Page 141 of Going Viral for Christmas
I sit up, the blanket slides down my naked chest, over my fluttering heart. I’m wearing my leggings–which he helped me back into–but nothing else.
Bacon sizzles in the kitchen. Pans clank together.
He didn’t leave?
What do I look like right now?
Bolting upright, I snatch a shirt from the laundry basket and power-walk to the bathroom, boobs bouncing with every step.
The mirror does not offer comfort. My hair is a disaster. My mascara is smudged completely, suggesting to the naked eye that my night was either full of sex or sobbing, and my lips are still swollen. Fromhim.
Holy Lord in heaven.
After frantically brushing my teeth, I splash my face, tame my hair, swipe on concealer, lip balm, deodorant.
Am I prepping for battle? Or brunch?
I take a breath and head toward the kitchen, but don’t make it far.
There he is. Leaning against the doorframe.
Pajama pants.
Bare chested.
Barefoot.
Holding a steaming mug of coffee and wearing a smirk that makes me want to ride his face again, and then expire right there on the tile.
“Awe,” Soren’s voice is warm with swaggering delight, “were you trying to primp yourself before facing me, Bells?”
I say nothing.
“If so...you missed a spot.”
I peek down at my shirt. It’s inside out.
I want to die.
Instead of handing the mug to me, he sets it on the counter. Then, to my utter horror and surprise, he steps closer, tugs at the hem of myinside-out shirt, and begins to lift it off me, like he’s helping a toddler who got dressed in the dark.
“You look better without the shirt.” Before I can process what’s happening, he dips his head, pressing a kiss to my bare sternum. His lips trail lower, and when he kisses my nipple with hot, wet lips, Ifuckingfreak.
I jump back like I’ve been tased, and nearly knock over the coffee in the process.
His hands rise immediately in innocent surrender. There’s laughter in his eyes. “I was correcting a wardrobe malfunction.Veryrespectfully.”
This is the morningafterouronenight. And he’s still here. Smiling. Which is a problem.
Isn’t it?
Last night was obviously a lapse in judgment on my part. And I know one thing for sure—I don’t trust morning afters. That’s when reality crashes in. When the spell breaks. When the soft looks and slow hands fade into polite nods and awkward silence.
It’s when people start editing through what happened. Downplaying it. Folding it into something smaller, something casual. Something that didn’t matter. Even though I felt everything crack open inside me.
Morning afters are when one party’s gotten what they wanted. And she’s left wondering if any of it meant anything at all.
I swore never to be her again.
