As he steps closer to the bed I notice he’s got a washcloth in his hand. Hold up. Is he?
He is.
“Oh, my God.” I slap my hands over my face and attempt to snap my knees together as he lowers the cloth to my bare pussy. It’s warm and wet—and oh, Jesus, so am I—and this is really, really embarrassing. Jennings doesn’t seems to have any qualms about cleaning me up though, pressing my knee outward with his other hand to widen my legs as I squeak beneath my hands.
“You said you were too tired to get up.”
“This is so dirty.”
“This is dirty?” There’s laughter in his voice. “You coming all over my hand was dirty. Your ass bent over the bed was dirty. Shagging you until you’re too tired to walk was dirty. This isn’t dirty. This is revering your pussy.”
I peek at him between my fingers. “Revering? Really?”
The pressure of his hand through the washcloth increases. He drags it across the inside of one thigh then the other. My skin tingles in its wake as he dips to my core and finishes his task. I’m turned on again and more than a little flustered. No one has ever done more than hand me a paper towel before.
“Like a religious experience, love.”
“With my pussy?”
“I hold your pussy in the highest of esteem,” he says with a straight face.
I groan and he laughs.
This guy is so much trouble.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Violet
The next two days fly by in a blur. I’m floating on the high of the best date—and the best sex—I’ve ever had. There’s a spring in my step, a smile on my face and hope in my bruised heart.
I’m nailing the tour guide gig thing and nailing Jennings at the same time. In fact, I think I’m going to update my résumé and add multitasking under my useful skills.
In Williamsburg, while the group happily watches blacksmiths forge iron into tools the same way they would have during days gone by, Jennings pulls me around the corner and kisses me until I’m breathless.
In Jamestown, as the group takes a tour of a recreation of the three ships that brought America’s first English colonists to Virginia in 1607, Jennings drags me into an alcove past the ticket office, slips one hand under my skirt and makes me come, his other hand clamped firmly over my mouth the moment before I would have given us away.
In Richmond—oh, Richmond. Our stop in Richmond is to visit St. John’s Church, the spot where the American Revolution was ignited when Patrick Henry made the famous “Give me liberty or give me death” speech. While the group enjoys a guided tour of the church and sits in the original pews—pews George Washington and Thomas Jefferson themselves might well have sat in—Jennings and I are in the bathroom having sex.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to think of Richmond without blushing.
We drive through the Shenandoah National Park and the Blue Ridge Mountains on our way to Gettysburg. The views are spectacular and the time spent sitting next to Jennings chatting about nothing and everything is—well, it is everything.
At one stop we find an arcade and I kick his butt in ski-ball. At another he takes me to dinner at an IHOP and I torture him by moaning as I stuff pancakes into my mouth, his eyes darkening as I try not to laugh with my mouth full.
We exchange stories from childhood, mine carefully edited not to include any mention of Daisy. I ask him questions about living in London and make him recite words I find especially attractive in his accent.
He asks me about my goals. I’ve never been with a man so interested in what I want out of my future. He even offered to look over my résumé—he mentioned he does some of the hiring at his company and would be happy to look over my résumé and give me some pointers. Only he called it a CV, so I’d no idea what he was referring to at first. Based on the conversation we were having at the time I sorta got that he wasn’t offering me a sexual favor, but it still took me a moment to catch on.
I deferred the offer, obviously. Even if I could have quickly changed my name to Daisy’s, I’d have had to add Sutton Travel on there somewhere and I’ve been avoiding any concrete answers about how long I’ve been doing this tour guide gig.
The point is that he cared enough to offer.
But still, I haven’t told him. That my name is Violet, not Daisy. I hardly remember it most of the time, the lie. I feel more myself with him than I’ve felt in a long, long time.
Somehow I’ve managed to justify it in my own head. It’s not even that odd to me that the guests all call me Daisy. I’ve heard the name my entire life. I’ve been called Daisy accidentally more times than I can count. In school, with friends, by my own parents. It’s second nature to respond to it as if it were my own name. The only person who really matters is Jennings, and most of the time he calls me ‘love.’ In front of the other guests he calls me Daisy. Or Miss Hayden. But when it’s just us it’s ‘love.’ And I convince myself that it’s a small technicality—as if my actual real name is insignificant. It’s me he’s spending time with, not Daisy.