh at the picturesque view out the window. The downtown city lights shine brightly, particularly the capitol building, which is encased in a luminescent white glow.