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I hear my cell phone jingling in my purse as I roll back over and try to piece together getting home. Obviously, it happened, because here I am. When and how it happened, is a little harder to figure out.
Squinting until the numbers on my alarm clock become clear, I realize it's one in the afternoon. And then it all comes back to me, clear as crystal.
We made love — I mean, had sex — over and o
ver. Really good stuff. Crazy like we were starving for it. Once I felt it… I couldn’t get enough. How have I waited this long? I guess I was scared. I never thought two men would push me over the edge into becoming what I am now, a non-virgin… But it’s an amazing feeling. It’s delicious, a full-body satisfaction. As long as I don’t allow myself to get emotionally involved, it should be fine. That’s what a safe space is.
I trail my hand over my body, remembering, as my insides clench in a sudden, dreamy way, echoing the pleasure of the night before.
At some point we were exhausted, and they fell asleep on either side of me, their arms draped over my middle while I slept on my side, curving myself to fit between their bodies, feeling myself almost snap snugly into place.
Soon they were snoring, and the sound filled the air beneath the heavy, luxurious blankets. It reminded me of a lion’s den or a wolf’s den, or some other kind of communal habitat. Perfectly wonderful.
I slept until dawn, and when I woke we all seemed to wake up at the same time. Dillon pushed my hair off my forehead and kissed it tenderly while Emmet squeezed my shoulder and nibbled the back of my neck. I slid to the foot of the bed and off, pulling my dress slowly around me and tying it, not really in any hurry, as Emmet summoned his driver for me.
We kissed each other goodbye and I left their building, riding in the back seat of the chauffeured car along practically deserted city streets, watching the sun turn everything pink and then bronze. A beautiful Chicago morning, after a beautiful Chicago evening.
Sometimes it really is like a fairytale.
So, I must have gotten a good five hours of sleep in my own bed, plus a few hours in their bed, and that must be why I feel so rejuvenated, right? That is certainly the most logical explanation.
But I don't just feel rejuvenated, I feel amazing. Carefully I wiggle my hips, testing myself out. Even though I performed some astounding acrobatics yesterday, I feel fine. My nethers are little sore, a little roughed up, but I suppose that's to be expected. But my blood is pumping like never before. I feel like I'm on drugs. The really good stuff.
Smiling to myself, I arch my back. If I knew how to purr like a cat, I certainly would. After indulging a good, long, made up yoga pose, I fling back the sheet and slip to the floor. A shower would be wonderful right now. A long, steamy, scented shower. I wonder what kind of fancy soaps I have? I never use them. I'm always saving them for a “special” occasion. But the occasion never comes. I think they're in a basket in the linen closet…
But there goes my phone again. I realize it's been going off quite a bit. I should probably get that. Definitely.
For a moment, I weigh getting it before the shower or getting it after the shower. If I get it after the shower, then I'm going to come out of the shower feeling absolutely wonderful and then… who knows. Could be a buzzkill.
But if I get the phone now, anything that happens that's less than optimal can be washed away with stinky soaps.
Okay. I'll get it now.
“Did you read USA Today?” she asks me right away.
“Oh, good morning, Hannah,” I sigh, yawning and stretching some more, feeling magical. Did my skin get more taut? I wonder if I'm taller.
“I thought you writers had Google alerts set up for mentions of your name. Don't you? If not, I'm putting that in your job description.”
“Of course I have Google alerts set up,” I sigh. “I just haven't been checking my phone obsessively. But lucky me! Because here's you, calling me to tell me all about it. You're like a Hannah alert. Maybe I should change your contact ID to say alert.”
The line crackles. She doesn't say anything. Oh.
“That was funny,” I inform her. “You're supposed to laugh.”
“Did you tell Rob Meagher that Dillon is gay?”
I cringe. “Did I? I'm going to go with no. I did not tell him Dillon is gay. I mean, it wouldn't be any of my business if Dillon was gay… But I didn't say Dillon was gay.”
I roll back the tape in my mind, remembering that it might have come out that way. Did I mean it like that? Actually, I was going with the implication that Dillon was such a jerk that women didn't find him attractive. Somehow, I don't think Hannah will accept that as an alternative explanation.
“And did Dillon make some snarky comments about Rob's weight?”
“Oh, you'd have to ask him about that,” I shrug. “I mean, I doubt it, but I wasn't with him for every second —”
“Bella, tell me what our deal is.”
I open the linen closet door, enjoying the wafting smell of lavender, vanilla, bergamot, chamomile, seashell, cinnamon, and every other single spice in the known universe. Yes, it's definitely where the soaps are.
