Page 35 of Burn

As tempting as that is, I can’t.

Picking up his arm, I gently move it from my chest to beside him. He stirs a little, a soft grunt, and my panicked stare darts to his stomach.

I’m going to have to ask Scarlet how she sneaks out of apartments so stealthily.

With his arm off me, I breathe slowly, waiting for the right moment to move. I can’t move too quickly either. It’s gotta be sloth speed.

I kind of wish someone was recording it once I do move because it’s entertaining as shit how slow I can actually move. I perfected slow as a teenager anytime my mother asked me to do, well, pretty much anything other than sleep until noon.

As sloth speed continues out of the bed, I notice how destroyed his room is. His mattress isn’t even all the way on the bed. It’s like a foot off, and his lamp is in pieces on the floor next to our clothes.

Funny, I don’t remember us breaking anything last night. Did I black out?

That sucks if I did because judging by the soreness between my legs and that strange over-worked jelly muscle syndrome I have, I’d say I had a pretty damn good time.

Without waking him, I manage to make my way downstairs and through the apartment. I know his roommates are home. I can see the girl from the bar last night in her room that’s next to the small galley kitchen by the door.

I don’t peek around. Instead, I hurry up and leave as quietly as I can.

The walk outside is somewhat shameful, but not in the ways you’d think. I don’t regret anything that happened last night, and there’s certainly no shame in any of it. It’s shameful because I feel bad sneaking out. I mean, I didn’t even kiss him goodbye.

As the cold of the early morning hits my face, I raise my hands to my lips, lips that feel burned with his touch from this morning.

Crap. I want to see him again, and the thought that I won’t is depressing. I should have got his number at least.

No, Mila. That’s not how a one-night stand works, and you need to concentrate on work and being a badass boss. No time for dick anymore.

There’s another depressing thought.

Caleb actually lives somewhat close to Scarlet, and yes, I check the crossroads of where he lives. You know, just in case. He lives at the Excelsior Apartments on E Pine St and Bellevue Ave.

Perfect. Now if I get really desperate for more, I can stalk him. Or set myself on fire and hope he responds to the call.

WHEN I WALK inside Scarlet’s apartment, I really wish I wouldn’t have come here this morning. I could have easily just worn what I did last night to my parents’ house and not have seen this.

Scarlet’s on the floor next to the couch with nothing on. She’s never been modest, so I’ve seen her completely naked before. Doesn’t even faze me anymore.

It’s the guy next to her that gives my heart a jolt. It’s the guy from the bar last night. Caleb’s friend. And that’s not the part that’s concerning. It’s that he’s buck-ass naked with a pillow, the same pillow I use to sleep with on her couch, covering his crotch.

In a rush, I kick the door shut with my foot, the two of them startling awake. Well, Scarlet. Owen seems to be out cold.

I try not to look at him too much, but I do notice he’s has a similar build to Caleb. That tall yet muscular frame where you can tell they’re constantly doing manual labor and cardio. I imagine being a firefighter has them carrying people down stairs and lifting heavy burning buildings off people. Probably not lifting buildings, but my imagination thinks so.

Scarlet sits up, her wild mess of curly hair looking something similar to Pippi Longstocking. “Hey, did you just get home?”

By the way, still naked and making no attempt to cover herself. The epitome of confidence, this one.

Home? I want to laugh. This isn’t my home. It’s a couch I sleep on sometimes. “Yeah,” I whisper, setting down the cup of coffee I snagged on my way here from a café around the corner, thankful they were open on Christmas morning. There’s no way I’m getting through today without caffeine.

“So . . .?” Her eyes gleam with a brightness I haven’t seen in a while. She never liked Judah, so I suppose she never cared to ask how things went with us when we were together. Now she seems almost excited to hear about my night.

I want to tell her every single detail as I remember it, but I can’t. It’s not like I remember much of it but it comes back in waves, like flashes of memories piled on top of more flashes and I’m not sure what happened when.

I sigh in contentment, even bat my eyelashes a little and I feel slightly like Sandra Dee inGreaseand want to break out singing “Summer Nights.”

Instead, I go with, “He’s the hottest guy ever!” which is equally as cheesy, but I can’t help my grin or the pink to my cheeks from forming.

“Are you talking about me?” Owen asks, choosing then to wake up.

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