Page 19 of Waiting Game

More… Tigger fromWinnie the Pooh.

I said what I said.

Grabbing the link, I drop it in the app.

Me: Let me know if you’re coming.

His response is reassuringly immediate:

Cole: Want me to bring food?

My stomach rumbles and my mind’s eye veers to the empty fridge and less-than-full kitchen cabinets.

Suddenly, his coming over seems like a blessing in disguise. Which makes me feel guilty.

Jesus.

Knowing what he loves, I concede:

Me: Hawaiian pizza?

Cole: No other pizza exists.

Cole: Also, you checked out my profile, huh?

Me: I did. Before I answered you.

Cole: It’s a great profile, isn’t it?

Me: Your ego is massive.

Cole: Lots of me is, honey. LOTS of me is.

Cole: Okay, I’ll bring food. And beer?

Me: I don’t really drink

Cole: Pizza, then. See you in an hour or so.

Me: Traffic depending.

Cole: Sigh. Yeah.

I let him go then, content in knowing that he’s on his way.

Now that I’ve let them loose, urges drift through my body.

Sex and I don’t have the healthiest of relationships, but I’m not about to start questioning that when I need to forget. When I need to sleep.

I think about how big Cole is. As tall as I am, he’s still got six inches on me—minimum. Then, there’s that ass you could bounce a quarter on and thick thighs that make the seams of his pants strain. Those biceps of his are huge too. He’s got veins that curl all over his forearms, and they stick out, which makes my tongue want to trace them. He’s inked as well, and my fingers curl at the prospect of tracing the lines that an artist drew on him.

I know his hugs are going to be awe-inspiring.

I bet when he holds me, it’ll be tight, so tight that it’ll help me sleep. A living, breathing weighted comforter.

Tonight, that’s exactly what I need—to forget, to be held, to lose myself in someone.

Even if that someone is a stranger.

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