Rebound, Boundless Series, Book 1

Chapter Twelve

When I entered my dark, quiet little place, I threw my heels in the corner. After taking off my dress, I hugged it to my chest and laid it on the small round table which served as my dining table and desk.

I walked to my charger on my nightstand and plugged in my cell phone. The clock on my nightstand reported that I had three hours to get all my washing and prep work done before I needed to go to bed. However, all I could do was go to my twin-sized bed and lie down on my stomach, clutching my pillow tightly to simulate the firmness of his body. Yet, it didn't smell like him or feel like him, and it couldn't caress me back.

I missed him.

How could I miss someone who before yesterday never seemed like a possibility?

I rose to shower and wash my hair. I found some waterproof tape to put on the gauze so the stitches wouldn't get wet. Every move I made, I thought of him. I wondered what he was doing, hoping he thought of me and was planning our reunion. Mostly, I wondered what our next encounter would be like.

Was it just sex?

If so, could I just be with him sexually and not give him my heart?

After showering, I dressed in sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and slipped on my fuzzy moccasins. I gathered all my dirty clothes and linens, detergent, a book, and trekked down to the basement laundry room. Once I loaded two coin-operated washers, I settled into the hard plastic chair to read.

As I tried to read the words in the romance book I had borrowed from the library, my concentration fizzled. I had finally experienced the erotic moments I had been reading. All I could think about was his touch, the things he did to make my body quake, the kisses that took my breath away. I tried to memorize the things I did to bring him pleasure.

If I ever had the chance to be with him again, I wanted to pull them out of my bag of tricks.

Who am I kidding?

My only bag of tricks was from books, not from personal experience. Books fueled my imagination. The things I did to Dashing were my fantasies brought to life.

The buzzer from the washing machines snapped me out of my thoughts, and I put the clothes in the dryers. I didn't even bother to read the high steam romance, knowing I lacked the mental focus.

My insecurities crept into my mind. I worried he would think less of me because I slept with him so soon after meeting. I used crass language, telling him he could 'fuck me.' I'd never been so irresponsible, so forward, or so sexually charged in my life. Not even when I danced burlesque was I that bold. There had always been a timidity around men. And it showed in my performances. My colleagues had claimed my bashful portrayal drew men to me.

Mortification invaded my mind.

He's my doctor. He's a member of the gym.

I panicked when I thought our encounter could mess with my job. I needed Duration more than they needed me.

"What the fuck did I do?" I cried out, then groaned.

I suppressed the momentary grip of fear. There wasn't much I could do. It may have been a one-time thing. If our schedules ever coincided, I'd only have to deal with him at the gym.

He also stated he was traveling on Thursday, giving up by claiming to check his schedule and get back to me. I needed to stop thinking about any future with him.

It wouldn't have mattered if he found time for us to spend time together. We came from different worlds. He was a successful doctor with two cars, two homes, and the lord only knew the wealth he had. His apartment alone looked like it was out of a design magazine, undoubtedly costing him millions to buy, renovate, and decorate.

I could barely move around my own apartment without bumping into miniature furniture. I lived paycheck to paycheck. With immense debt, I was considerably broke and a liability to anyone I dated.

What the hell did I have to offer him?

One word I kept coming back to—sex.

I had great sex to offer him. And that's what I wanted from him too.

But a deeper part of me, the lonely side of me, wanted more. It wasn't ever just about sex for me. It was about the possibility of having a compatible life partner.

On paper, he fit the profile of the type of man I wanted. The looks, height, and body were a given, but the bonus was his gentle, loving, passionate, and gentlemanly nature. However, I didn't know enough about him. Rather, I didn't experience enough of us together with our clothes on to know if we were a suitable match.

How could we make a relationship work when sex came first?

We rushed this, and I couldn't conceive of how to rewind and take sex out of the equation.

A huge headache started swelling and clouding my thoughts. I shook my head and made a decision: I was not going to make more of this "event" until I confirmed his intentions. Only time would tell if we would spend time together. Finally, I resolved I wouldn't worry about our one-night-stand. And I wouldn't push him away either. Dr. Dashing would be mine for as long as he would have me.