He grunted softly in reply and his hand relaxed, allowing her to slip away. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand as her bare feet hit the carpet, noting that it was just after four in the morning. She was naked, so she plucked his sweatshirt from the floor and wrapped it around herself, zipping it up, as she padded into the bathroom, the tile cold against the bottoms of her feet.
She shut the door and the silence in the room was too much to handle, so she flicked on the water for noise. She used the toilet, cleaning up the remnants of their night together as she did so before she flushed. She leaned against the counter and studied herself in the mirror.
The sensitive flesh between her legs throbbed dully with soreness, the muscles there not used to stretching or conforming around something the way they had a few hours before. It reminded her of the pain she'd felt days after her attack, a terrible pain that, even after it left her body physically, still ghosted through her for weeks, months, afterward. She fought back those memories as they tried to claw their way to the surface of her mind, trying to focus on her more recent experience that resulted in similar feelings but was actually pleasant. She thought of warm, gentle hands on her body, full, sweet lips against hers, and the waves of pleasure, beautiful, amazing pleasure, that coursed through her nonstop for the better part of an hour. She had climaxed three times, each one better than the last, and it had been because of him, the man sleeping in her bed right now. She thought about his mouth on her flesh, the magical things he'd done with his tongue, and the delicious feeling of being filled to the brim with him. His length and his thickness had filled her as no one had ever done before, moving inside her, tapping some sort of hidden well deep within her because she'd never known her body was capable of becoming that aroused, that excited at his touch, that consumed with pleasure. She felt a little smile tug at the corners of her lips, still a little swollen from their passion, as her flesh tingled and twitched. He might have just created a monster; a sensual, hungry, aching, insatiable little monster.
She let out a shaky, involuntary sigh and opened her eyes, surprised to see herself touching one hand to her lips while the other had fallen between her thighs. Her chocolate brown eyes were bright and her cheeks were suddenly flushed. She'd been afraid, for just a moment before sleep had claimed her when they were done, that she'd made a horrible mistake, that she'd wake up and hate herself, and worse, him, but hours later, in the darkness of the early morning…she smiled.
Perhaps her reasons for asking Heath to come to her room had not been completely without agenda. Yesterday had been a day from hell. Between the violence she'd suffered at the hands of the women at the gate to her terrible, horrible secret being revealed to everyone, her mental state had been fragile and damaged. Once she'd made it back to her hotel room, she'd literally hidden under the covers and sobbed uncontrollably, her body wracking as she had screamed her anger and anguish into the pillows. She wanted to call someone, her family; in fact she had reached for the phone, but she drew her hand back as reason sat coolly upon her. There was no need to alarm her parents and she knew that if she called them in this state with that news, it would only result in just that—panic. She wanted to call Bunz, but she felt that all she'd been doing lately was unburdening herself on her best friend. So, instead, she'd wrapped herself in the comforter and watched TV, silent and shaking and crying, until the Rileys had knocked on her door.
She had apologized for her behavior, for storming out, and begged for privacy. She could hardly look at Heath—he still wore the expression of rage she'd seen when he'd stormed out of the cage and charged at the commentator booth. The look terrified her, but now, in addition, he looked terribly concerned for her. Connor looked abashed, like he wanted to say something to comfort her but didn't know how. Lana looked shocked, and John just looked sad. Drew looked at each one of their faces, and it was too much.
They left her alone without any questions, and she'd gone back to bed.
She ordered room service for herself, paying with it with her own money because she didn't want anyone to feel burdened by her. She had lain in bed some more, had thought some more, had cried some more. She was beyond humiliated and ashamed, but now rage was beginning to stir in her gut as well. How had they found out about her—and who had told? Who could do something so heartless and cruel?
After a while, she'd begun to feel lonely, and there was only one person that could solve that. She genuinely craved physical contact with Heath, had hungered for it, in fact. She wanted to be intimate with him in the ways they were familiar with by now. It was only until he had been lying next to her on her bed that she'd felt a stronger desire for something more. She might have been playing at readiness the night before, but now she was sure—she wanted him that way; needed him that way. And now that she had allowed it, she was glad she did. He'd taken her mind completely off the awful situation, forcing her to concentrate only on him and their bodies and the way they were using their bodies to bring each other pleasure. Everything else had been blocked out of her mind during their time together—all she could focus on was him.