Nope.
This won’t be weird.
Not at all.
Posey is too sensible for dramatics.
Her big blue eyes look back at me as I watch her, bright and awake.
An orgasm will do that to you; wake your ass up when you wanted to stay sleeping.
“Mornin’.”
“Morning.”
Her hands are tucked now beneath her chin, prim and proper, a contradiction to the temptress stroking me off only seconds before.
There’s cum in these sheets, I remind myself.
Don’t move too far over, or it’ll be on your body.
Gross.
Posey yawns. “I’m going to make pancakes.”
She rolls toward the window and slips out of bed, adjusting the waistband of her skimpy sleep shorts. How did I not notice how sexy those were last night when I’d barged into her room?
White with blue stripes.
Mostly sheer.
Not modest, not by any means.
When she turns to stretch, I can see the darker flesh of her nipples through her white tank top. Her decent-sized breasts that I’d had in the palm of my hand.
Yeah.
This won’t be weird.
I’ve seen plenty of naked women—might not have banged most of them, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen ’em.
Posey leaves the room to go to the hall. The door to the bathroom closes, but I hear the water running shortly after that, then it opens again.
She doesn’t return to her bedroom.
“Well, shit. Guess I should get my ass movin’.”
It feels weird sliding out of bed after her; crazier that she ain’t coming back after what we’d just done. I hate to sound sentimental or attached—because I most certainly am not. But usually, when I sleep with someone, I at least make small talk with them afterward.
“She’s going to make pancakes.”
Things won’t be weird—of course not. It was just fooling around. Maybe I don’t want pancakes. Maybe I want cereal. Or fruit.
Or oatmeal.
Still.
Shouldn’t she be the one lying here, staring at the open door, wondering what the deal is? Instead, it’s me, squatting here in my boxers, feeling vulnerable and stupid.