Right about now, both my burning vagina and I would give anything to be downright boring again. In fact, that’s my new life’s mission. Return to the oldme.
And for the hell of it, I just might slug Serena the next time I seeher.
Seth
There have been occasions where I’ve had every muscle in my body burning all at once. It was after a game with our crosstown rivals—we took home the W and I took home one hell of a game hangover—but this fire burning throughout my body feels ten times more agonizing than anything I’ve experienced before. My lids struggle to open as I tip my head back. My legs glide over cool sheets. I don’t have cool sheets. I have flannel. Not my bed. The hint of vanilla perfume lingers in the air, and my eyes spring open. I turn around so quickly I’m practically spinning over the mattress, but the room is empty, the door slightly ajar, and I’m not anywhere near myapartment.
“Shit.” I sit up on my elbows and glance down at my naked body, my morning salute going strong as if it were up for another round. Whoever that girl was last night—that pirate smile, those citrine-colored eyes, that throaty laugh that she kept pumping into my mouth—it all comes back to me. And then it hits me—Sunday.
I slept withSunday? It was Sunday I was kissing in the hall, wasn’t it? Those mouthwatering kisses send a spear of lust rocketing through me as I struggle to hold onto what I’m hoping is a recollection of something real. I rack my brain to see if I could get anything that happened once we crested that door to register and nothing. Crap. It was Sunday, wasn’tit?
Sunday Knight. I fall back against the foreign bed and close my eyes a moment as my head does its best impression of a jackhammer. Sunday. Did I sleep with Sunday? My heart begins to do its best to stomp out of mychest.
Sunday Knight has been the only girl my eyes could see from the moment we met all those delusional years ago. She’s the one girl I can’t and shouldn’t have. What the hell was Ithinking?
Then it all plays back like snips that were hacked from a movie reel, cut to the editing room floor. Sunday’s sleepy face, that lazy grin—me stripping her sweater off, the struggle to get her jeans down.Shit.
I wipe down my face with a growl before getting the hell up, jumping into my jeans, my shoes, grabbing my shirt off the floor, and heading back to myapartment.
I let a little booze get in the way of my good senses—okay, I let a hell of a lot of booze get in the way of my good thinking, her better judgment, and the fact we will never be able to face one another at the Thanksgiving table for years tocome.
Forget any holiday that’s still a year off. I won’t be able to face Sunday the next time I see her. And judging by the fact she took off as soon as she came to—Sunday doesn’t want to see meeither.
* * *
As soon asI get back to my apartment, I throw myself in the shower, soap up, and let the hot water do its thing. All the while last night comes back to me hard and fast in pornographic snippets, her body pressed against mine, her lips running up and down my chest like it was a race track. Her mouth finding far more interesting parts of my body to run across over and over. Sunday underneath me, my face getting buried in that golden hair, the scent of warm cinnamon and vanilla. Sunday tasted like a honeyed dream. Hell, I wish it were one. But it wasn’t. I can still feel her tight body wrapped around me as I plunged in as if my life depended on it. I was with her,inher, and that alone is a heart-stopping detail. Sunday may not ever speak to me again, but it’s safe to say I’ve catapulted us past the awkward stage our relationship has been lingering in for years. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t file assault charges—not that I did anything she didn’t seem to want. As far as I remember, she was more than willing. I hop out, dry off, and fall into my own bed, passing out until the very nextmorning.
Late Sunday—Sunday—the irony doesn’t escape me. I force myself to get dressed, throw on a jacket, and head back out into the bitter cold. She hasn’t texted, and neither have I. There are a lot of reasons I feel like an ass over what’s happened, and that happens to be at the top of the list. I thought about sayingI’m sorry—letting her know I was wasted,wewere wasted—that it will never happen again. And even though the first part of that is true, deep down, the greedy pervert who lives inside of me doesn’t want that last part to be true atall.
I have dreamed, fantasized about being with Sunday for the last six years straight at least, and to think that it finally came to pass and I don’t remember a damn thing. A glimpse here and there is as much as I could make of it, the feel of her soft body—that I remember. But everything feels like a blur. Hell, my nightly perverse wanderings that star the two of us feel more real than what happened in thatbedroom.
Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the Black Bear Saloon with its signature giant stuffed bear at the entry wearing a Santa hat and scarf. It’s the last weekend after finals and already the area is starting to look like a ghost town. I head on in and the scent of beer on tap and deep-fried everything fills my nostrils. Whatever they’re serving, I’ll have six. God knows I haven’t had a decent meal in days—not unless you count Sunday, and for the life of me I can’t properly remember thatone.
It’s dim inside, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Cheery Christmas carols pump through the speakers, and the place is sparsely populated. In the evenings, they usually have a house band blowing the place out and it’s wall-to-wall bodies, but you could say winter break robbed the place of its customers. The Black Bear might be situated across from WB, but there are about three other universities whose student population treks out this way. This evening the tables are half-empty. You can actually make out the layout of the establishment at a glance, and I spot my favorite bartender-slash-owner, Holt, across the counter and give a briefnod.
“Baker,” a deep voice shouts from the rear. I find Grant, Lawson, and Eli—three knuckleheads from the basketball team—and I head onover.
“What’s up?” I fall into the seat next to Grant, and my head still feels as if a giant finished stomping on it. Two days. I’ve never had a hangover last so long. On second thought, I should have texted Sunday by now just to make sure she’s stillalive.
Lawson winces at me from across the table. “Dude, you look likeshit.”
“And that would be exactly how I feel.” I steal a fry from the basket sitting in the middle of the table. Each of them has an empty plate in front of them, and the fry I just popped into my mouth is ice-cold and stale. “Looks like I missed the dinnerinvite.”
Eli grunts, “I texted you twice. I was about to head over and see if there was a stench coming from your apartment. What happened to you, man? Last I saw, you were knocking back beers with Rush’s sister. You sure like playingRussianroulette. I’d stay away from her if I wereyou.”
He takes a swig of his soda, and for the first time I look at Eli and feel a smidge of disdain for the guy. Don’t get me wrong—Eli’s a cool dude. Nice in every single way. He’s a womanizer, but that’s not my problem and I haven’t heard anyone complain. But something about the way he suggested I stay away from Sunday doesn’t sit well withme.
“I guess I will,” I say without any feeling behindit.
Grant stumps his fist into my shoulder. “Get it together. We’ve got one more game before we take off. Speaking of taking off—you hanging at Briggs through the newyear?”
“Yup. My sister’s getting hitched New Year’s Eve.” I look over to Eli. “Without me around, you’ll have your pick of all the girls.” I can’t help but give a shit-eating grin. Lawson and Grant are both taken, but Eli’s been trying to eat my lunch as far as the girls go. We’ve made a game of it, but ever since Sunday set foot on campus I stopped playing. Like I said, Sunday has been the only girl I can see. It feels like a cardinal sin to even try to oust her from the throne I placed her on longago.
“Coming at us at six o’clock.” Eli ticks his head to the door, his eyes dropping to the table as if he were trying to play itoff.
A cool breeze scented with everything sweet you’d ever want to eat hits me, and I look up in time to see Sunday Knight standing before us, her hair floating behind her in caramel waves, loose hairs straying to the ceiling, her eyes flashing with concern, red around the rims, her appearance altogether a little worn, but nevertheless she’sstunning.
My next breath gets caught in my throat, and I can’t seem to formulate a singleword.
