Page 90 of Habits

He understands the need that’s hunting me. Increasing the speed, we climb higher and higher.

We climb, our bodies shaking in need.

Climb until we finally break free.

* * *

Andrew

Jeanette sighs contently as she shifts next to me, blanket tightly wrapped around her, keeping her body hidden from my eyes.

Leaning on my forearm, I look at her sleeping form. There is still a slight flush on her cheeks, and her lips are still raw and swollen from all the kissing. Her plump bottom lip sticks out ever so slightly, begging me to kiss it again.

A strand of messy hair falls over her face, and my hand darts out. Slowly, as not to wake her, I brush the lone strand behind her ear.

She looks happy, almost peaceful, and I can’t help myself but brush her cheek with the very tip of my finger, the touch so soft there is no way it’ll wake her up.

Beautiful.

Sleeping like this, in my bed, with her hair spread over my pillows and curled in the sheets where we just made love …

The words hit me like a fucking train. Hard and brutal. I pull my hand and my whole body back abruptly, so abruptly I almost fall off the bed. My mouth hangs open in surprise as I try to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. We just fucked. Not made love,fucked. The orgasmic bliss is still in the air, my hormones raging. It has to be that. There is no other explanation.

There is no way I have fallen in … I shake my head, trying to clear my mind.

They’re all the same.

But are they? Are they really?

Jeanette murmurs something, her hand reaching out.

Reaching out toward me, but before her fingers can touch me, I’m already slipping out of bed.

Away from her.

I’m standing next to the bed, naked as the day I was born, looming over her. She murmurs something again, this time unintelligible. Her hand is still outstretched on the wrinkled sheets.

Calling me.

My body yearns to go back to bed, to slip between the sheets and wrap my arms around her while her head rests on my chest, but just the thought of it makes bile rise in my throat.

I cover my mouth with my hand and rush into the bathroom. Falling on the floor, my knees hit the hard, cold surface of the tiles as I loom over the toilet dry-heaving. My breathing speeds up and a cold sweat coats my skin.

This isn’t happening.

It’s just my fucked-up brain playing games with me.

Post-orgasmic bliss.

Hormones.

Whatever you want to call it.

It’s not real.

My fingers dig into the toilet seat so hard my knuckles turn white. One lone drop of sweat slides down my nose and onto my lip, its saltiness grounding me to this moment. Closing my eyes, I will my lungs to slow down. Years of training help me zone out and concentrate on one thing at a time.

Slow inhale, controlled exhale.

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