“This week has flown by,” I say, more to myself than to him.
The writing workshop is incredible. Ari is a riot and has filled the writing-partner void that opened inside me when I left Santa Monica. While Brooks and I still share our latest works-in-progress through email and text, the distance and time difference make it difficult to give the immediate feedback we both need. Plus, there’s nothing like in-person accountability. After only two classes with Talulah, the literary fire inside me is blazing, invigorating me to focus on my writing.
Between clients and my book, I haven’t climbed out of mymetaphorical cave much. I’ve barely talked to Millie. She’s been busy with work, too, and with whatever is happening between her and Sam, whom I’ve yet to meet. I’m looking forward to cracking open a bottle of Sauvy B and pinning her down until she catches me up on all the details of her week.
“Are you excited to have Cam back?”
Ezra tilts his head to the side and assesses me for a moment. “Do you know he only lets his family and me call him that?”
“Call him what?”
“Cam.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I duck to hide my embarrassment. “Oh shit, am I not supposed to call him that?”
The night we met, he introduced himself as Cameron, I suppose. But when I shortened his name, he didn’t correct me. He’snevercorrected me.
Ezra shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“So,” I hedge when he doesn’t elaborate, “when doesCameronget back?”
“Tomorrow. Around one, I think.”
Great. I’ll have more than enough time to change the sheets and restock the fridge after Ezra leaves for work. I’ll drop my bags at my apartment before heading to the Black Hole, then to West Harlem for Talulah’s writing workshop. No Sunday Scaries here!
From the kitchen, he hollers, “Do you mind finishing cleaning up? I’m heading out for the night.”
“Sure thing,” I reply, standing to collect the remaining take-out cartons. “Will you be back later or—” I snap my mouth shut. Maybe my question is a little too intrusive.
Ezra wanders out of the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. It’s not unwelcome, but it surprises me. We just met, though we’ve quickly become friends. “I’m going to Brooklyn to see my mom. I won’t be home.” He presses a chaste kiss into my hair. “It’s beennice having you around, kid. Don’t be a stranger now that Cam’s coming back. We’re neighbors, after all.”
I return the hug and force a polite smile, because, truth be told, I don’t know what’s going to happen when Cam—uh,Cameron—returns. I don’t plan to actively avoid him, but I also don’t see myself going out of my way to have a friendship with him. Or do I? There’s no reason we can’t be friends moving forward, right? I’m a mature adult. Okay, I’m an adult. I can be friends with a guy I’ve had sex with once or ten times and not be weird about it. Yes. Yup. Totally.
I triple-check the lock behind Ezra before emptying the remaining contents of the bottle of wine we shared with dinner into my glass. With my laptop in tow, I settle in one of the twin leather captain’s chairs in the living area and turn onThe Officefor background noise. I get lost in the clicks of the keys on my keyboard as my fingers struggle to keep up with the sheer number of ideas erupting from me.
When my neck and hips ache, signaling that I’ve been sitting for too long, I check the time. It’s after midnight. How long hasAre you still watching?been frozen on the television screen? Standing, I drain the pale liquid from my glass and take it to the kitchen. I’ll finish the dishes in the morning.
I turn off the lights as I move from the kitchen, through the living area, and into the bedroom.
In the bathroom, I open his medicine cabinet one last time, even though I’ve memorized its contents: Motrin, eye contact solution, Benadryl, a travel-size Crest toothpaste, floss (good boy), a disposable razor I may or may not have used because I forgot mine, deodorant, and expired cold and flu medicine that I’mtempted to throw out. I decide against it. I don’t want him to know I snooped, after all. But doesn’t everyone snoop inside people’s medicine cabinets?
I climb into the queen-size bed for the last time. Either the mountain-fresh scent of the dark gray sheets has faded, or I’m immune after a week. Turning off the main light with the remote control, I exchange my phone for my Kindle, and before I know it, I find myself downloadingThe Alchemist.
By the time I get to the part about the boy finding the courage to tell his father he’d rather travel than become a priest, I understand why Cameron likes this book so much. I read a little more—about Santiago and his dreams and the secret to happiness, before my mind wanders to the man whose bed I’m sleeping in. Besides his comments on my posts and briefly texting about our favorite books and the secret menu, we haven’t chatted.
What did he do after I left Greece? Did he go on any more hikes? Hang out at the nude beach again?
I clamp my eyes shut, but images of him on that beach are permanently painted against my lids: thick thighs and a toned abdomen. Ass cheeks flexing and contracting with every step on the shore. The sand peppered across his hard chest. How I licked the saltiness off his nipples in jest.
Dammit. I squeeze my thighs together, but it’s too late. My panties are already soaked. I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, releasing a frustrated groan. It doesn’t appease the ache at my core, though. If anything, the friction caused by the movement intensifies it. With a deep breath in and out, I drag my hand down my body. I stop when I reach my clit and rub light circles over my underwear. It’s instantly obvious that my own touch won’t be sufficient tonight, so I reach for my vibrator, temporarily perched on the bedside table. I absolutely cannot forget to pack it tomorrow morning.
The silicone device whirs to life when I flick the switch, and a low buzz joins the white noise of the city outside.
Let’s try this again.
I slip my underwear down my legs and kick them off, then I let the vibrations take control. My body relaxes, and I sink into the mattress. With the apartment to myself, I let out a moan. I drag the vibe through my slit, collecting my arousal, then slide it inside me an inch or two. It’s a tight fit, so I repeat the action once, then again. Deep pulses arise, signaling ecstasy is just around the corner. I snake a hand up my shirt so I can twist and pull at my nipple.
A clatter sounds on the other side of the apartment.
