Playing It Safe(50)

Oh, yeah. How did I get here?

Well, after the afternoon f*ck-fest in his office, we decided that work was overrated and took the rest of the day off. We drove separately to his house, where we proceeded to get to know each other more intimately. In other words, we continued to screw each other’s brains out—among other things—until the wee hours of the night when my vagina started to go numb on me.

Other things means eating a quick meal at around midnight in his bed. That meal consisted of homemade ice cream sundaes. And I guess I should mention that we ate them off each other’s bodies. Let’s just say Alex really, I mean really, likes his ice cream.

That would explain why, when I try to slide out from underneath him, parts of my body are sticking to the sheets like crazy glue. Here’s the thing about using your body as a dessert plate: it’s sexy and fun while it’s happening, but the ugly truth is that it’s not anywhere near being sexy the next day. It doesn’t help that movies and books have perpetuated this illusion of glamour by having the characters suddenly fresh as a daisy the next day and not at all what you’re really going to be looking and feeling like—one giant hot mess.

Right now my hair is probably a rat’s nest, and from the few clumps I can see fanned out on the pillow, there are some rainbow sprinkles embedded in it that were used as a topping for the sundaes. Tack on to that the rancid morning breath I have brewing in my mouth and the not-so-fresh feeling down south, and I’d say this bright idea is downright disgusting in the light of day and makes you question why the hell you felt the need to lick food off of someone’s body in the first place.

So now what I really need is a Silkwood-quality shower and a toothbrush, pronto.

Don’t get me wrong, I rather enjoy feeling Alex’s warmth all around me first thing in the morning. Especially since he’s holding me under him like he doesn’t want me to get away. It makes this very Grinch-like heart of mine skip a beat or two, to be honest. But if he wakes up and takes one look at me in my current state of dishevelment, he may think he woke up with the actual Grinch instead of me.

First my legs. Ever so slowly I drag them out from underneath him until they are completely free. Next, the upper half of my body. This is way trickier. Carefully, I slide to my left and make it a full inch before I’m forced to stop because a nipple is stuck to the sheet. I have to bite my bottom lip, count to three in my head, and tear it off like a Band-Aid. Here goes nothing.

Dammit, that hurts! The next time you think about doing kinky shit in bed, remember me in this very moment. But so far so good because Alex hasn’t moved and is still sleeping, even though my tit needs a real Band-Aid at this point.

Okay, now I can start sliding again to my left ever so gingerly. It takes me another few moments until I’m finally out from under him. The lower half of my naked body is hanging off the side of the bed and I’m slithering the upper half along nicely when I dare to sneak a peek at him.


His one eye is open and staring back at me, and the side of his face that is visible is smiling wide enough that his dimple is flashing. Now that’s just not fair. He looks absolutely edible and sexy as hell lying there on his stomach with the sheet draped just below his hips to reveal a hint of his ass.

Let me just say that I saw it last night, and it’s perfection. Songs may have been written about his ass, it’s that inspiring.

“What are you doing?” he asks, amused at my current position.

“Trying not to wake you up.”

“I am awake.”

“I can see that,” I say with a smirk. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He chuckles. “Because it was far too entertaining watching you try to get out of bed.”

In the distance I hear the familiar opening bars of Diana Ross and Lionel Richie’s “Endless Love.” His brow furrows in confusion while my expression is somewhere along the lines of “the jig is up.” I’m sure it’s Sabrina calling me to find out where I am since I’m missing our weekly Skype session.

“Is it my imagination,” he says, picking his head up, “or is there a really cheesy love song from the eighties playing somewhere in my house?”

“That would be my cell phone.”

“You have that song as a ringtone?” He pauses, looking me over thoughtfully, trying to piece it together on his own. “Who is it?”

“It’s not what you think,” I answer sheepishly with a slight shrug of my shoulder. “It’s Sabrina.”

“Are you going to answer it?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d really rather not explain this to her right now,” I say, motioning between us with my hand. The song stops, and I’m positive that she’s leaving me a concerned voice mail wondering where I am.

“Will you be telling her?”

“No … probably … yes,” I admit. “She is my best friend, you know.”

“And what will you tell her exactly?” he asks.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead because all I’m thinking about is getting myself in the shower.”

His playful smile comes back in full force, and he props himself up on his elbows. “Can I join you?”