Page 18 of Just the Tipsy
“Sure. Can I borrow a t-shirt or something?” She fluffs up her curls.
“Yeah.” I go into the drawers and find one of my old ones, then dig around for some shorts. All the ones I have would fall right off her. “I don’t have shorts, though.”
“It’s fine, I don’t sleep with pants on.” She takes the t-shirt and a washcloth before disappearing to our attached bathroom.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to redirect the blood from my cock to my brain. Bianca sleeping in just my t-shirt and panties wasn’t in my mental fantasy bank, but now it’s taken up a permanent spot.
I make the bed and double check that the dogs are fine in their shared bed. Sadie’s toasted marshmallow fur blends in with Duke’s light brown fur, so they look like one ball of dog. Eventually Bianca comes out, her curls up in a bun on top of her head. If the thought of her in nothing but one of my t-shirts and panties was devastating, seeing her in it is going to fucking kill me before the night is over.
Her height exposes more of her long, smooth legs under the shirt, and the neckline of it is stretched out just enough to expose a tantalizing bit of collarbone. She’s not self-consciouswhatsoever, and I’m not sure if it’s from her being a little drunk or her modeling making her confident in her body.
She flops onto the bed, face down, and sighs. The hem of the t-shirt flips up, exposing her ass in a tiny pair of pink lace panties. Her ass is so nicely shaped and the way her panties cling to her are like art. I suck in a breath and she tugs the t-shirt over her butt again.
I hustle to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The bed is big. I’m pretty tired, honestly. I can keep my cock under control, even though I was having a difficult time keeping it together when she just sat on my lap. After I brush my teeth, I go back out.
“Is it fine if I take off my shirt?” I ask her.
“Mmhm.” She rolls over and watches me as I toss my shirt aside. Her eyes scan my chest as I get into bed, trying to stick to my side of it.
I flick off the lamp on my side table, but the light from the moon is just bright enough to cast the room in a slight glow. I can’t help but look over at her, and she’s facing me.
“Tonight was kinda nice,” Bianca says, curling up on her side and facing me. It feels intimate, especially with her guard down like this. Her eyes are filled with sleepy warmth.
“Yeah? You weren’t terrified by my mom’s shrine to me being an overachiever?” I still can’t believe my mom did that. Then again, the only other woman who’s come over was Catherine, and she was overachieving alongside me. My accomplishments weren’t as big of a deal.
“No. It made this all made sense. The fake relationship thing.” Her expression softens with curiosity. “Is it a lot? Being under that much pressure from her? Or having her and like half the women in town be that invested in your life?”
I swallow, looking up on the ceiling. “Yeah, to be honest. It felt so much easier in high school and even in college becausemy success was easily measurable — grades and awards. I knew whether I measured up. Now that I’m an adult, it’s less cut and dry. I kind of wish I could just…not give a shit about whether I’m seen as successful or not, whether it’s work or doing stuff in the community or my relationships.”
“Just break free?” she asks.
“Yeah, exactly. Just live life without either my mom constantly in the back of my head or the little voice that tells me it feels good to win.” I swallow. “Which feels like I should just be able to ignore. I’m not a kid anymore.”
The drinks made thatwaymore honest than I wanted to be. But she doesn’t judge. She just nods and scans my face.
“Sometimes our brains do shit that doesn’t make any sense, no matter how you try to look at it.” She fluffs up her pillow. “My brain does it too.”
“How?” I ask. I want to know more. To feel more of this — like she’s just trying to listen instead of fix. I want to give the same to her.
She shakes her head and closes her eyes. “I guess I’ve always been under a lot of pressure to follow a path and modeling felt like the best one at the time. Then within that there’s a ton of pressure to look a certain way or have a certain number of followers or date certain kinds of people. Which ran me into my shitty ex and kept me with him for two whole years. I wish he’d just leave me the fuck alone.”
“You’re sure he’s not threatening you?” I sit up on one elbow. I saw a few pictures of her ex on her Instagram, but he seemed too meek to harass a woman he’d date. Then again, he did look like a raging douchebag so maybe I’m wrong.
“I’m sure,” she says. When I raise an eyebrow, she holds up a hand. “It’s fine, really. Complicated. Whatever. But basically, it’s been nice being here. I even created some bucket lists so I can actually explore the world beyond my old bubble.”
I hate the idea of her ex harassing her, or even reaching out after their breakup, but I don’t want to push her too far. So I pivot.
“Bucket lists?” I ask. “Not just one?”
“No, I want to keep them organized.” She gives me a little secretive smile. “I have one for dumb, normal person stuff. Like baking things or eating at a restaurant alone. Then semi-normal bucket list stuff like stargazing in a place that’s legitimately dark or hiking up a mountain. Then there’s the sex one.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Sex one?”
She laughs, her eyes fluttering shut more out of fatigue than anything else. “God, never mind. It’s so dumb. It’s not even a bucket list, per se. It’s more like a ‘I want to learn how to be good at sex and what good sex is’ list, but that’s kind of too wordy to say.”
I blink several times. What do I even say in response to that? Or at least, what do I say that’s actually appropriate?
Before I can respond, she chuckles.
