Page 24 of Only One Bed: Anthology Vol. 1
I wake up.
Clenched teeth cage the curses I want to mutter at finding myself in the same position as the last two nights.
Hard with a perfect, oblivious woman’s leg slung over my hips.
And so, the torture continues.
I’m about to make the same retreat I have every morning when I catch sight of the alarm clock on the bedside table.
3:34 a.m.
Shit.
Too early to be a reasonable time to get up and start the day. Somehow, I have to find a way to fall back asleep. And so I lie still, trying to relax my mind.
In the darkness, my body is intensely aware of the woman sprawled next to me.
My hand rests on her leg, having found the position while I slept. There’s a slight prickle against my palm, as if she’s gone a day or so without shaving. The texture is somehow more erotic than smooth skin.
She’s real.
Yet still unreachable.
Olive’s pillow must not be too far from my shoulder because an occasional puff of her warm breath teases me. There’s also a slight pressure against my upper arm. Her hand must have found its way to my side of the bed while she slept.
Maybe I should have claimed my bed when the cat abandoned it. Is this almost-intimacy worth the painful knowledge that it isn’t real?
A soft touch on my arm has my spine going rigid. My focus hones in upon that one inch of skin, waiting to see if I imagined the sensation.
Then, a second later, it comes again. A light stroke. A small tease of a finger trailing down my bicep.
Is she awake?
Worried I’m deluding myself in the pursuit of my secret longing, I perform my own test. Where my thumb rests on her calf, I draw a simple, yet purposeful circle.
The response is another path drawn with her finger, then a full palm cupping my shoulder.
Olive is awake.
And she’s touching me.
I don’t know what this means. Logically, the best thing to do is ask. But I’m suddenly terrified that if I speak a word, whatever spell we’re under will break.
This is some kind of chance, and I don’t want to lose it.
So I let my hands speak for me. My grip drags up her calf, pausing to massage the soft skin behind her knee.
Was that a gasp?
The breaths teasing over my skin seem to grow faster.
Then the body at my side shifts. Not away, as I feared. But closer.
A heavy, toned thigh comes to rest on my hips, brushing the top of my erection. Now I’m the one gasping.
Heat builds where our bodies press together, and I can imagine the edges of her sleep shorts riding up. If the lights were on, I might see the rounded curve of her ass. Maybe the material would shift enough for me to glimpse whatever scrap of cotton covers the center of her.
Without sight, all that’s left to me is touch.
