“The fuck, fuck, fuck. I can curse, too. And I can sleep on a sofa. And you can take a night to get your back straight.”
“So you can barely turn your head tomorrow?” he snarls. “Fuck that! Get up!”
I don’t move. He’s not angry with me. He’s just being stubborn and he knows I’m right. But still, his shouting renders my voice soft and unsure. “I can’t watch you wince in pain every time you move your neck, David.”
He blows out a long-winded exhale. “You’re not sleeping there.”
“Then I’ll go back to my dorm.” It’s an empty threat, but he won’t take that chance.
His eyes close and he huffs in deep, exasperated breaths. “Fucking fine,” he practically growls, and then stomps off to his bedroom in defeat.
* * *
I wake up to the shirtless form of an Adonis. David is tucked along the opposite edge of the bed, lying on his back, his muscular arm thrown over his head as he breathes softly in his sleep. More than a week of waking up to this exact image has done nothing to desensitize me to it. My heart short-circuits at the first sight of him, just like it did yesterday and the day before that, and I struggle to swallow down the familiar wave of longing that surges in my chest, and lower in my body.
There’s at least a foot of space between us, and I’ve once again stolen the entire comforter in the night and hoarded it for myself, my new modus operandi, apparently. The white bed sheet covers David only up to his lean waist, the defined grid of his abs rising and falling with his relaxed breathing.
I take in his muscular chest, the lines of muscle and sinew in his shoulders, his bicep curled around his mess of mahogany bed-head. I flush with heat. I am not five anymore. And then my gaze shoots to the bed sheet, to the massive tent his body creates, and I swallow again.
I am not naïve enough to think there’s anything personal about his body’s reaction. I know about morning wood; I grew up with a brother, after all. But my own body’s reaction to the sight of it—that is entirely new, and very personal to its owner. It is also the perfect example of why this arrangement might not be the best idea. But neither David nor I have come up with a better one, so I guess we’ll have to suck it up.
Oh, God. I hate puns.
I jump out of bed and into the shower, purposely keeping the water on the cool side to douse visions of David and their aftereffects.
I wash my hair and shave my legs, and it hits me that I left my phone on the charger in his bedroom. I usually take it with me. It’s not that I think he’d look through it, but I also know that on the off chance he did, he wouldn’t be pleased. Because if David looked through my texts, he’d see the ones from Brian. Or, more specifically, he’d see my replies, and I don’t want him to know that I met Brian for coffee again the other night, even though I’m not exactly clear on why I kept it from him in the first place.
Sure, David has made his thoughts on the matter abundantly clear, but that’s only because he’s worried I might do something stupid, like get back together with Brian. But there’s no chance of that happening, and I told Brian as much—again—and considering his less than agreeable reaction, I doubt another coffee date is even in the cards for us. Which is fine with me.
I sigh and turn off the shower, and it’s when I’m wrapping one of David’s navy blue towels around my body that I realize that in my haste to get to the shower, my phone wasn’t the only thing I forgot—I forgot my change of clothes as well, apparently.
On weekdays I usually shower before David even wakes up, and then get dressed in the bathroom—a habit I picked up back when he was still sleeping on the couch. I started doing it to give him the chance to get to his clothing in the morning, so we wouldn’t get in each other’s way.
But now, here I am, stranded in a towel.
Fucking wonderful.
I tighten the knot at my chest, wishing the towel were a bit bigger, but as it is my ass is barely covered. I let out another sigh. Maybe David is still asleep. I jump onto that hope and slowly open the bathroom door, careful not to make a sound as I creep back toward the bedroom. The door is open just a crack, which is how I must have left it in my rush out of the room. I’m about to push it open when I hear a sound.
A groan.
I freeze, listening, waiting for evidence either that I imagined it or that David is indeed awake.
“Yes…” It’s barely a whisper. More like a low rasp, actually, and its husky tone undoes all the good of my shower, flushing my skin and heating my belly.
I stand there, swallowing down my anxiety, wondering what to do.
The more my ears adjust to the quiet, the more clearly his heavy breaths echo through the crack. “Fuuuck,” he grates hoarsely, and even before I look, I know exactly what he’s doing.
I know I should give him privacy—go back into the bathroom and let him finish in peace. Or I should at least knock on his door to let him know he’s not alone. What I absolutely should not do is take a step to my left so I can see through the small gap between door and frame. I shouldn’t find his form on the bed, the sheet now bunched at his muscular thighs, the waistband of his flannel pajama pants shoved down to reveal the one part of him I’ve never seen before—fantasies notwithstanding. The part he holds in his huge hand, palm and fingers wrapped so tightly that his forearm appears to turn to stone with his effort.
I tell myself how wrong it is to watch this. How selfish. That it’s a violation of David’s trust, and I know how I would feel if the situation were reversed—mortified…betrayed. So no, I absolutely should not stand here and watch him with rapt attention.
But that is what I do.
David’s hand moves slowly at first, up and down, and then twisting around, over and over, in no particular rhythm. It’s positively riveting.
I have no control over my gaze as it travels upward, along the abs that just twenty minutes ago were enough to fuel my blush. I watch them ripple with each of his harsh breaths, and I wonder what it would be like to trace my fingers along the masterpiece that is his body. It is utterly breathtaking—all sharp lines where muscle meets in shadow, and intricately designed symbols and swirls where rich, dark ink adorns his skin.
