Page 51 of Don't Fall

Drea’s car is still gone when I get home. It’s been a long day, but I’m still not ready to talk to her, so I’d just as soon she stays out for a while, Lord knows, she’ll be banging down my door as soon as she gets back.

Since it’s my night off from the basement, also known as my catch up on everything I’ve been putting off all week night, I take advantage of having the apartment to myself which can only increase productivity as far as I’m concerned.

I’ve got the first load of laundry running, the dishwasher is started, and my bedroom has been vacuumed, when I choose the largest area of carpet in the living room to plop down on. Spreading out my books and notes in a half circle all around me, I examine my options and decide on the speech I’m supposed to give tomorrow morning. My notes thus far include the topic. And nothing else.

I slide my laptop out from underneath a pile of notebooks I have stacked to my left and I dive in. Research. It’s my favorite part. I love gathering information. Learning it. Breathing it. Taking it in until I understand every angle of it. It’s what I find most appealing about journalism too. Knowing I get to learn everything first, piece the puzzle together before I share the completed story with the rest of the world.

Breaking only to move clothes from the washer to the dryer and the hamper to the washer, I spend the next three hours submerged in studying. I’m so deep into the speech I’m writing, it takes me a second to pull out of my non-stop running train of thought and fully register the sound of a key turning in the lock.

I hold my breath, wondering which one of the two people who have a key I would prefer to see walking in right now. It’s kind of tied. Drea’s still not off my shit-list, but Lane...is on my what the hell do I do when I see him now list? We agreed to no expectations. No relationship. Just, well, sex, I guess. But what does that leave us with in between? And how often are we doing the sex thing? Like, if he walks in here two seconds from now, how appropriate is it for me to tackle him and strip naked? I’m speaking purely theoretical of course. Not that I would really do that. But, I still want to know if I could.

Groaning in slight frustration over being left in limbo behind the closed door, I unfold my legs and get to my feet, purposely dragging them over the carpet as I go because I’m super unimpressed with having to contemplate all of this right now.

Well, I was. Now that the door is open and I’m looking at the sexier half of my contemplations, I’m experiencing a warm fluttery surge of pleasant emotions all throughout my body. And I’m really re-evaluating the likelihood of my tackling theory being welcomed by him.

“You know, a guy could easily start to wonder about your lack of regret when he doesn’t hear from you all day following a stormy exit from his bed first thing in the morning.” His brow is cocked to match the smirk on his oh-so-sexy lips. Oh, he would so be up for being tackled.

“Sorry, I don’t know the standard protocol when it’s not a one-night stand but it’s not a relationship either. Was I supposed to call?” I tease, though I am sort of wondering. Our arrangement hasn’t been the most conventional sort thus far. I’m obviously not clear on how to proceed.

“A text might have been nice. A naked greeting at the door when I got home would have been better.” Tackling next time for sure. He steps in closer, his hands finding my waist almost as naturally as his lips find mine.

“I had stuff to do,” I mumble into his open mouth.

“What sort of stuff,” he asks, our kiss continuing in spite of this conversation.

“Studying and laundry stuff.” I wrap both arms around his neck and pull him closer. My paper can wait. This, the hot-guy-wanting-to-kiss-me business, cannot.

I back up until I reach the sofa and carefully slide my way over the backrest down into the cushions, Lane skillfully coming down on top of me. This obviously isn’t his first sofa. But I’m not thinking about that.

I’m not sure I’m thinking about anything.

Thoughts aren’t possible when his hands are moving over my skin the way they are right at this second. Nor can anyone expect me to think when his mouth is crushing mine, tongue tantalizing me in ways that make me want to roll my eyes back into my head and just give myself over to him to do with as he pleases, because God knows it would please me.

And please me he does. Several times before we both wind up hanging haphazardly off the side of the sofa, gasping for air with super cheesy matching grins plastered all across our faces.

“I’m hungry. You hungry?” he asks, his hand moving through my hair, gently cupping the side of my head.

“I could eat.” Like a boatload of nachos. Or an extra large pizza with extra everything. I’m freaking starving.

“We need a phone,” he says, stretching his hand out over the floor and lifting the first article of clothing he can reach. My tank top. Not gonna find any phones in there.

“How about a laptop?” I ask, my fingertips just barely reaching the keys if I push them out as far as I possibly can.

“That will work.” He flips on top of me, his long arm moving over mine until he can grab the computer and bring it to us. I’m not sure if this is an act of ridiculous laziness or simply a desire to bask in the comforts of a post sex wrap up, where you’re still blissfully unaware of how awkward it is to be naked in front of another human being, either way, I like it.

My eyes move to the screen, wondering what he’s craving tonight and if it will turn out to be anything my taste buds are into.

“How’s Chinese sound?” he asks, pulling up the website to Wasabi Box, this great little place right down the street from us.

“Sounds kind of amazing.” They make the best noodles. My stomach starts to growl just thinking about them.

We scour the menu for several minutes before placing an order far too massive for two people to ever consume, and then, we’re back to dangling in a tangled up mess on the couch.

“Is it weird that we’re adding food to our arrangement?” I ask, after silently contemplating whether or not it’s a question I even want answered.

“Roommates eat takeout together all the time,” he answers, a relaxed lull to his deep voice.

“Right. That makes sense.” I’m not sure it really does, but I can roll with it.

---