4
Robyn
I jerk upright in bed as the sound of a buzzer fills my apartment. The sheet falls away from me, and the first thing I register is that I’m not wearing a stitch of clothing. I turn toward the door, and there is a dull ache that resonates from between my legs, making me suck in a sharp breath.
Oh.
Oh, right.
Last night…it happened.
I turn my head toward the other side of the mattress. The pillow is dented where his head was. The sheet is thrown back. But he’s gone. There is no big body stretched out next to me. No long dark hair spread across the white linen.
My eyes sweep around the room, but there’s no sign of him.
My jeans are still in a pile near the foot of the bed, one of my ankle boots still tangled in the denim.
There’s no trace of him. It’s like I imagined the whole thing.
But the soreness between my legs says otherwise.
The buzzer goes again, longer this time, more insistent.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, and the movement sends a fresh sting up through me. I suck in a breath and press a hand flat against my lower stomach.
Oh, he was here, alright. I can still feel him. Everywhere. My thighs are tender. My jaw aches from kissing. There’s a slight rasp where his stubble scraped the skin above my collarbone, and I can see the faint pink of it when I glance down.
We went at it a number of times last night. I didn’t think I was capable of coming so often.
Sunlight pours through my drapes in bright yellow bars. I squint and turn toward my bedside clock.
Crap.
It’s after eleven.
I never sleep this late. Not ever.
Another buzz, this one shorter, sharper, like whoever is outside is losing patience.
“Coming,” I call out, and my voice sounds groggy. I clear my throat. “I’m coming.”
I catch myself in the mirror above my dresser on the way up and stop dead.
My hair is a full-on disaster, sticking out in every direction, with a distinct flattened patch on one side. There’s a pillow crease running along my cheek, and my eyes are hooded.
I pull my hair up into a quick knot on top of my head, yank the elastic tight, and grab the first things I can find. A pair of gray sweats off the chair and an oversized black hoodie from the hook behind my door. I tug the hoodie on over my head as I head down the hall.
The buzzer goes a fourth time as I cross the living room.
“Yes, yes,” I mutter.
For a split second, as my hand touches the door handle, a thought hits me. What if it’s him? What if he forgot something,or changed his mind, or came back to say, you know, hi, good morning, last night was?—
I shake it off.
It’s not him. Last night was a one-time thing. I don’t have time in my schedule for anything other than work, except for an odd day off when extreme downtime is needed. I don’t want to have to deal with a relationship and all the crap that comes with it.
No.
