Shoving some books and a set of over-ear headphones off the bedside table onto the floor, I stack plates, then drop the napkins on top. “Just to be clear,” I tell Alexander, “this never happened.”
“The sex?” He leans back against a pile of pillows and casually puts his hands behind his head. “I reckon people could tell, pet. You’re quite vocal.”
The combination of low-lidded side-eye he’s giving me, that naughty smirk, and the bulging definition of his arms and shoulders in that pose…Aaauuuggghhh, it’s making me wet, but there’s no way I’m copping to it. The bedsheet is wrapped low on his hips, showing off his gorgeous gym-punished torso.Fucking nice.
“I was talking about the food,” I clarify. “Dagna would destroy me.”
I give my greasy fingertips a final wipe on the napkin pile,then swivel to face him and wrap my arms around my raised knees. I’m back in the boxers and tank top, but Alexander is naked and totally at ease with that fact. His hair’s freshly washed, damp-darkened auburn waves falling all cute over his forehead, giving off red glints. As I peruse the freckles on his nose and cheeks and the scar cutting across his eyebrow, my heart does a weird floppy thing.
Stop it, I snap at myself.Post-orgasm oxytocin is a horrible drug. Worse than LSD probably, for causing delusions…
Except that usually doesn’t happen to me. The “love drug” normally just makes me feel friendly, or keyed up for another round. Right now, something else is happening, and whatever it is must be making me look worried. Alexander seems to notice, because suddenly he’s mirroring whatever I’m doing with my dumb betraying face.
He opens one arm at his side in invitation. “Come here, Salvi. Give us a cuddle, then.”
“Hmph.Whatever.” I scoot next to him and allow the embrace.
He sort of nuzzles my hair, and I’m afraid he’s going to kiss my head.
“No kissing,” I remind him.
“I’ve been warned,” he assures me.
I’ve got a mellowish playlist going quietly on the speaker, stuff that’s as chill as I can stand—some nineties shoegaze like Lush and My Bloody Valentine. It’s after eleven o’clock and I should be sleeping, but I feel antsy as hell. I wrestle the covers around to get my legs under them, but also partly to dislodge the sheet covering Alexander’s goods. I catch a glimpse before smoothing the duvet over us both. Dicks are mostly juststupid-looking unless they’re erect, but…hmm, I dunno—his is pretty nice even just sitting there.
“So,” he says with some amusement, “you riding my manacled self to victory is, as you’d say, ‘no biggie,’ but a plate of chips and gravy is an unspeakable sin?”
“Pretty much. Only because of my job though—food guilt is lame, in general.” I draw up my knees again, hugging them. “I don’t have shame about sex. If I wanna fuck someone, and I’m safe about it, why the hell not? Like I have to spend X number of dates making small talk before I’ve earned it?Psh!I don’t have time for the ‘getting to know each other’ bullshit.”
“Fair point.” He idly caresses my upper arm with his thumb.
“I mean, you can have a meal with someone, and that’s social, but also servicing the body, right? My point:So’s sex.Can’t it be like sharing a meal? Fucking someone is basically a fancy handshake.”
“Well, damned fine to have met you,” he says, picking up my hand and offering a shake.
“You too, Sandy-boy.” I want to keep holding his hand, but I don’twant towant to hold it, so I let go and stretch across the bed to switch off the light on the bedside table as an excuse. When I sit back, he adjusts against me, and we both slide down on the pillows, reclining. I roll onto my side and throw one leg over his.
It’s super dark, but with a splash of indigo light from the speaker behind me illuminating the angles of his face. I look my fill, knowing he probably can’t see me doing it.
After a long pause, he says, “Wecould get to know each other.”
My heartbeat trips. “We already had sex,” I say, a little defensive.
His laugh is a dark rumble I feel through his bare chest, which I’ve laid a hand on without being aware of it. “And who says we can’t do the ‘getting to know each other bullshit’—as you so charmingly put it—afterwards?”
I’m quiet for a long time, grappling with what to say. At a certain point I consider pretending I’m asleep, but if my sneeze in the elevator didn’t fool him, a fake snore probably won’t either. Finally I decide to be honest and nip this thing in the bud before it gets awkward.
“You’re a good time,” I tell him, “but I can’t take you seriously.”
“Have you ever taken a partner seriously?” he counters. When I don’t reply, he continues. “Ah.No.That’s why you choose people like me, isn’t it?”
He sounds kind of world-weary when he says it, and I realize that the assessment, for him, is more a depressing revelation about himself than a judgment on me. I feel bad for him, not gonna lie. And just a teeny tiny bit I also feel bad formyself. So I do what I always do and create a diversion before it gets uncomfortable.
The hand I have on his chest slides lower. I cup my fingers lightly over his very nice dick and feel it rouse. “Are you tired?” I ask innocently.
He rolls me beneath himself, the motion smooth and natural. “Do I feel tired?” he asks, an inch from my lips.
I laugh. “Uh, no. My car goes from zero to sixty in two-point-two seconds, but I think your response time is even faster.”
