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“No?” Miss Last Night said, long, dark eyelashes batting up at me, lips pursed.
“Can you just, I don’t know, can you just stand up for a second,” I said, patting wildly about the bed again.
It had to be somewhere. It had to be fucking somewhere.
Miss Last Night stood on the bed, giggling as she shook her tits at me. I looked where she’d just been lying. But it hadn’t been beneath her hips. Nor her thighs.
I was so busy digging around beneath my own back that I didn’t pay attention to her stepping one foot over my hip. Didn’t pay attention to her whispering seductively, “Oh, you want it like that, baby?” Didn’t pay attention to her lowering herself to her knees, straddled atop me.
Miss Last Night was halfway to guiding my hard cock (yes, hard—morning wood, so sue me) into her pussy before I could grab ahold of her hips, roll her over, and get on top of her.
“Yes, yes,” she moaned, clawing her fingers through her hair and squirming in delight beneath me. “Yes!”
I threw aside the sheets and flung pillows. Miss Last Night unfortunately misconstrued all of this as a wild desire to fuck, and fuck hard, instead of what it really was, what it had all always been: me trying to find that goddamn bottle of whiskey.
Beneath me, Miss Last Night dragged her hands up and down her body, squealing as she pinched her own nipples, bucking her hips up at me like I was balls-deep in her.
“Yes, yes,” she moaned. “Let’s do this all morning. All day!”
I leaned over Miss Last Night to wriggle my fingers beneath the mattress and the wall and yelped because of two things at the same time: one, because Miss Last Night had sucked my balls into her mouth when I stretched over her and two, because I’d found the bottle of whiskey at long last! See, perseverance does pay off, kids!
Miss Last Night groaned in disappointment when I pried my balls from between her lips. I groaned in disappointment when I saw that I’d left myself no more (but no less) than three drops of whiskey.
“Bollocks,” I muttered as I crawled out of bed.
Not only was I not able to sleep in, to avoid the day, that day, but now I was also not able to just stay in bed and drink the hours away. If I wanted to get to the forgetting part (which I did, I absolutely did), then I would have to go downstairs. The way the day had started I wouldn’t have been surprised to have to go out to get a bottle from the liquor store either. To have to see all those happy faces in the sun. To remember for way longer than I ever intended.
“Look, like, are we having sex or what?” Miss Last Night said from the bed.
I glanced over at her as I tugged on a pair of sweatpants. She was propped up on her elbows. One leg folded seductively over the other. Pouting at me. I saw it in her hooded, hungry eyes: she was a naughty Miss Last Night. She was the kind who swore all she wanted was a good fuck and a quick goodbye, but heard wedding bells when she closed her eyes. She was the kind who lied about yoga in the morning anyway, a busy day anyway, “I have better things to do than lie around with you all day” anyway, but had plans as clear as a bright blue day. She was the kind who complicated the simple. The kind who would not go easily.
“Come here, love,” I said, holding out my arms, half inside a jacket, half out, “come, come.”
Miss Last Night hesitated half a second. For half a second, she worried it was a trap (it was). But I smiled my charming, disarming, winning smile and half a second later she was pressed against me.
Lips against her warm hair, I said, “I think your dress is on the chair there.”
The cursing started then. She stomped into her dress. Yanked it up. The zipper broke halfway, she tugged it so violently. Those three drops of whiskey went fast. And didn’t go far. I rubbed at my temples and let loose a few curses under my own breath.
“Love,” I said, “would you just look at me for a second?”
Miss Last Night pushed her thick curls from her face and glared at me.
“You’ve got your dress on inside out.”
Miss Last Night growled and stomped out of my room. I followed with my hands stuffed into my pockets. All that mattered was that she leave. Angry or not, I didn’t really care. Not today at least. All I cared about today was getting that bottle of whiskey. Getting back to my room. And forgetting. That was it.
Miss Last Night was almost to the top of the staircase when she turned around abruptly. Shite.
Voices came from downstairs, the shop already up and running for the day, but they might as well have been on Mars, because there was no getting past Miss Last Night in that narrow hallway.
“No,” she whispered dramatically, hands on my chest. “No, I can’t just let this go.”
“Let what go?” I whispered back.
“This,” she exhaled.
“This?”
