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Friends. We’re friends.
“Not all the time, but, I guess, sometimes. It’s super comfortable and it’s long sleeved so it keeps me warm without getting hot.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s completely logical for her to be sleeping in the shirt I left. But the fact still remains: she sleeps in my shirt.
“Sure, I can see that.” I decide to let her off the hook with her sorry excuse, but I can’t help but smile as I force my attention back to my computer. It’s futile, though, trying to work. Instead, I’m picturing those smooth legs as they disappear beneath the starch-white material. My hard-on is steel and reaching epic levels.
Shutting down the laptop, I grab a pair of running shorts from the dresser. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Are you sure you don’t want the bed?” she asks, drawing the covers back. “I’d happily take the pullout.”
“No, it’s fine. I like sleeping on carpet-thin mattresses with a bar running across my back.” I throw her a big smile so that she knows I’m kidding.
“Just for that, I’m only giving you one pillow,” she says as she tosses an extra pillow from the bed straight into my face. Her laughter follows me all the way into the bathroom.
The hot water beats down on my neck as I stand beneath the water. It ebbs away the tightness in my muscles, except the one between my legs. My cock still throbs with need, and seeing Payton in my shirt hasn’t helped the situation in the slightest. Instead of taking my problem in hand, I turn the hot water almost completely off. The frigid temperature helps alleviate the ache, but doesn’t remedy it completely. There’s only one thing that’ll fix that problem, and she’s sleeping on the other side of the bathroom wall.
The lights are off when I step into the room. There’s a glow from the television bouncing off the walls, and it helps illuminate the woman lying on her side, watching an episode of Friends. I throw my wet towel over the bar in the closet and make my way to the couch, which is already pulled out.
My shorts are comfortable, even though the pullout isn’t. I was right that the mattress is paper-thin, and I’m rewarded with not just one, but two metals bars under my body. Looks like Payton’s presence isn’t going to be the only thing keeping me from getting any sleep tonight.
It’s quiet for a while, but through the glow of the TV, I can see the contours of her face. She’s propping her head up on her hand, her soft brown hair falling in waves around her face. She’s, without a doubt, the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. Brooke was beautiful, but has nothing on Payton.
I roll to my side and watch her for several minutes, inundated with a fierce longing that it almost causes physical pain. She smiles at the television, the episode where Monica wears the turkey on her head and dances for Chandler. He answers by telling her he loves her. I’ve been in love before, but not the way you’d expect. I love my mom and daughter fiercely, I loved Staci Jordan in high school the way you always treasure a first love, and I loved Brooke as much as I could. She was difficult, though, and loving her wasn’t easy.
“Payton?” I ask when I notice her eyes starting to droop. She glances over at me, those gorgeous green eyes focusing on me. “I wasn’t going to sleep with her.”
She stares straight at me as if trying to get a read on the conversation. “It’s not any of my business, really,” she says as if trying to brush it all off.
“I know, but I want you to know.”
“Okay,” she whispers. One word but it’s laced with understanding and longing.
“Good night,” I tell her, desperation starting to take over. Not only does my body want to climb in bed with her, but so does my head. And don’t get me started on my heart. That pesky organ is beating wildly, ready to jump off the cliff without even giving a glance to the dangers down below.
“Good night, Dean,” she mumbles as her eyes close.
I watch for several more minutes, like the creepy stalker I apparently am. Her eyes flutter softly and her mouth opens faintly, the slightest little moan slipping from her lush lips. I realize I could watch her sleep every night if given the chance. In fact, I did watch her for a long time that night I stayed at her place. I watched until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer and finally succumbed to sleep.
Which is what’s happening now. My own eyelids start to droop and my body relaxes. Even Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox can’t keep me awake any longer. As exhaustion sweeps through my body, my last conscious thought is of the breathtaking brunette sleeping across from me. We’re not even in the same bed, but I feel joy and a calmness I haven’t experienced in I don’t even know how long. Just being in the same room with her brings me peace.
I should run from that.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
* * *
Coffee is great. Coffee is my best friend. I’m pretty sure I lived on coffee and toast when Brielle was an infant. And now it’s just a regular part of my morning routine. When Payton was in the shower, I slipped from the room to retrieve us both a coffee. Sure, there’s a tiny coffee pot in our room, but that little thing isn’t enough to make one large cup of joe, let alone two. And listening to the sweet sounds of her working through her morning routine was doing a number on my mind and my groin. So here I am, carrying two large coffees back up to our room. I wasn’t sure how she took hers so I snatched packets of cream and sugar from the restaurant, just in case.
When I enter the room, the bathroom door is wide open. She’s standing before the mirror in a pair of black slacks and a purple top that flows beautifully around her curvy body, putting on makeup. Her hair is already dry. She brushes one color across her eyelids, followed quickly by a second. She has always worn natural colors. When our eyes connect, I realize I’ve been standing there watching her getting ready for her day as if I’m witnessing the behind the scenes secrets of NASA. I feel elated to be able to see this part of her, a concealed part of her day that no one gets to see.
Except me.
We’ve been staring for several moments when the warmth of the coffee cups starts to permeate the palm of my hand. “I grabbed you a coffee,” I say casually, stepping inside the bathroom and setting it down on the counter.
Big mistake.
Her scent is everywhere. It’s floral with a hint of fruitiness. I’ve dreamed about this particular smell for months, and now it’s standing in my bathroom, putting on makeup. Her eyes are sparkling emeralds under the harsh florescent lighting of the small bathroom. She’s so close, close enough to touch. I crave her and almost groan aloud in need.
