Page 91 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Wall-mounting an electric fireplace.Hbu?he writes back a moment later.

Working on some MBA orders. Could use a hand if you’re free. Love Potion and pizza?

Is that your version of Netflix and chill?he asks.Because if so, count me in.

After I order the pizza, I set down my phone and fish around for my smudge spray. I’ve got about two more applications left in the bottle as I coat my palms in the fast-drying liquid. Sure, it’s an expensive and laborious undertaking to make a batch, but I’ll continue to do it. Because despite what the cheeky label says, this stuff hasn’t been a cock block at all. Although it has protected me from visions of him and I doingwhatever, it has allowed me to be vulnerable in his presence, which has led to some amazing times. I can’t wait to see what happens tonight while we’re alone in this big, empty house.

“I’m trying really hard to be American. But I just don’t think deep dish counts as pizza. We’re using forks and knives to eat it for crying out loud.”

He’s not wrong. Pizza is supposed to be a handheld delicacy. But the truth is, the more grease I get on my fingertips, the more I have to wipe my hands with a napkin, and the less smudge spray stays on. With such little left in the bottle, fork-and-knife pizza it is.

“If engineering fails, you should consider being a food critic,” I joke. “Now hand me that jar of flower petals. We need to get concocting.”

“Concocting? Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“Depends what you thinkitis,” I counter.

Ollie looks at me with eyes that say,let’s fuck.I agree with the silent suggestion—especially because there are no little ones sleeping within earshot.

He grabs my hands—no visions erupt—and pulls me out of the bathroom. He’s never been in this part of my sister’s house, but demonstrates how he intrinsically knows his way around a space without having to see blueprints.

“Another guestroom?” he guesses as he points to an untouched looking queen-sized bed.

“Bingo,” I confirm.

Ollie lets go of my hand and picks me up like he’s carrying me over a puddle and makes a sharp right into the bedroom.

“We’re totally alone, yeah?”

“All night,” I confirm.

“Good. Let’s get a little loud this time,” he states before one of his famous French kisses.

The man who is oh-so-good with his hands has virtually no issue sliding my thrift store AC/DC concert tee over my head and unhooking my black lace bra. Although I would have happily done it myself, he unbuckles his belt with a swiftness I never knew was possible and drops trou. At what seems like the last second, he flings off his crewneck sweatshirt and signature orange beanie and tosses them across the room.

We keep the lights off in the guestroom, but the bulbs in the hallway are on, backlighting an all-naked Ollie. From my vantage point—which is sprawled out on the bed—he looks like a Swedish god, chiseled in all the right places.

I wiggle out of my leggings as Ollie puts on a condom. Moments later, he descends down upon me and slides inside with that infamous ease. I clutch onto his back muscles, careful not to dig my nails too hard in the heat of the moment, as he thrusts. His groans and moans are addicting.

Following along, I allow myself to get vocal, too. Turns out, I like not worrying about others hearing me. This is another solid benefit ofhome ownership, I mentally note.

We pant, we kiss, we grab each other’s hair, and we gently use teeth in all the hot zones. The combination of all that, and more, causes me to lose track of time and space. What I am sure of, though, is that we’ve both just climaxed at exactly the same time. Our breathing is heavy, our bodies are dewy, and we linger side-by-side for longer than most people our age do after they finish screwing.

“I liked that,” he says. A moment later adding: “A lot.”

“Me, too.”

Ollie is in a continued state of bliss as he watches me pour the botanicals into the tub. The bathroom immediately starts to smell like a flower shop, which is a tough order considering moments ago it smelled like pepperoni and sex.

“Is it supposed to look like my grandmother’s bowl of potpourri broke open into a giant vat of strawberry Jell-O?”

“Yes,” I assure him as I stare at my creation in the soaking tub. “In fact, when it looks like that, that’s how you know it’s ready to be bottled. Roll up your sleeves and grab an empty vessel from the box.”

While he does that, I put on a pair of rubber gloves. I have to protect my hands as much as possible before I submerge them in the tub so as not to wash off one of my last layers of smudge spray protection before I run out.

“Do I need a pair of those?” my eager student asks.

“The gloves? No. It’s just that my hands get really dry from doing this so much,” I fib. “Now do like me: take a jar, dip it into the water, and fill it up. Then, cap it with a cork plug, dry the bottle with a towel, and sticker it with a label.”

---