“It all rinsed out while I was…” He grins, answering my unasked question, and his pause only makes the heat inside me build.
I grab his hand as I back up toward the bed, and he pauses at the nightstand, retrieving a condom from the top drawer. This, for me, has always been the awkward part, the pause for safety, but when I watch Griffin roll it down his length, I realize there’s nothing safe—or awkward—about this moment.
He follows my lead, letting me guide him down on top of me, and when he’s inside, there are no words, nothing that feels right to articulate what’s happening, so I respond with my hands splayed on his back, my lips connecting with his. In the shower I was overwhelmed, overcome with how it felt to be touched by him, but now my urgency is replaced with a tender ache, the knowledge that whatever this is will be over the second our bodies separate. Griffin must feel it, too, because he takes his time, uses gentle care as he rocks back and forth, my hips mirroring his rhythm. As the gray dawn threatens through the window, we try to outrun it, our pace growing as the euphoria consumes us.
In case I wasn’t already on the verge, Griffin slides a finger between us, and my back arches as we erupt in a chorus of each other’s names.
“Stay,” he says, handing me a T-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. “At least until your underwear dries.”
He smirks as he strides back to the bed in a fresh pair himself, the threat of sleep already softening the cocky expression.
I want to argue, but I want sleep more. Besides, tomorrow doesn’t really begin until I’ve gone to sleep and waken up to the new day, right? I’ve always been good with that brand of logic.
“You don’t need to be anywhere this morning?” I ask, giving him the out this time, but I’m already wearing the T-shirt, sliding on the boxers.
“Not early enough to matter.” He lets out a soft sigh. “What is it about a woman in men’s underwear?”
I roll my eyes but secretly enjoy the compliment. Somehow what happened between us is still—happening. And here I am in his shirt and freaking underwear, postponing the inevitable for as long as I can.
“I need my phone, then,” I tell him. “It has my alarm already set for work.”
Griffin changes direction, heading for the bedroom door rather than the bed.
“I’ll get your bag.”
Seconds later my phone sits charging on his nightstand while I lie in the crook of his arm, as if we’ve done this hundreds of times before.
“Can I give you a ride to work?” he asks, his voice lazy as he starts to drift off.
I kiss his chest, at the same time trying to ignore thoughts of what it would be like to fall asleep like this every night—cared for, wanted.
“Sure,” I say, and he doesn’t say anything more.
Sleep comes for Griffin quick and easy, but instead of finding the same peaceful end to our evening or morning, the headache returns quickly, the throbbing relentless, and only an hour after we settle in together, I find myself rummaging through my bag searching for the prescription bottle I never let too far out of sight. In the bathroom I cup water in my hands to wash the small pill down and then crumple to the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the early morning light, my only comfort the cold ceramic tile.
Twenty minutes. If I can make it through the next twenty minutes without him finding me like this, I can make my way home once I get to a main street.
Breathe, I remind myself. So I do, silently counting my breaths and waiting for them to slow to an even rhythm, one that lets me know the prescription is kicking in and Griffin won’t wake to find me heaving over his toilet only steps from where we did things that were so much better than heaving.
Eyes squeezed shut. Cheek on tile. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
I make it to the point where the throbbing stops. Shaky and spent with exhaustion, I stand and find my clothes in a heap at the opposite door. I throw on my skirt but shove my shirt and panties in my bag. The T-shirt, maroon with the word Aberdeen printed across the chest, will have to be a casualty of the evening because it’s coming with me.
I sneak back into the room to grab my phone, and I can’t resist the urge to stop and look. Asleep, he really is such a boy, the peacefulness of his features painting him far younger than what must be his twenty-two or twenty-three years.
I allow my lips one last brush of his skin, the bruise beneath his eye. Not the lips. I’m toast if I kiss the lips.
He doesn’t stir, and a minute later I’m out the door.
I text Miles as I approach the first intersection I can find. Not gonna make it in today. Can you please cover for me? Thank the gods, I know this street. I’ll be home in ten minutes.
Headache? Miles texts back, and I don’t know whether to feel like shit for waking him or promise to kiss him next time I see him for knowing me so well. And for not asking about Griffin.
Yep. A doozie. Took my meds but am wiped. I owe you.