I can't remember the last time I wanted a girl for conversation instead of just sex.
It's an unsettling thought. For years I've only ever wanted women for the purpose of taking the edge off—I could never find one that I actually cared to listen to. Most women just see me as a hot athlete to fuck, or an up-and-coming fighter to latch onto for social status. No one's ever cared to actually get to know me.
But Remy cared to ask questions. She cared enough to initiate a game, to actuallypushme to talk about myself. She could've jumped me if she just wanted sex, or she could've walked away if she didn't want anything to do with me. I half expected her to go back upstairs when she saw me down here. But she didn't, and instead we spent hours just hanging out.Hours.
And the craziest part is, I don't know which I want to do more of: fuck her or talk to her.
Her quiet snore snaps me out of my introspective state. I swallow nervously and look around, trying to figure out how I can move her without waking her up. But by now she's so deeply snuggled into my side that she's almost on top of me. And judging by her dead weight I know she's in a deep sleep.
I know I should move her but something inside of me wants to let her sleep—to stay in this moment of peace just a little bit longer. So instead, I settle back into the couch with a sigh. My head drops gently onto hers just before I drift off to sleep.
14
Remy
I wake up with a content smile. I feel warm and tightly cocooned, like I'm wrapped in a cloud with the sun shining down on me. My body feels well-rested, too lazy still to fully wake up. I sit comfortably between the sleep and waking state. The whole sensation is so comfortable that I sigh happily and snuggle further into my cocoon.
The cloud tightens around me.
I frown, the sensation abruptly waking me.Do cocoons move?
I blink my eyes open. I'm still too close to whatever is wrapped around me, so I slowly pull back to analyze the wall in front of me.
My breath catches as I realize I'm staring up at Tristan's face only two inches from mine. He's snoring softly. His expression is so peaceful, so happy, that for a moment, I can't stop staring. It's such a different image from how I usually see him.
His arms tighten around me again and I realize that his body is my warm cocoon. He pulls me closer so all I can do is press my face into his chest. I feel his cheek against my hair.
I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. We must've fallen asleep during the fights last night and ended up tangled together on the couch. I'm shocked to be in this position but I'm even more shocked at how much my body is enjoying the feeling. I realize that the last thing I want to do is get up.
My relationship with Tristan has only ever consisted of arguments, sarcasm, and harsh insults. It feels bizarre to have a moment free of all that. With him unconscious, I'm free to experience him in a way that I've never even imagined. And my mind can't seem to wrap around it.
It suddenly dawns on me that I've been nuzzling into his chest for the past few minutes, entirely too comfortable with the feeling of his arms wrapped around me. I need to get up. I can't be in this position when he wakes up. It would be way too awkward for both of us.
I take a deep breath—ignoring the pang inside of me that hates that I'm about to pull myself away from this moment of perfection—and gently wriggle down and out of his arms. I roll off the couch, landing with a small thud. I jerk my head toward Tristan to see if the sound woke him up, but let out a sigh of relief when I see his eyes are still closed.
I watch, curious, as the expression on his face changes. Where only a moment ago he looked peaceful, now his brow is furrowed, and the corners of his lips have turned down. He looks confused, even angry. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I think about how I hate this change in him, and that I wish he would be happy again.
I realize then that he's probably about to wake up. So, before he can spot me standing there staring at him, I bolt out of the room and head upstairs to get ready for work.
* * *
My workday is a clusterfuck of chaos. Between the constant stream of people stopping by my desk with nonsensical questions and my own jumble of distracted thoughts, I feel like I'm actually getting furtherbehindon my work. By the time 5:00 comes around I'm ready to scream my frustration.
Typically, on days where I'm in a bad spot with my to do list at work, I stay as late as I need to in order to get comfortably caught up. But I feel so frustrated with work lately that I've officially reached a strong state offuck-it.
Ignoring the surprised glances of my coworkers around me, I pack away my laptop and grab my gym bag from beneath my desk.
"Leaving already, Remy?" someone calls from behind me in a teasing tone.
I slow my determined march toward the exit and turn to see who called after me.
I realize from the lazy grin on his face that it was one of the sales guys. He's leaning against the front desk, clearly flirting with the giggling and doe-eyed secretary.
He straightens when he sees me turn around, his smirk still firmly in place. "I'm surprised. Isn't it a little early for you to be leaving?”
I continue to stare at him in sheer amazement at his set of brass balls. Even looking past his particular work habits, 5:00 is the official end of the workday. There's no reason anyone should be teased for leaving on the dot. Not to mention the company is flexible enough that plenty of people often leave at 4:30 or even 4:00—this asshole included.
"I'd say I'm more surprised that you're still here," I answer tightly. "Doesn't your workday typically end after a two-hour lunch? Or are you putting in overtime because Becca got a new haircut and looks really cute today?"