A complete work of fiction… probably…
“Nothing quite like 6:30 a.m to ruin one incredible night,” I thought as the wailing of my alarm clock cut through the dreamy haze that lingered over me.
It was then that I noticed 4 things simultaneously. 1: My hair was a disaster. I didn’t even have to open my eyes or attempt to run my fingers through it to know that it was knotted and frizzy and sticking out from all sides of my head. 2: It was Saturday. 3: I was naked. 4: I couldn’t feel my left arm.
I turned my head to make sure that it hadn’t been amputated during the night. Two hundred and twenty solid pounds of muscle lay sprawled across most of my bed, leaving only a few inches for myself. He was on his stomach, and my arm, his naked body cutting off the circulation to my fingertips. As gently as I could manage, I slid off of the right side of the bed freeing my limb and trying not to wake him. Succeeding in only the former endeavor, my arm fell limply at my side and promptly began tingling as he rolled over and smiled up at me.
“Morning, beautiful,” he stretched and yawned.
“Morning,” I barely mumbled. Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday?
I turned from him then and trudged off toward the bathroom, acutely aware of the way my bare ass jiggled with each step.
When I faced my reflection in the vanity mirror, it was all I could do to keep from shrieking. It was much worse than I imagined. Black make-up smeared beneath my eyes which were red and puffy. My lips were swollen, deep red bruises had begun blossoming on either side of my neck and a quarter clung to my breast as if glued there. I didn’t stop to consider the reasons for the coin’s presence, I was more disappointed that it wasn’t worth more. “25 cents? That’s it? How come I couldn’t pull a hundo out of my — never mind.”
I plucked the quarter from my body leaving “LIBER–” and George Washington’s face imprinted on my cleavage. Lucky bastard.
I stared at my reflection for a moment and wondered who the hell he, naked man not George Washington, was calling beautiful.
The shower was hot, just the way I like it, when I stepped in. I let the water flow over me, easing the soreness in my back and sides as my mind ventured over the previous night’s events.
His lips at my ear, his hands clenching my hips, the growl of desire. I shivered despite the steaming stream of water that cascaded over my hair and down to my feet.
It was barely 6:45 when I climbed out of the shower, and still Saturday, but I felt better. I smoothed my hair, spritzed body spray at my throat and applied the necessities. Lotion, mascara, lip gloss. I brushed my teeth and re-applied the gloss, shaking my head at my lack of forethought. My beauty routine rarely held any semblance of logical order.
I almost ran into him, the naked man, as I opened the bathroom door. He towered over me, arms braced against the door frame, blocking my exit.
“No invite?” His expression was one of hurt but his eyes twinkled mischievously. I smiled and tried to push past him.
One of his arms hooked around my waist, pulling me against him, skin to skin once more. He raised his hand to my face, carefully brushing my cheek with the back of his fingers and stopping to tilt my chin up toward his face. He leaned in, intention clear, and all I could think was “Oh no!!! Morning breath! Aah!” But before I could dodge his advance, his lips were on mine. I cringed and held my breath. It took a minute, or a second more likely, for me to discover that it wasn’t so bad. He tasted downright minty. I relaxed into him and my lips moved with his. His hands were everywhere, on my stomach, in my still wet hair. He pressed his long body against mine trapping me between him and the vanity.
Then, without warning, he stopped.
I pushed away from the sink and out of the tiny, steamy, room. Dazed.
The bacon was already in the hot skillet when I noticed that I was still naked. I learned long ago that hot grease and exposed body parts, especially the twins, did not mix. I really didn’t want to be forced to explain grease burns on my torso to my diary.
As quickly as possible, I pulled on a pair of lace panties and a t-shirt and returned to my gourmet cooking.
When he came out of the bathroom, naked man, was only half-naked. Half-naked man?
A pair of jeans hung low on his hips. He said nothing, just stared.
Even after the night we’d shared, his gaze was a little unnerving. Too bold, too wistful. I poured myself a glass of milk and drank greedily while he watched.
“I think I love you,” he blurted out.
In that instant, I inhaled my milk. No, really, it went down the wrong pipe. I coughed violently, sputtered, my eyes watered and a little of the liquid went up my nose.
He rushed to my side, genuinely concerned, as well he should be for nearly causing my untimely demise. Death by milk. No, death by the “L” word.
“Are you okay?”
I sucked in a large breath and nodded, clutching at the stinging in my chest and throat.
At last, I regained my composure and our eyes met.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed.
The bacon was burning.
(To be continued…maybe)