“Duly noted,” he says. Before he speaks again, he looks down at himself, a little shy. “I want to roll on my side and look at you, maybe even hold you, but then I’d make a mess of you and your bed.”
My first reaction is to tell him I don’t care. I have other sheets and I’m not afraid of mess. But my next thought has me realising that’s effectively me saying I want him to hold me more than anything right now and a battle instantly rages inside me. Because I can’t want that. I don’t want that. And I definitely don’t want Charlie to think I want that.
“I need to clean up the spilt milk anyway,” I say pushing up with my arms, which feel shaky and weak. Fuck that orgasm.
“No.” Charlie sits up next to me. “I’ll do that. Just point me in the direction of your bathroom and cleaning products. In that order.”
After showing him where the bathroom is – which he would have figured out on his own considering it’s the only door that’s not the front door – and telling him he should find everything he needs under the sink, I watch a naked Charlie walk away from the bed. It hits me then what we’ve just done. What I’ve just done. I’ve just slept with a man. A man that has a small, tight arse and taut muscles in his back that ripple as he moves. A man whose arse looks delectable and whose muscles I want to reach out and bite.
Fuck that orgasm and the inordinate amount of oxytocin it dumped in my system. I need to make sure Charlie drinks some water, offer him something to eat and a shower and then order him a taxi.
As Charlie is in the bathroom, I slowly get off the bed and find my black silk robe. Wrapping it around my body and tying it, I walk to the kitchen, tip-toeing over the milk spill. I’m not really going to make him clean it up, but first I need to drink water. The pressure in my forehead has intensified and is pulsing behind my left eye, as it often does after an orgasm like that and I know water, food and sleep are essential right now. After downing a full pint glass, I get another glass and fill it up for Charlie. I then look in the fridge to see what I can make. Uninspired, I allow myself to fantasise briefly about a large take-away margherita pizza but then remember how much pain that would potentially bring me in the morning in the form of a migraine I simply cannot afford to have what with the pitch taking place on Monday.
The reminder of work has me looking at the clock on the wall and realising the sooner I get to bed the sooner I can get up tomorrow and do some more practise runs.
Just as I’m deciding on making some pesto pasta, arguably the quickest food to make that I have all the ingredients for, Charlie emerges from the bathroom.
“Here,” I say handing him a large glass of water.
“Thanks,” he says and takes a quick sip.
“No, drink all of it,” I say, pointedly.
“Oh, okay,” he says and downs two-thirds of it before putting it down on the side. “What are you doing?”
I don’t look back as I fill a saucepan and turn on one of the rings of the hob.
“Making you some food.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Well, I need to eat too and it’s nothing fancy. Just some pesto pasta. And you really shouldn’t get excited. The pasta is gluten-free and the pesto is vegan.”
“Remind me to not put you forward to work on any food brand campaigns,” he mutters and when I look back to deliver an equally scathing reply, I see him pulling up his boxers.
“After this week, you won’t need to ‘put me forward for any campaigns’. I’ll be picking and choosing them hopefully.”
“You’re really still gunning for Creative Director that hard?”
I glare at him. “Just because we did… that, doesn’t mean I’m just going to roll over and go easy on you.”
“After what we just did, or rather what you just did to me, I don’t think you know how to go easy on anyone.” He rubs his backside and scrunches up his face.
“Haha,” I say sardonically before turning back to the hob. “Looked like you were enjoying it from where I was standing.”
“I believe,” Charlie says, his voice suddenly much closer. “You were kneeling.”
And then he’s standing behind me, sliding his hands around my waist and pressing his front to my back. He’s all warm and solid and sturdy and I hate myself for leaning more of my weight against him, but not enough to stop myself.
Fuck. That. Orgasm.
“You really don’t have to cook for me.”
I don’t say anything to that. I don’t have the sort of nice reply that demands, but nor do I want to tell him to fuck off like some of my instincts want me to.
It should be strange when we stay like that as I cook. Him in his underwear behind me and me stirring the pasta and reaching for bowls. Because my kitchen is so small, I barely have to move to find everything and so Charlie keeps his hold on my waist, occasionally dipping his head to nuzzle into my neck. The first few times he does it, I have to fight the urge to pull away or tell him to stop. But then I find myself leaning into it and rubbing my head back against his.
Fuck. That. Fucking. Orgasm.
