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Well, that’s a first. I’ve had guys fall asleep minutes after having sex. I’ve never had one doze off in the middle.
I guess it’s not shocking. I’m pretty wasted, and he has drunk more than me. But even so, I’m a little hurt. Clearly, my performance wasn’t interesting enough to make him stay conscious. Hell, I didn’t even get a chance to begin my performance!
Should I wake him? That seems pointless. I don’t know if it’s just the alcohol or if the stress of his breakup or whatever else has been happening in his day has got to him, but I can’t imagine he’s going to be able to shake it off without having a good night’s sleep.
Should I just go, then?
I look around the room with fuzzy eyes. I’d have to find my way downstairs, call for an Uber, and stay awake long enough to get home, if I can remember where home is. Without throwing up as the car went over every bump. Jesus, I really shouldn’t have drunk so much. I’m such an idiot.
I’ll stay, just for a while. Get a bit of sleep. And work out what to do and say in the morning. He’s hardly going to blame me for being inebriated and coming onto him when he was just as bad. It was a mistake, born out of alcohol and misery on both our parts.
I fold the other half of the duvet over him, then go into the bathroom and pee. I’m too ashamed to look at myself in the mirror, and stumble out again, trying not to knock into the table on the way.
Opening the wardrobe doors, I discover a blanket tucked in the corner. Taking it, and collecting my phone from the bedside table, I go into the living room to the sofa, collapse onto it, and pull the blanket over me.
At least I got an orgasm out of it. I think about how I clenched around his fingers and cried out his name, groan, and pull the blanket over my head.
Within minutes, I fall asleep.
*
When I wake, daylight is streaming across the room, thick and golden as butter.
I blink, moisten my lips, and then push myself up to a sitting position.
I still have the blanket over me, but someone has also covered me with the duvet. My clothes rest on one of the armchairs, neatly folded. On the table is a glass of water, two Panadol, and a note.
With a shaking hand, I pick the note up. It says:
Sorry, I had to shoot off. Didn’t want to wake you. Feel free to order whatever you want from room service and put it on the bill, which I’ve settled. You don’t have to check out until eleven. Thanks for a great evening, James.
I read it again, and a third time. Then I put it down.
Heat creeps up my neck and into my face. So this is what it’s like to have a one-night stand. I feel ashamed and humiliated. To leave without even waking me! Obviously he’s too embarrassed to face me.
It occurs to me then—maybe he doesn’t remember falling asleep before we got down to anything. He might not recall anything about last night—I know some people when they drink a lot can’t recall a thing. He might not realize we didn’t actually go all the way.
Well, Aroha, this is what you get for drinking a Pacific-sized amount of whisky and going back to an almost-stranger’s hotel room. I was lucky not to have put myself in danger. He could have done anything to me, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop him.
I sulk. I should have been so lucky.
At least I got an orgasm out of it. He didn’t even get that. Serves him right. I’m glad we didn’t have sex. He doesn’t deserve to experience my superb lovemaking skills after treating me like this.
Then tears prick my eyes. The thing is, I really liked him, and I have since the moment I met him. I was so looking forward to this. And I was stupid enough to think that maybe, when we woke up, he might even want to see me again.
But then I remember that he broke up with his girlfriend only last night. He was hurting, and drowning his sorrows, and I practically threw myself at him. What man in his right mind would say no to free sex? But maybe at some point he had second thoughts. Their argument could have just been a bad row. He might have decided to call her, in the hope of giving things another try.
I sink my hands into my hair. What was I doing, going back to his room just hours after I saw him break up with her? Of course he was on the rebound. I’m such a fool. I’ve just embarrassed myself, and made things really awkward, because he’s Gaby’s friend, and in a few days’ time we’re all going to Damon’s wedding, so I’m bound to bump into him there.
Well, I’ll have to lift my chin, pin a smile on my face, and make a joke of it. It’s not all my fault. He could have said no. He could have refused to flirt with me, or dance with me, or kiss me as if his life depended on it. He had plenty of chances to tell me it was a bad idea.
I glare at the note. Feel free to order whatever you want from room service and put it on the bill. Fucking cheek. Just because he has money. I should order two of everything on the menu. Get a bottle of champagne, a massage, and have all my clothes cleaned. Steal as much as I can and make him pay for it. Serve him right.
I don’t, of course. I pick up my clothes and, pulling the blanket around me, I take them into the bathroom. I wince at my smudged makeup and wild hair. Using the hotel’s complimentary toiletries, I do my best with my makeup. I use their free comb to scrape my hair off my face and wrestle it into a ponytail. Then I pull on the clothes I took off so hastily last night.
When I’m done, I lean on the basin and close my eyes. It’s impossible to forget the way he held me tightly as we danced. The heat in his eyes. His groan as I shivered and he said, Every time you do that, it drives me crazy.
The way he murmured, Lie back, baby girl. And spread those gorgeous legs for me. I want to taste you.
