Chapter 3: Falling Deeper

The first thing I felt was the deep, bruised ache between my thighs. It pulsed with every slight shift, a sharp sting where the flesh felt stretched and raw, a duller throb where his hands had gripped too hard—I could almost still feel the ghost of his fingers pressing into my hips.

I peeled my eyes open, the hotel room slowly coming into focus. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, too bright, too revealing. My gaze landed first on the note propped against the lamp—hotel stationery with Dad’s familiar scrawl: “Making rounds to wake everyone. See you at breakfast.” Simple. Casual. As if last night never happened.

I turned my head and saw the sheets—my God—the sheets. Rust-colored streaks smeared across the white linen, some dried to a crust, others still tacky to the touch. And there, pearly patches, some flaking, others clinging in thick, gluey clumps—his.

A wave of heat rushed through me as the scent hit—sweat, salt, something metallic, and beneath it all, that unmistakable musk that clung to my skin, my hair, the very air of the room. I swallowed hard, my stomach turning.

I pushed myself up, wincing as the motion pulled at tender flesh. My thighs were sticky, my skin tacky with dried streaks and fresh, slick wetness still seeping out. I could feel it—him—trickling down, warm and slow.

The bathroom mirror showed the damage. My pussy was swollen, the lips puffy and flushed an angry red. My entrance—God—looked different. Slack. Used. My fingers hovered, then pressed lightly, and a fresh pearl of wetness welled up, thick and opaque, tinged pink at the edges.

A knock at the door.

“Emily?” Kim’s voice, bright and oblivious. “You up?”

Panic shot through me. I scrambled to yank the comforter over the stained sheets, my heart hammering as another trickle of fluid escaped down my thigh. The robe barely covered me, the fabric rough against oversensitive skin.

I opened the door just enough to peek out.

Kim’s nose wrinkled the second she saw me. “Whoa. You okay? You look—” Her gaze flicked past me to the room, then back, her expression shifting. “It smells kinda ... intense in there.”

“Stomach thing,” I muttered, my face burning.

She hesitated, her eyes dropping to where the robe gaped slightly—just enough to reveal the dampness glistening on my thigh. Her breath caught almost imperceptibly before she composed herself.

“Right,” she said, the word careful and measured. “You should ... freshen up.”

The door clicked with finality. She hadn’t said anything.

But we both knew she’d seen enough.

The bus hummed steadily along the Paris streets, the city’s iconic landmarks blurring past the windows. Inside, students chattered quietly or scrolled through their phones. Kim sat with Maya near the front, leaving me alone in a backseat by the window—a small mercy.

My body still ached, each bump in the road sending a dull throb between my legs. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the thought gnawing at me: Could I be pregnant?

I tried counting the days in my cycle, my pulse quickening. About two weeks since my last period—right in the middle of ... My breath hitched. Last night couldn’t have been worse timing. The chances were too high.

I gripped the seat cushion, guilt and fear twisting in my chest. Why hadn’t I said anything? Why hadn’t he?

“You okay?”

Kim stood in the aisle, eyebrows furrowed. Her gaze darted from the dark circles under my eyes to my white-knuckled grip on the seat.

“Yeah,” I said too quickly. “Just jet lag. Time zones.”

She studied me, unconvinced. “Uh huh. You’ve been quiet all morning.”

“I’m fine.” The snap in my voice made her blink.

“Okay,” she said slowly, holding up her hands. “But if you need to talk...”

I nodded stiffly as she retreated. Pressing my forehead to the cool window, I tried to quiet my racing thoughts.

What if I’m pregnant?

The question looped in my head, each repetition louder than the last.

The bus came to a stop at the Eiffel Tower, and everyone poured out, buzzing with excitement. The iconic structure loomed above us, its iron lattice gleaming in the morning sun. The group split into smaller clusters, cameras out, laughter echoing as they posed for pictures.

Caleb and Liam were goofing off, pretending to “hold” the tower with their hands, while Maya and Susan snapped selfies with exaggerated duck faces. Even Theo, who usually kept to himself, was grinning as he tried to balance on one foot for a photo.

I hung back, my energy drained, but Kim was in her element, darting between groups to capture every moment. “Emily, come on! You have to get in this one!” she called, waving me over.

I forced a smile and joined them, but my heart wasn’t in it. My eyes kept drifting to where my dad stood with a group of students, his laughter easy as he joked with them. Ms. Bennett was nearby, her eyes flickering toward him every few seconds, her smile a little too bright.

But then I saw it. My dad took a step back from the group, his smile polite but firm as he said something to Ms. Bennett. I couldn’t hear the words, but his body language was clear: he was setting a boundary. Ms. Bennett’s smile faltered, and she nodded quickly, her cheeks flushing as she turned to walk away.

I felt a small flicker of satisfaction. She got the message.

As if he felt my gaze, my dad turned and looked directly at me. Our eyes met, and for a brief second, the rest of the world disappeared. He smiled at me, a warm, reassuring smile, the kind that always made me feel like everything would be okay. In that moment, I believed it. Maybe things really would be okay.

But Kim had seen the exchange. Her earlier unease—the messy bed, the heavy scent in the room—had left her with questions. Now, watching the way my dad’s gaze lingered on me, and how I smiled back at him, something shifted in her expression. Her excitement for the tour faded, replaced with a frown of confusion and concern.