Page 33 of Spicy or Sweet
She pulls back, and it takes a second for my hazy vision to focus.
Her face is glistening. “That was quite the appetizer,” Noelle says, licking her lips.
I almost come again at the sight. I’m fucking spent, but desperate to get her in my bed—desperate to get my hands on her. “My apartment.” It’s a struggle to get the words out because I still haven’t caught my breath, but if the grin that lights Noelle’s face is anything to go by, she likes seeing what she’s done to me.
“Your place,” she agrees.
She helps me down, frowning as she hands me my clothes. I’ve never regretted my choice of pants as much as I do trying to wriggle into jeans when I’m so fucked.
Noelle tuts. “What a waste, considering I’m taking those off you again the second we get in the door.”
“What about the takeout?”
“They can leave it at the door,” Noelle says, grabbing her bag. “Do you have everything?”
Almost certainly not, I think, as I look around the kitchen. I feel like my head is full of cotton balls.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “I think you fried my brain.”
Noelle laughs, the sound soft and twinkly like jingle bells. Fitting.
“Keys?” she prompts.
I pat my jeans pocket and nod.
“Purse?”
I pick it up from where I unceremoniously dumped it on the floor this morning.
“Phone?”
I grab it from the counter, both relieved and a little disappointed that I wasn’t filming B-roll. I wouldn’t mind having that to watch back in slow motion. I say as much as Noelle leads me out of the kitchen, locking the door behind us.
“Do you always watch porn in slow-mo?” she questions, drawing a laugh that takes more energy than I realize I have from me.
“Can you do that?”
She shrugs. “Probably. Sometimes I watch at double speed when I’m in a rush.”
I follow her across the street, gaping at her back. “Are you serious? Tell me you’re messing with me.”
“I’m a busy girl!”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
We climb the stairs to my apartment, and Cat appears, as always, like he’s just been waiting for me. He has access to my apartment when I’m gone—I always leave a small window open, and he can access it via the patio—and I know he hangs out on my couch and my bed based on the indents he leaves.Sometimes, I think he greets me at the door just to make me feel guilty for leaving him all day.
Not that he seems all that excited to seemethis evening. He stops short, chirping at the sight of Noelle, and promptly flops over on her feet.
“Oh my god!” she squeals, practically tossing her bag aside in favor of picking him up. “Look at you, sweet baby. What’s your name?”
I pick up her bag and shoulder it as I unlock the apartment door. “I don’t know his name, so I just call him Cat,” I explain, and she removes her face from Cat’s belly—where she appears to be blowing raspberries—to stare at me with a horrified expression.
“And that’s the saddest thingI’veever heard. What the hell, Shay? Name your cat!”
“He’s not actually my cat. He just showed up and moved in one day.”
I pour his food into his bowl, and he meows until Noelle lets him down. You’d think he’d never been fed.
