Page 57 of Dancing in the Dark

It’s the kind of ache someone feels the morning after a new workout. The ache women covet after a long night spent with someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and how many times he can do it before she completely loses her mind to insanity.

It’s the very best feeling I’ve ever known… shattered, if only a little, by the fact I’m in this bed all alone.

Waking to an encore performance would’ve been preferable.

Maximizing the once-in-a-decade luxury of Charlie having an entire night to himself would’ve been the smarter choice. But I flicker my eyes open and squint at the window already bright with a brand-new day, then I shift my focus to the clock beside the bed and read each digit slowly.

Oh-six-oh-seven.

Charlie hums something low on his breath somewhere else in his apartment. It’s a happy sound, a sign of contentment that brings a slow smile to my lips, and though I wouldn’t mind another two or three—or five or six—hours of sleep, I want none of them unless he comes back and curls up with me.

Setting my hands on the mattress, one on each side of my ribs, I push up and swallow the soft groan of a body well used. I draw a deep breath and fill my lungs with the scent of all things Charlie, and though I don’t particularly want to exhale again and lose that perfect flavor in the base of my lungs, I don’t have a great deal of control over the matter.

I turn to my side, and then to my back. Lazy like a sloth after a hard day, I make my way to the edge of the bed, then, swinging my legs over the side, I sit tall and study the shirt he wore last night.

It’s an unremarkable dark gray crew neck. There are no designs, no pockets, no buttons. Still, I fist the fabric and shamelessly bring it to my nose, inhaling the concentrated scent of the man I’ve wanted far longer than I’m comfortable admitting, then my dress, carefully draped over a chair in the corner of the room.

I didn’t put it there.

I’m not sure I even remember the precise moment he peeled it off my body. But looking at it now, I can’t summon a single shred of desire to wrestle my way back into it again. Instead, I un-bundle Charlie’s shirt and lay it over my thighs. We left it inside-out last night, too eager to touch, to taste, to consume, so I fold it right-side-in, then plopping the cloud-soft fabric over my head, I tug it down and rise from the bed so the ends tickle my sensitive thighs.

I don’t bother looking in a mirror as I tiptoe across the room, but I know my hair is a mess. My skin is probably splotchy, and if my memory is reliable, I’m quite certain Charlie was on a mission last night to mark my body in places he knew my daytime clothes would cover.

But naked… needy… here? There would be no denying his claim.

Grinning and a little too giddy for the early hour, I tug his shirt up to my nose and inhale him deep into my lungs, then I step into the hall and follow the soft tune playing along his throat.

It’s a game of Marco Polo, but he has no clue he’s playing.

I move in silence, my fingertips brushing over the freshly painted hallway walls. I come to Mia’s bedroom and peek in at the bed no one made yesterday. At the eruption of teddies piled high at the bottom end, like a toy factory exploded and all the best bears landed right here in a little girl’s room.

I study a blue Care Bear. A yellow. A pink.

The red bear’s absence makes my heart skip and sway. It makes my quickly pumping blood feel almost like a warm hug.

I keep moving, my eyes trained solely on the cracked-open bathroom door, and Charlie’s throaty lullaby drawing me closer. If I allow myself time to overthink all this, I might panic and run back to bed. I might sprint to my bag and pull on a fresh outfit for the day. God, it wasn’t so long ago I might’ve considered sneaking out of his apartment and hoping for his discretion when our mutual friends asked about us.

But I don’t want those things anymore. I want him. So I refuse myself the chance to do or think or feel anything scary at all. I merely press my palm to the bathroom door and gently nudge it open.

His golden speckled eyes jump to mine, his lips curling and tempting me to kiss. His broad chest is exposed, and further down, the same sweatpants he wore last night sit low on his hips and, like his lips, tempt me to kiss.

How would he react if I simply went to my knees for him?

If I slowly dragged his pants down and took something we both truly, deeply want?

“You’re looking at me like you’re kinda hungry for breakfast.” He drops his hand to the swelling lump inside his sweatpants. “I like it.”

A soft blush warms my cheeks as I force my eyes up again, to his handsome face half-covered with shaving cream, then to the razor in his other hand, and the small towel draped over his shoulder.

“You left me.” I exhale a happy sigh and nibble on the corner of my lips. “I’m not mad, but I was kinda hoping you’d be there so we could revisit some of that stuff we did last night.”

“Yeah?” Getting back to work, he draws the razor along his neck and up to the point of his chin. “I woke a while ago, then I spent an hour staring at you while you slept.” He flips the tap on, rinses his razor, then turns it off again and repeats. “It was nice at first. Then it felt a little naughty.” Water on. Rinse. Repeat. “In the end, I felt like a creep.” He chuckles. “And every time I moved, I worried I’d wake you up before you were ready.”

“So you came in here and took a shower.” I study the droplets on the shower stall wall. The small puddle on the tile floor, directly beneath. I look at the wet towel hung over the rack, and right beside it, a crisp, clean, dry towel.

For me?

Stepping into the small bathroom and carefully closing the toilet lid, I come around and examine us in the mirror. His hungry stare. My shy hesitation. The flex and release of muscles in his arms. The pulse thundering against the side of my neck as I carefully, timidly pry the razor from between his fingers.