It’s Sunday. I can tell by the strip of sunlight that creeps between the blinds and settles on your pecs. There’s gold highlights in your chest hair. I never noticed it before. You open your eyes and I look away.
“Oh, hey,” you mumble.
You frown, at the drool-soaked cushion under your cheek, at the too-warm couch beneath you, at the sour tang in your mouth and the roaring headache pressing down on you. I smile at you. We’ve all been there.
“Morning, Travis.” I’m eyeing Craig by the front door. He’s lying facedown by a spatter of shoes in the foyer. “Good night then?”
“What time is it?”
You’re still slurring. Maybe still drunk from last night. I’d know. You were three sheets to the wind by the time you exploded through the front door with my housemate passing out behind you.
When you grabbed my waist and waltzed me around the dining table, you were too far gone to feel my heart going great guns in my chest. You complained about the heat and staged a grand escape from your clothes, then collapsed on the couch. A hot mess. Neither of you noticed me bringing buckets. But lucky you noticed them in time.
The whole room smells like vinegar and brewery. But still, I can’t help staring at the flex in your shoulders as you bring a hand to your face and try to rub the hangover away. I can’t help but notice the body part that woke before you did. It’s in the corner of my eye, but front and centre in my mind. You don’t seem to notice. I open a window.
Behind you, Craig wakes up and slithers onto the couch. You exchange a look, an inside joke, and laugh. You punch him in the arm.
“Fuck me, what a night,” he marvels, punching you back. “That chick was fucking insane.”
“Craig, man,” you say, rubbing your face again, “I’m gonna need coffee, bro.”
“Yeah, yeah right.” My housemate turns to me. “We got any coffee?”
“Sorry, we’re out,” I say and wave my takeaway cup. “Didn’t realise you’d be up so early, else I woulda gotten you some too.”
Your phone lights up on the table. Max, it says. Craig laughs again, asks if you want to head over, then gets up to get changed. You rinse your bucket in the laundry sink and come back to find your clothes. I’ve left them on the footrest and I’m sitting at the dining table, sipping my joe.
“What d’ya get up to last night?” you ask.
“Nothing,” I shrug, “watched a bit of Netflix.” Wondered what you were up to.
“What about that guy you saw last week? How’s that going?”
“Who, Marcus? Yeah, that’s going OK.” My memory jogs. I tell you to hold on. I run to my room and return with your shirt. “Found this in my washbasket the other day,” I say. “Must have picked it up by mistake.”
It’s a lie. But you believe it. Your face lights up the room and, hand outstretched, you stumble forward. You lose your footing in the leg of your pants and we fall into the hallway wall. Your body’s like a bar heater and I start to sweat. Your hand catches my shoulder. My breath follows you as you pull away.
“Oops, sorry,” you say. We laugh and the shirt slips over your head. It’s clean, smells fresh. No longer of you. Or of me.
Craig is ready. You slap my back and leave. And I’m home alone.
The shirt you wore last night lies forgotten on the floor. I pick it up and set it on the sofa. I sit beside it, ready to turn the TV on, but something stops me.
Between my legs, I’m wet, I know it. I’m sliding over myself in my seat. The thought of you sleeping here in just your boxers lingers with me. I lift my legs onto the seat and lay back. My fingers creep past the band of my shorts, into my panties. The fabric is damp to the touch and when I draw them away, they come back cold on my skin. I peel them off, peel every layer off. A breeze comes in through the open window and tickles me.
I’m touching my clit and thinking of your fingers. They’d be bigger than mine, stronger. They’d press harder. So I press harder and sweet tension sweeps through me. I imagine your tongue, your mouth, moving softly between my legs, licking me all over, between the folds and inside my slit. My nails claw the inside of my thighs and I exhale deeply.
You’d suck gently on my nipples, I think, running a slick thumb over my left one, pinching the tip, hand grabbing the breast while the fingers of my right hand find their way into me. Just one, then two. You’d use two. You’d curl and play at the entrance, teasing me until I’m ready to give up and walk away. Then you’d push your fingers inside me and press against the places that feel good.
I slide in another finger and think about your cock. You’d go slow at first. That’s so like you. But you’d lose that once we’re underway. You’d hold me down by the wrists and drive into me with delicious strength. The sounds I make would make you smile. Or smirk. You’d put a hand over my mouth so the neighbours don’t complain. Then you’d fuck me for hours.
I’m coming. But I keep the pressure on. In and up, fingertips slamming into the textured softness just inside me. My clit screams while my pussy squeezes my fingers tight and my back arches and I’m carried off with you. A final shout escapes me and I lay there gasping for air, twitching in the glow, alone again in my living room.
My heart returns to normal and the room is quiet again. I look down at my naked body, my glistening skin. I roll to one side and assess the damage. I missed the upholstery, but ruined another of your shirts.
But it doesn’t matter. I have more laundry in my room, waiting to be washed. If you're at Max’s, you won’t be here again for hours. I take off my clothes and put your shirt on. I have hours.