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I rest my heels against the edge of the bed. "Please don't tell me you actually think we had sex last night. You're playing with me, right?"
"Well, I'm in your bed…" He lifts up the comforter and peeks beneath it. "I'm stark naked. And look at your face. It's positively glowing."
"I'm wearing a face mask."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
I hunch over my knees. "Be serious. For a minute. What do you remember after we left the bar?"
"I'm not sure." He scratches his nose. "But I did have a very vivid nightmare."
"Tell me about it." And since I've been in therapy on and off for most of my life, I lean back in my chair to give him some space and add, "Take your time. Whenever you're ready."
"Okay, well…in the nightmare and definitely not in real life, I must've had a bad reaction to the fries we had at the bar, and Imaaayhave been a teensy bit drunker than I realised, all of which culminated in getting back to your room and instead of treating you to a world-class marathon deep-dicking session, Imaaayhave gotten intimately acquainted with your toilet bowl instead."
He bows his head.
If he were any other random dude I'd known for a grand total of less than twelve hours, I'd be a lot of things right now. Shocked. Pissed off. Disgusted. And I'd probably be figuring out the politest way to tell him to fuck off and that I never wanted to see him again.
But there's something about Wilby that manages to bypass those instincts, and instead, I actually feel a bit sorry for the guy.
"Here's the thing," I say, and he lifts his head, looking up at me with puppy dog eyes. "I had a nightmare, too."
"Really?"
"Yes. And in my nightmare and definitely not in real life…" I roll my eyes at the absurdity of what I'm engaging in. "I ended up barely getting any sleep aftersomeonepassed out as soon as I got him into bed and kept stealing the quilt all freaking night."
Wilby looks sheepish. "Would it be any consolation if that awful-sounding guy who did that in your nightmare had the vocal cords of an angel?"
"Possibly. Unfortunately for me, that person was you."
"I'm so sorry. I'm used to sharing a bed with an unruly child with freakishly strong legs, so my muscle memory might have had me coming in a little hot when it comes to bed sheet wars." He smiles bashfully. "And what was the second difference between your nightmare and mine?"
"In mine, you didn't get intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl."
"I didn't?"
"No. You didn't make it that far and instead, you ended up vomiting all over the bathroom floor."
Wilby's eyes widen in horror, and he leaps off the bed, his naked ass tripping over the comforter he's tangled in, before he charges toward the bathroom. "Oh my goddd! I'm so fucking sorry," he calls over his shoulder. "I'll clean it up right aw?—"
He halts when he opens the door, then drops his head as he notices that the mess has already been taken care of.
I don't remember at what point he undressed himself during the night. I was too busy dealing with him tossing and turning and fighting to keep some of the comforter covering me. But somehow, he managed to get naked. Hmm, I'm picking up on a recurring theme here.
He's walking back toward the bed slowly, but I amnotgoing to take advantage of the situation.
Orrr…
What if I allow myself a three-second grace period? That'll be it. One quick peek, and then no more perving. Swearsies.
I sneak a glance his way, and fuck. Me. Sideways. It's like Wilby's walking around with a baseball bat swinging between his legs.
Heat surges in my chest, and yep, the three seconds are over. Butshiiit, that's an image that'll last a lifetime.
I pull my gaze away from him as he flops onto the bed, covering his face with his arm and leaving the rest of his tanned, muscled body exposed. I throw a sheet over him to protect any remaining modesty he may have.
He removes his arm and looks at me. "You cleaned up after me, didn't you?"
