“Alrighty, well that’s not embarrassing at all,” I whisper to myself.
Rolling out of bed, I hurry toward the hole in the ground bathroom that has a basin and pitcher of water on a little table. A sink of sorts.
There isn’t any running water here and I’m seriously missing the comforts of home right now, especially as I clean myself with just a small rag that’s next to the bathroom hole.
Inhaling a deep breath, I try really, really hard to keep my shit together. It doesn’t work. After I’ve washed my hands, I make my way back into the bedroom and with only one glance at the messy bed, my bottom lip starts to tremble.
Finding my nightgown, I slip it on before I untie and roll down my stockings. With a heavy sigh, I walk back to the bed and slip between the sheets. Tugging the comforter up to my chin, I wonder why on earth I just did that.
I’ve never been that girl before, but I’ve also never felt that way before either. Being with him, feeling his touch on my skin, his lips on my body, it filled me with a need, a desire, that I’ve never experienced before.
I thought my blood was going to boil inside of my body and out of my skin. It was intense and the only thing that made it bearable was him being inside of my body. Then when I came, it was hard and glorious, and better than anything I’ve ever felt before.
If this isn’t some otherworldly, gods thing, then I don’t know what it is because the man is an asshole. Rolling to my side, I stare at the closed nightstand drawer where the leather-bound journal resides.
The journal that shows him in a completely different light. The journal where his wife describes him as kind and loving. The journal that talks about the devoted man and father. That was not the man who just fucked me like I’ve never been fucked before and walked away without a word.
Asshole.
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath then let it out with a groan. I am such an idiot. It’s like the night I lost my virginity all over again. I told myself I would never be this stupid, this gullible again, that I would never lose myself with a man.
But I’m a liar.
A full-blown liar, because I just did it all over again and I feel worse than I did twenty minutes after leaving the prom early to go up to a hotel room. My date had his parents get it for the night, for him and his friends.
I thought that we would be spending a romantic evening together, boy was I wrong, really wrong. He one-pump chumped me, slapped my ass and told me it was good for him, and walked out, leaving me alone with my poufy dress around my waist.
It was awful.
I thought I couldn’t ever feel that low again.
I was wrong.
Having a man that you’re attracted to, the only one in this place that you kind of trust, a man that you don’t have a choice but to trust. A man that makes your entire body sing, reject you seconds after sex, that’s depressing and it makes me feel lower than dirt. Especially since I already feel like I’m some kind of homewrecker even though his wife is gone.
I spend another night not sleeping. I don’t cry this go around. Instead, I just stare at the wall. I’m not sure if I’m upset because he’s rejected me, because I feel as though I’ve somehow betrayed his marriage, or if I’m the most upset for allowing myself to feel this way at all.
At the end of the day, I did all of this to myself and I can’t blame him, even though I really want to. With a heavy sigh, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling as the sun begins to rise and fills my room with some light.
My stomach growls, and I remember that I didn’t get any freaking dinner last night. I should have demanded that Colt have the leftovers brought up before I let him lay a finger on me. I haven’t really eaten much in days and I’m hungry as hell.
I’m not sure if I care that corsets are in style, or that they make my body look curvier than it ever has, sexier too, wearing them is fucking miserable. The rest of the clothes are okay, but that corset is misery, along with the absence of modern conveniences. This place kind of sucks and I’m pretty ready to go back home.
The door opens and I don’t even bother tipping my head to look at who has entered. I know it isn’t Colt. Only one person waltzes into this room as if she owns the place and that’s Martha. I hear her set, what I assume, is the large wash bucket down with a grunt, and only then do I slowly sit up.
I was right. It’s her. I let out a sigh and throw my legs over the side of the bed. “Does everyone usually bathe every day?” I ask, remembering how in my history books, I’d read that people bathed maybe once a week.
“Not typically, but Mr. James called to have a bath prepared for you,” she says, keeping her voice low. “Miss Florence has requested your presence at breakfast, so we must hurry. The boys are coming up with water.”
I nod, my gaze flicking from her to the tub, then to my feet as they dangle above the warm wooden floor. I hate the way I feel. I wish that I was a girl who could put on a brave face, who could not
