I’ve done so much but yet I’ve done so little.
Kristen waggles her empty bottle. “So sad. No more beer.”
“Want me to get more?” Jordan offers.
“Hell yeah.” Kristen says. “I’ll go with you.”
She hops up from the couch, ready for more, and they head out.
“I guess his love for action flicks and hers for art house movies didn’t get in the way of their shared love of beer and drinking games,” I say.
“Evidently, they found common ground.” Then he yawns. “I should go,” he mumbles, but he shows no signs of leaving. Instead, he sinks deeper into the couch, and his eyelids start to flutter. I glance at my phone. It’s past midnight.
“Do you want to stay?”
He smiles weakly. “I’m so f**king tired,” he says and then he goes horizontal on the couch.
“I’ll get you a blanket.”
“I’m fine.”
“No. I want to.” I head for my room, grab a blanket and bring it to the living room where he’s already stretched out. He’s untying his shoes, kicking them off, and I dim the light.
“Are you going to tuck me in?”
I stick out my tongue. “No.”
“C’mon. Read me a bedtime story.”
“Three little kittens lost their mittens,” I begin, and he smiles. A sweet, warm, happy smile that erases the faint traces of annoyance I felt moments ago in the game. My phone lights up and I grab it from the coffee table, swiping the screen. I read Kristen’s message. “Hungry. Stopping at Wendy’s Diner for fries and burger. Want anything?”
I write back: No thanks.
I drape the blanket over Trey, but he pushes it down to his waist.
“It’s hot. Can I take off my shirt?”
“You don’t need my permission.”
He raises an arm behind his back and tugs in one swift motion. He’s shirtless, and he hasn’t been since the night we were together. My breath catches. Even in the dark, I can make out the outline of his chest, solid and strong, his arms, all muscled and corded and covered in tats.
Reflexively, I lick my lips.
“Lie down with me,” he whispers. He sounds sleepy drunk and sexy, and the invitation is far too inviting to pass by.
I slide in next to him, so he’s spooning me, and it’s innocent, I suppose, or I’m letting myself pretend this is an extension of the hand holding and the hugging and the sock removing. Right? We are simply two friends sharing a small couch, but then he wraps his arm around me, sighs happily, and exhales against my neck. A strand of my hair flutters.
“Harley,” he sighs, but it’s not a question. More a statement, an expression, and there’s some kind of wonder, happiness in it that I want to let myself believe in, that I want to cocoon in and hold in my hands, a fragile glass globe that could break. But yet, I’m pretty sure it’s the Silver Bullet talking when he whispers, “This is so nice.”
“You’re drunk.”
I feel him shrug against me. “Maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot,” I counter.
“So then you won’t get mad in the morning when I ask you about this. Have you really never given a blow job?”
I roll my eyes, even though it’s dark, even though he’s snug behind me and can’t see my eyes. “No. I told you that.” I tense up. “Why?”
“Did you ever want to?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
I laugh. “You offering yourself?”
He laughs too, and I can feel his breath against my neck. There’s a faint smell of beer, but it’s mingled with him, and I have the sudden urge to taste beer now for the first time. On his lips. “Anytime,” he says softly, but that’s all. There’s no innuendo in his voice. Nothing more than a continuation of the game in some ways.
I push against his arm playfully. “And how the hell did you have a threesome, king of the studs?”
“Two ladies.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured it was two ladies,” I say. Then in a more serious, searching tone. “Was it good?”
I’m not even sure why I’m asking. It’s like I’m picking at a scab, hunting for a wound, so I can worry away at it.
“I barely remember it,” he says in a sleepy voice. A warm breeze blows through the open window, carrying with it the faraway sounds of cars and cabs on late night Manhattan streets. Somewhere, Jordan and Kristen are out there having fries. In here, I feel as if we are the only two people in the world. In the dark, hushed voices, whispering about our pasts.
“But you remember you had two at once,” I point out.
“Yeah and that’s it,” he says, and loops his arm tighter around my waist. I inhale sharply at the closeness. More, tighter, closer. He’s bringing me nearer to him, his jeans against mine, his bare chest against my shirt, his breath on my neck, and now, there, his hand on my belly. Then, slinking under the bottom of my shirt, inching its way to my stomach.
I gasp quietly as his fingertips reach my bare skin.
“But there’s this other girl and I remember everything about her,” he says, and in an instant, all I see, all I feel are his words. They have their own heartbeat and pulse, a living being, surrounding me.
He traces lazy fingers across my stomach, and I want this feeling to last forever because it’s so out-of-this-world intense. I swear my body is sliding into another plane of existence, some realm of pleasure I’ve never allowed before, as feelings spill over – want, desire, fear all wrapped up in a messy package, without a bow.