Page 230 of The Art of Almost Losing It
One of Gran’s boy toys dances on me and grabs my top. I yelp.
Several of the bachelor-party guys try to grab me, trying to get me to dance with them, drink with them. Pushing away from them, I try to keep to the periphery of the crowd.
There has to be a bathroom in here, right? Why don’t they ever serve food at clubs?
And is Gran seriously having guys younger than me after her?
Gran sees me in the crowd and waves me to the dance floor.
Hell freaking no.
I look around, trying to find an exit.
And for a second, in the crowd, I think I see—Is that Kraig?My heart races. My head pounds. I peer through the smoke and gyrating bodies. But the man disappears.
Two guys in shirts unbuttoned all the way down to their belly buttons surround me, gyrating.
“No, thank you. I have terrible rhythm, and I have a boyfriend.” Hopefully still.
Colette’s just talking crap, right? This isn’t like a guilt bachelorette party so that he can not feel bad when he comes to his senses and dumps me later, is it?
Also—wasthat Kraig? He couldn’t have followed me here.
I’m tired. I need real food. I’m ordering room service.
“I’m heading out,” I tell Greta. She nods imperceptibly then goes back to flirting with the older rich guy who seems to really like all the attention from my friends.
The club is apparently a secret club at one of the hotel’s properties, and I slip back down into the tunnel that connects it to the hotel so that you don’t have to ruin your shoes.
If I pay for a hotel room, I do want to use it.
“We’re so not making the spa day in”—I check my phone—“four hours.”
There’s a missed call from Graham. Actually, there are several. I can’t get reception in the tunnel, however. I’m worried. Did something happen? Did they find another video?
I wave to the concierge then rush up to the room.
Graham’s not answering his phone.
As I’m in the room fumbling around for the light switch, someone grabs me.
For one horrible second, I think it’s Kraig.
“You think I wasn’t going to find out?” Graham’s deep voice is muffled by the plush carpets in the large room. His hand’s on my neck. Then his large hands push my dress up. Fingers inside me as I gasp.
I feel him enter me, thrusting up into me.
“You think”—thrust—“that you…”
I grunt as he thrusts into me again.
“That you can just come here…”
I rock back to take more of him.
“And act like that”—he rams into me again—“on my dime.”
His hand comes down to the low neckline of my dress. I suck in a breath.
