New Release Review! DISASTER GIRL by Michelle Dayton

Like a lot of other people who often have sex without an emotional connection to one’s partner, I usually dislike all the stuff that comes after orgasm. The awkward cuddling and excusing myself to pee so I don’t get a UTI and the finding a nice way (or a blunt way) to explain that a sleepover isn’t happening. I don’t like sharing a bed, and I don’t like waking up with a stranger.

I should have known that everything with Max would be different.

The orgasm left me almost catatonic for a few minutes. I was vaguely aware of Max leaving the room to get rid of the condom, and I felt the mattress dip when he got back in bed. My body felt deliciously banged around, and my brain was mushy enough that I was almost dozing. I didn’t even squeak in protest when I felt Max’s fingers caress my face.

I did, however, shriek in pain when he yanked out one of my eyelash extensions. “Ow!” I smacked his arm as hard as I could. “What is wrong with you?”

He ignored my outburst, examining the eyelash between his fingers with fascination. “Look at this beast. It’s enormous. Stop your whining—they’re not real, right? How much could it hurt?”

In another bed, with another man, I probably would lie and say they were my natural lashes. But with Max, the filter between brain and mouth was just never where it was supposed to be. “It hurts a ton, you ass,” I snapped. “They’re stuck on with medical-grade glue. It hurts ten times more for you to pull out one of those than if you pull out a normal lash.”

Finally, he looked sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” A telltale flush on his neck. “I’ve just looked at your eyes so much lately. I’ve been curious. Why do you get fake eyelashes?”

What a dumb question. “Because I’m vain, you imbecile.” I was also a strawberry blonde, which meant my own lashes needed a heavy coat of mascara to be visible. With the extensions, I woke up already looking like my eyes were done for the day and without any smudging. A solid investment, in my book.

He rolled the lash between his fingers. “It feels like a pine needle.”

I started laughing. This was the oddest post-coital conversation. “You might be the strangest person I’ve ever had sex with.”

He looked between the lash and my face, laughing along with me. “Ditto.”

He blew the lash away very deliberately. Had he made a wish? Did wishes made on false lashes count? “Lie on your stomach,” he said.

Curious, I obeyed, curling my toes over the end of the mattress. Max pulled the sheet down, exposing my bare back. “You have a tramp stamp.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“You already knew that from the countdown picture on the Sex Ghost website.” I tried to yank the sheet back up to cover the tattoo at the base of my spine, but he wouldn’t let me.

“When did you get it?” he asked, dancing his fingers over the decorated skin.

I snorted. “When every girl gets a tramp stamp. I was eighteen.”

“Why did you choose an anchor?”

Normally, I deflected when someone asked this question. I’d say, “I just liked the design” or “I have a pirate fetish” or “I dream of sailing around the world someday.” I always found it kind of funny-sad that no one ever looked at me skeptically and commented that none of my explanations sounded like me.

Maybe that was why I didn’t lie to Max. If he hadn’t been skeptical, I would have been so disappointed. Which would have been idiotic since I’d known him for a matter of weeks.

Daniel and Kat were the only two people to whom I’d tried to explain why I’d chosen that particular image. Daniel had immediately co-opted the meaning, which I didn’t appreciate. Kat didn’t really understand, but that was my fault because my explanation to her was incomplete.

So I didn’t lie to Max. I didn’t tell the truth either though. Instead, I deftly changed the subject. I gave a dramatic sigh. “I’d like you to know that the phrase ‘tramp stamp’ was not in the common vernacular when I was eighteen. If it had been, I would not have chosen to get a tattoo on my lower back.”

I was rewarded with his laugh. His hand rubbed harder, from the base of my spine all the way up to my neck. I arched my back like a cat. I hadn’t had an unprofessional back rub in years. I meant to make a flirtatious comment, something along the lines of “You’re good with your hands.” But what actually popped out was “I like the way you touch me.”

I immediately stiffened. That sounded both goofy and way too serious. I should probably get up and go now. It was definitely time to make a graceful exit. But Max just chuckled again and lay next to me, so close that we brushed against one another from shoulder to toe.

“Good.”