It buzzes, but weaker now, like a car starter trying to turn over and failing.
“Fuck no!” I jam my thumb on the button.
One more pathetic little vibration sputters out.
Then nothing.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
I click the button again. Once. Twice. Three times. And still nothing.
I throw my head back onto the pillow and let out a strangled, frustrated groan. Of course. Of course this happens when I’m finally—finally—almost there. I drop the vibrator onto the sheets between my legs.
My chest rises and falls. My body is still wired and unsatisfied. I stare at the ceiling again.
And the worst part?
If it really was Foster, I wouldn’t have to worry about batteries.
I hate how much my body betrays me, wanting him all the time.
I toss off the covers and grab the vibrator, on the hunt for batteries. I know I haven’t bought any, but Foster seems like a pretty prepared guy, so I’m sure he has a stash somewhere or at least a flashlight I can take them out of.
The living room light is on since I kept it at a dim setting, so Foster doesn’t come home to a dark house. I head to the kitchen drawer he seems to shove a lot of miscellaneous things in. I dig around, but all I find is plasticware from takeout, chopsticks, some soy sauce packets, pens, and a few pads of paper.
I shut the drawer and look around his space, heading over to the table by the door. There’s one drawer, but all that’s in it are some chargers, charging cords, and a set of keys. I pick them up and inspect them, unsure what they’re for, then put them back in the drawer.
“You have to have batteries somewhere.”
Then the remote comes to mind. I head to the living room, unclicking the back of the remote, but it takes double As, and I need triple.
“Damn it.”
He’d probably have his electric razor with him. He only uses the microwave for a clock, which takes those off the list. My eyes snag on his bedroom door.
“Hmm…”
It’s my last option.
I slowly push open his door. Being in his space without him knowing feels intrusive, but he’s never told me I can’t come in here. Just like before, his bed is made and everything is neat and organized. I search his drawers, trying not to move anything out of place.
His drawer of boxer briefs is all black. Seriously, no color? He needs a little color in his life.
His shirts are stacked, neat and orderly. No surprise there.
“Do guys keep toys?” I go to his nightstand, praying he’s got something. A cock ring maybe? Although after our orgasm conversation, I’m pretty sure he’s not into marathon sex sessions where you use toys and explore.
I open the nightstand drawer, and my shoulders fall, all hope dying because there’s nothing but a box of condoms, a pen, and a pad of paper. Nothing of any use to me. I slam the drawer shut.
I pick up my vibrator and realize if I’m going to get off, I’m gonna have to use my fingers, which is fine but inefficient and doesn’t always work.
As I’m about to step out of his room, like déjà vu, the lock slides over on the condo door.
Jesus, not now.
I cross the foyer and move past the kitchen to reach my room, but the door opens before I can escape inside it.
“Callie?”
