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We barely made it into the house before his mouth was on mine. He stripped me down, and I’d just gotten his pants around his knees when he was surging inside of me.
“You know that’s never going to happen. We’re better off replacing your hardwood with some nice, plush carpet.”
“That’ll work too,” he says, slapping my ass.
I jump up, grab the T-shirt he tossed aside, and tug it over my head. “I’m going to make some hot chocolate. Want some?”
“Sure.” He reaches out a hand, and I help pull him off the floor, admiring just how handsome he is.
Drake might not do physical labor at his job, but he puts in time at the gym, and it pays off. His chest is rock solid, his abs are cut into deep rivulets, and then there’s that perfect little V I’d only read about in romance novels. I always thought they were somewhat of a unicorn—something most men only strive for, but never get. I was wrong. They are real.
Very, very real.
“Keep looking at me like that, and you’ll be flat on your back with my cock inside you again.”
My cheeks flush as I watch Drake hike his pants up. He leaves them unbuttoned, and I’m tempted to just throw my naked body at him and tell him to do his worst. But I’m cold, and my vagina is sore.
Also something I didn’t know could actually happen.
“I’m keeping this shirt,” I say, pulling the soft cotton to my nose.
Drake laughs, plops down on the couch, and reaches for the remote. “You say that every time you put one on.”
“You think I’m kidding. I’m not.” Turning on my heel, I head for the kitchen to make our hot chocolate. When I return a few minutes later, Drake is watching the evening news.
“Here you go.”
He takes the mug of cocoa. “Thank you.”
I snuggle up beside him on the couch and watch the news. When the anchor reports on a house fire, my mind instantly jumps to the stove.
Did I turn it off?
I’m sure I did, but I don’t remember doing it.
I set my mug down, and Drake mutes the TV. “Where are you going?”
“To check the stove. I can’t remember if I turned it off.”
When I get into the kitchen and see the kettle sitting on the back burner, I’m relieved. I can also see that the knob is in the off position, but I touch it anyway, making sure it’s there, and then I hover my hand above the stove to see how much heat it’s producing. There’s a little warmth coming off the burner, but not much, so I check the knob another three times (just for good measure), and to reassure myself, I say it out loud.
“The stove is off.”
My mom used to tell me the way I talk to myself is silly, but for me it’s a comforting measure. Later on when I start to worry about the stove again—and I will worry about it—I’ll remember saying it out loud. It’ll be a reminder that I’ve already checked it and don’t need to check it again.
So, it might be silly, but it works.
“The stove is off.”
By the time I make it back to the living room, my cocoa isn’t so hot, and Drake is watching me. The TV is still on mute, and when I sit down, he clears his throat.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Here it is. I knew this conversation was coming, and it’s probably something we should’ve talked about much sooner than now.
“You can ask me anything.”
“Have you ever been evaluated for your OCD?”
