It’s eleven by the time I see him standing in my bedroom doorway holding his luggage. Hair mussed, tie hanging loose. He looks tired. And he’s wearing his glasses…and scruff. God help me, the torture. He gives me a lopsided smile and I give him one in return, cheeks stuffed with popcorn and all.
“What are you wearing?”
“A thmile.” I cover my mouth to stop the popcorn from spilling out. “Wecome hoe. Welcome home,” I reiterate after swallowing.
Dumping his luggage at the door, he walks in and starts pulling off his tie.
“What are you watching?”
You. You’re by far the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. “The Leftovers.”
He discards his suit jacket and I get a tweak of something called unease. Taking another handful of popcorn, I nervously cram it in my mouth. I’m a nervous eater. This is normal behavior for me. What is not normal behavior is my roommate pulling a Magic Mike routine in my bedroom.
“You look tired.” In a daze I watch him unbutton his dress shirt. I have absolutely zero control over what my eyes are doing and at present they choose to be glued to those wicked fingers. The things they are doing to those buttons.
“Hmm,” he answers, or rather grunts.
I begrudgingly look up and say, “Is this a bad time for me to ask what it is you’re doing?”
“I don’t have a TV in my bedroom and I can’t read. My eyes are shot.” Abandoning the half unbuttoned shirt, he starts unbuckling his belt and unzipping his slacks. My discomfort grows exponentially larger. The slacks fall to the floor with a thud, his shirttails falling over his black boxer briefs. At this point I may as well be standing in an oven. So much for the sizzle being dialed down. I’m freaking roasting.
“It’s cold in here,” he grumbles.
“You think?” Meanwhile, I’m sweating golfballs.
“Hmm.”
“You’re aware that this is inappropriate, right?” Sadly, not for the reason he thinks. The way he’s back to unbuttoning his shirt, slowly and deliberately with heavy-lidded eyes on me, is starting to rev my engine and that’s the last thing I need right now. I need my engine to shut down, to go night night, otherwise I’m going to have to rub one out the minute he leaves. It’s either that or I can sign myself up for another sleepless night.
“You’ve seen me naked, Jones. I’ve seen you naked.” He imparts this wisdom with a raised eyebrow. The understatement of the year. I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of him naked out my mind––ever. “I recall you being unimpressed,” he adds, his lips quirking.
He’s left his undershirt on. Thank God for small favors.
Lust. That’s all this is. A normal bodily reaction to being deprived of what a body needs. No mystery here. Would I be surprised if my mouth watered at the sight of a burger had I not eaten a meal in years? No. Thus, I absolve myself of any guilt over this reaction.
Standing next to the bed, his expression sleepy, he waits for me to…what? Give him permission? Damn this is awkward.
“Scootch over.”
“Scootch? Say that again and I’ll be forced to revoke your mancard.”
If the look on his face is any indication, he finds something funny. I’m just not sure if he’s silently laughing at me, or with me. “You’ve seen my mancard. Does it look like it can be revoked?”
“Indirectly. I looked at it indirectly. And only because it was in my face, making threatening gestures.” My rebuttal is met by another raised eyebrow. “Fine,” I mutter sourly and move over for him. The minute he crawls into my bed I get a hit of his scent. One hit and I’m high as kite.
“How’s your hand?” I mumble, my lips numb because I’m quasi tripping. He shoves his left hand inches from my face.
“Jeez, I’m not interested in smelling it, Vaughn.” Grabbing his wrist, I hold it farther away, and turning it left and right, perform a thorough examination. Where the stitches were removed, the skin is still bright pink.
“Does it hurt?” I gently brush my index finger over part of it and he flinches. My attention cuts back to his face. “Does it?”
“No.” His gaze falls to my lips. “So, what are we watching?” he murmurs. I can’t tear my attention away from his heavy lidded eyes, those impossibly thick, dark lashes. The end of me, I want to say but don’t.
“The Leftovers. Only the strangest show ever.” And just to illustrate that God has a sense of humor and routinely likes to get his kicks by messing with my life, we both turn to look at the television screen and find the lead male character, the very sexy Kevin Garvey balls deep in some random chick, the scene complete with the requisite vigorous pumping and grunting.