Screwmates(7)

Shit. I did.

Marc’s expression morphed into confusion. “You don’t like that?”

“I just don’t––I don’t even know how to do it. The tit thing. Do I smush em together? Or… what?”

“Huh.” Silence.

I twisted my bottom lip with my fingers.

More silence.

I side-eyed him. “Are you thinking about coming on my tits now?”

“No!” Swear to god, his face went beet red. “Maybe. Okay, yes. I could show you how it works.”

“No way! You are an ass.” A really good-looking ass. Like, really, really good-looking.

“I’m drunk.” Marc’s face was so much closer to mine than I’d remembered it being. Close enough that our noses were near touching. “Du-runk.”

I felt really wise with my reply. I whispered it because we were so close. “Drunk ideas are bad. Bad ideas.”

“Bad, bad ideas,” he whispered back.

Thank goodness we agreed on that.





Three





I woke up the next morning with a start to a jackhammer drilling inside my head.

Pounding, pounding, pounding. The least sexy pounding there is. I was afraid to open my eyes, certain that any amount of light wouldn’t help the situation.

On top of that, someone had transported a desert into my mouth. That was the only explanation for my extreme thirst. Also, I was naked, which was strange since I almost never slept in the nude, but that was the least of my concerns.

I fumbled for the water bottle I always kept by my bed.

Not there.

But someone had thoughtfully placed a box of tissues and a container of lotion on the nightstand.

Wait. Why would––?

Oh, sweet Odin. This was not my bed.

The memories of last night crashed down at exactly the same time as the jackhammer in my head moved to its highest drilling setting. I remembered no pants and lots of bourbon. Something about a bangcation in France. Then a conversation regarding semen on my tits.

Holy cats. The mortification. What on earth had prompted me to bring that up?

Suddenly, the status of my nakedness moved from the least of my worries to the top of the list. Had we––? Had he––?

I grabbed my ladies. Seemed okay. I groped around on them for a second longer searching for anything dry or crusted.

Nothing. Thankfully they’d escaped his amorous attentions.

“Is this your normal morning routine?” came a rumbly voice next to me.

I froze, my position now a means of covering up rather than exploration. Because of course. Of course that’s where I was. In Hot Marc’s bed. Where else would I be? And I hadn’t even ascertained the extent of the humiliation before I got busted feeling myself up.

This was not how I’d imagined the morning after with him going.

If I had imagined it, that is. Okay, fine, but I hadn’t imagined it actually happening. That’s why they call them fantasies.

Careful not to let in more light than necessary, I snuck a peek over in his direction. He was sprawled out on his back, an arm tossed over his eyes. Scruff layered his jaw, and despite his skin having a slightly gray tint, he had the audacity to still be as attractive as ever.

And here I was feeling (and probably looking) like I’d been squeegee’d through a printing press, clutching my breasts like I’d thought they were going someplace.

I swallowed a groan and made something up. “Self-exams are integral to preventing breast cancer.”

“Self-exams. Right.” The sound he made was half chuckle, half sigh, and all judgment.

“So I’m not correct in assuming that self-examination is also why you keep the lotion/tissue combo over here as well?”

Dead silence from his side.

Yeah. Exactly. See if he’ll have the nerve to wake up looking that sexy again.

Especially after a night like that.

Though, I still wasn’t sure exactly what all the night had entailed. There were holes in my memory. My body didn’t feel like it had...and believe me, I’d know. I mean, I was about as immaculate as Mary. It would be pretty obvious if the eagle had landed, so to speak, and the nest was definitely empty.

I stole another glance in his direction. The sheet was wrapped around his waist revealing his bare chest. And wowzers, that chest was perfection. The lines and ridges were sketched with such detail, I wanted to draw them. Wanted to trace across them with my pen. Was it uncouth to fingerpaint on your roommate? With your tongue?

Lower, a fine trail of light brown hair dusted along his abs and disappeared underneath the sheet confirming the state of his undress.

If I’d gotten any part of that last night, it was more than a damn shame that I didn’t remember. I racked my brain for any recollection to grab onto––a kiss, a grope––but my head was having trouble putting forth any effort at all.

So I sucked up my pride––who was I kidding? Pride had long ago left the building––and started the conversation that was bound to occur sooner or later. “About last night...”

“That’s not normal,” he cut me off.

“Yeah?” I asked. My hands were still on my girls, for fuck’s sake. Who’s to say what was normal?

More importantly, this was an interesting development. Or un-development, so to say.