Page 47 of Dirty Filthy Boy
I squeal and practically jump out of my skin. "God, you scared me."
He walks around the end of the couch, lifts me and kisses me like I'm his last hope of salvation. When he presses against me, his erection brushes against me. Amazingly, he's just as hard as the night before. When I lost my mind with lust over him. My face grows hot as I recall the things I did, the words I yelled while we had sex.
"I missed you."
"Oh." Busy as I was jotting down notes, I didn't miss him. What does that say about me? Am I using him as a hook up? As a crutch? Or maybe I was just trying to fill my mind with thoughts about my career to avoid any personal introspection. Wouldn't be the first time I've done that.
He breathes in my hair. "You smell like me."
"Yeah, I used your stuff when I bathed." His body wash had been right there in plain sight, as well as his shampoo and conditioner. I'd brought my own, but it'd felt right to use his. If he couldn't be here, I could be surrounded by him. Boy, am I confused. Do I want him or not?
He sweeps a lock off my face, and kisses my lips again. "Are you sore from last night?"
My face heats up. "A little. But I don't regret it one bit."
A boyish grin pops up on his lips. "Good." He reaches for the remote, turns on the TV, and a show pops up on the screen. A bunch of men talking about football. "The Raiders and the Cowboys. Should be a good game."
"Okay." I cut the music app on my phone.
"You want something to eat? I'm starving." He throws over his shoulder as he walks away. "I make a mean sub."
"I'll take half of one." I follow him to the kitchen where he's already pulling stuff from the fridge—sub rolls, luncheon meats, cheese, all the fixings.
"So what did you do this morning?" he asks as he starts making a Dagwood-style sandwich. Who thought he'd be so domesticated? Not only that, he's happy I'm here. Strange, since he's the love 'em and leave 'em type.
I tell him about my conversation with my boss.
"You didn't tell him you were staying here."
"No. That would not have gone well." I park my bottom on one of the kitchen stools while he slathers mayonnaise, avocado, and some dressing on one of the sub rolls.
"He's bound to find out sooner or later."
With any luck, he won't. I plan to move out as soon as I can. "Ty, I thank you for your help, but last night was a one time thing. Well I guess it's a two-time thing. If I moved in with you, my boss would hit the roof. I can't get personally involved with my interview subjects. If I did, I couldn't write an objective piece." Never mind it would break about a zillion journalistic rules.
"That ship has sailed, hasn't it?" He plates my sub, adds a mountain of chips, and slides it over to me. "You want something to drink?"
"I'll take a coke." He does have a point, but I believe I can still write an objective piece on him. But only if I'm not living beneath the same roof as him.
He grabs the soft drink and a bottle of some artisanal beer I've never heard of, and plops down on the stool next to me. Grabbing the remote, he turns the kitchen television to the same pre-game show.
Great! Now he has two tvs blaring football.
After taking a huge bite of the sub, he washes it down with the beer before pointing to mine. "Eat."
"Yeah." I tear off a piece of my sandwich and chew carefully.
"You like?"
I nod before swallowing. "You make a great sub."
When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, my senses come alive. I know what he did with that tongue.
A grin pops up on his face and he winks. Does he know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling? Probably. He wouldn't be the player he is if he couldn't read women. But I can't go down that road, not when it will interfere with what I want out of life. Sooner or later the fact I'm in his house is bound to leak out.
Finished with his sandwich, he takes his plate to the sink. Here's he gone and wolfed down his food, and I've barely taken a bite. "I've been thinking. If you stay here, I can help you."
"How so?"
