This, I decide, is a problem to process when I get home.
Right now, my only problem is figuring out if we’ll be naked or clothed when we have breakfast.
And is that really aproblem?
Definitely not.
I roll over and blink in the semi-darkness, reaching for him like he reached for me no more than a few hours ago. Can’t help it. While I know there’s nothing permanent about this, that last night didn’t mean we’reinvolved, he’s been an unexpected friend.
I hug my friends all the time.
Having a friend with temporary sexual benefits is new, butI like it.
But I reach.
And reach.
And reach.
And there’s nothing but emptiness in my bed.
“Jonas?” I whisper.
No answer.
Wait.
Was that a dream?
I slide a hand down my body.
Completely naked.
Pretty damn satisfied in the lady bits. I’m wet and sticky between my thighs. My lips are bruised, my nipples are tender, and there’s a raw spot on my shoulder.
Idefinitelyhad sex with him last night.
Thegoodkind of sex. Full-body sex. With multiple orgasms.
But I crawl out of bed and find my phone just to be sure.
Yep.
Today’s Monday. The past few days have gone by. It’s not all some weird dream since Thursday morning.
I turn on the flashlight and scan the room.
There’s an indent in the pillow where his head was and the sheets are crumpled.
No, not crumpled.
The sheets are adisaster.
I reach up and verify the sheets aren’t the only disaster. My hair is doing athingtoo.
But there’s no Jonas.
Not in the bathroom. Not in the living room. Not in the kitchen.
