Page 2 of Kissed By My Roommate

Like I wish our naked bodies were plastered against each other closer.

At least, my vagina wants it very much. She’s on board for me going full hussy, stripping down and walking into his room to tempt him. My brain has a whole different argument. My brain thinks it’s the worst idea ever.

I’m torn, to say the least.

Even though Juniper seemed hesitant about me moving in, for whatever reason, I’ve been here two weeks now.

He was very open about the fact he works during the day and showed me his workshop. He said it could get loud. I thought he was just overselling it. You know? Make it sound bad, but it wouldn’t really be as bad as he made it sound.

I was wrong.

It’s so much fucking worse.

I’m not sure if it’s the clanging, the sound of welding or the occasional grunt which makes it untenable for me. I shouldn’t even be able to hear his grunts considering the distance since I don’t open my window. But I hear every single one of them and they might as well be massaging my clit with the way they turn me on.

Even though its quiet now, my eyes are wide fucking open. I rub my hands over my face and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping against hope that sleep takes me like a fucking rich princess being kidnapped. I practice deep breathing. I count sheep.

None of it works.

I rip the sheets off my body, not caring about slipping my robe on as I go stomping out of my room. Apparently, before she moved out to be with the man who swept her off her feet, who happens to be the drummer for the rock band Suburban Outcasts, it was the room where Juniper’s sister, Iris, lived. It has a homey feel to it, though the walls could do with a little updating. I get the feeling the wallpaper hasn’t been changed in quite some time.

Sometimes when I stare at the wall, I think about ripping it down little piece by little piece, but I stop myself. I don’t plan to live here forever. It’s a place I needed because of the situation my old roommate put me in. Living here is not a permanent state of being.

Hell, I’ve only ever been in Juniper’s room once and it was by mistake. Well, not really. I did walk there of my own free will, knowing where I was going, but it was completely innocent. Somehow one of his t-shirts was still in the dryer when I put a load in, and it got tangled up in my stuff. I just went to his room to leave it there for him.

I even power walked to the bed, set it down and then turned around quickly enough that I barely got a look at anything.

Not like I want to look at anything. I don’t. Nothing of Juniper’s at least. Nope. Not a thing.

It did smell really fucking good in there, but that’s not the point. It’s a little detail. One which doesn’t even matter.

Nope, not at all.

I stomp down the stairs, figuring Juniper is still out in his workshop even though he’s gone quiet. It’s not uncommon. He’s probably waxing poetic about the next step in turning metal into art.

Why does he have to be so fucking sexy?

This morning when I got home from work, I found him in the kitchen in only a pair of plaid pajama pants. No fucking shirt. His muscles rippled as he took a drink from his glass of orange juice. He keeps his blonde hair short, but it was still ruffled from sleep.

He looked so fucking sexy.

My mouth went dry and my brain short circuited as I looked at him. He turned toward me slowly, his green eyes, the color of moss, taking me in. I swear I felt his eyes on me as if he was touching me. It was heady as hell.

Since I was tired, it was so much harder for me to keep up my normal defenses, but I still scowled at him. He’s the reason I can’t sleep when I need to sleep. He’s the one who has invaded my dreams. He’s the one who has made it so I can’t be comfortable in the place I’m living.

Because I want to jump him and climb him like a tree.

Does he have to be so damn sexy? Like a taunt and a tease and torture all rolled up into one.

I bet his arms would feel so strong around me. I’ve seen the art he makes; I have no doubt he would be good with his hands. He could mold me into something amazing and I wouldn’t mind.

I’d probably, to my embarrassment, thank him for it.

The problem is that I’m not looking for some hook-up. Been there, done that and I’m looking for something more. The next man I’m with is going to be the last man.

I made a vow to myself, even though I have no idea where it came from. I think it was after my last one-night stand over a year ago. I woke up in a place I didn’t know, next to a man I didn’t want to see in the light, and I had an epiphany, complete with a lightbulb turning on over my head cartoon style.

I was done continuing to chase something I knew would be unfulfilling. It’s been a year full of using my B.O.B., which isn’t the same, but it’s been better in so many other ways. I’m not worried about putting on airs or impressing someone.

I’m looking for something real and Juniper has heartbreak written all over him. It’s in his scowl.

I let out a scream when I walk into the kitchen to find Juniper standing at the sink, the white wifebeater he has on covered in metal fragments, sweat and dirt. He whirls around, his arms up as if he’s ready to defend me from some threat. Little does he know the only threat I have is from the 6’3” man standing in his own kitchen.

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