Page 40 of One Room Vacancy
My eyes catch, before I can stop them, on the slope of her back, the water tracking down her spine, the quiet confidence in every step, like she does this every day, like it’s not the single hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And then she turns just enough for the light to hit?—
Metal.
A glint across her chest, silver bars where my mouth used to be.
My throat goes dry.
I remember how it felt, how she felt, beneath me, breathing hard, fingers tangled in my hair while I took my time with each piercing. My tongue curled slowly around one, then the other, chasing that soft noise she only ever made when I?—
I drag in a sharp breath and squeeze my eyes shut.
“This is fine,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Behind me, the fridge opens.
“What’s fine?” she asks, all soft and sweet, like she didn’t just walk through the kitchen like a damn fever dream.
I turn, slowly, because of course she heard me. Of course she’s standing there now, facing me like nothing’s out of the ordinary. One hip cocked, bottle of orange juice in her hand, not a single thread of clothing to her name.
“You’re not wearing anything,” I say, like it’s news to either of us.
“We’re in a heat wave,” she says, lips pushing out in a mock pout that’s anything but innocent.
She steps around me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy, with a hint of jasmine—clinging to damp skin, and leans toward the cabinet overhead.
The bare line of her hip grazes my own, and her arm brushes mine.
And then she pauses, tilting her head like she’s just remembered something. “Excuse me,” she says softly, turning back toward the counter.
She doesn’t wait for me to move. Just squeezes past again, and this time her chest presses against me—light, intentional, enough to short-circuit every working part of my brain.
I don’t think. I just react.
One hand lands on the counter behind her, the other catches her hip. I pin her there, not rough, not even tight, just enough to hold her still. Enough to feel the sharp hitch in her breath, the way she looks up at me, eyes wide but not surprised.
Her lips part like she’s going to say something. I dip my head without meaning to, forehead nearly brushing hers.
And then she lifts her arm, slow, effortless, and points to the fridge just beside us.
I don’t look at first.
But I don’t need to.
Her voice is calm, sweet, unforgiving.
“No sex, remember?”
My gaze shifts.
Cohabitation Bible
No sex with roommates
I drop my hands like I’ve been burned.
She slips past me again, this time with a smile in her voice. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
