“Morning glory,” I mutter. “I get it every morning like clockwork.”
She sits up like she’s just remembered she’s supposed to be somewhere that isn’t here naked on my sofa. “Shame I’ve got to get going. Need to get back home and change for work.”
“It’s okay, I understand. I…I want to get in early anyway. Got something important I need to sort out.”
Her eyes flick toward mine. Curious, but not curious enough to ask. Instead, she leans back down, plants a kiss on my mouth, soft but distracted, and pulls away, looking almost panicked. “Now, where’s your bathroom? I need it like NOW.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Out of here, down the hall, take a left before the kitchen, and it’s on the right.”
She glances down at herself and mutters something that sounds like a curse. Probably realizing she’s got to streak through my house completely naked. Not that I’m complaining.
“Go on,” I'm still smiling. “I’ll get our clothes from outside.”
She scrambles up, not bothering with modesty. She’s confident like that. Leaves nothing to the imagination and somehow makes it hotter.
She heads through the living room toward the front of the house, her bare feet slapping against my floor, and I get up and move toward the patio doors.
The morning air creeps in, reminding me exactly how wild last night got. The backyard still looks like the aftermath of a wild tornado.
Somewhere out there is her bra, probably stuck in a tree, and I’ve got about two minutes before some random 747 flies overhead with an over-deloused passenger looking down with one of those high-powered zoom lenses, and sees something they’ll never unsee.
I spot her dress half-draped over the back of a chair, my shirt tangled in the bushes, one of her heels planted in the grass like itlost a fight with gravity, and… yep, there’s the bra. Not in a tree. Under the table. Of course it is.
I bolt outside like I’m doing suicides at practice. Grab the heel. Snatch up the dress. My shirt, boxers, pants, her underwear… How did that end up there? Doesn’t matter.Shoes, bag, all of it is bundled in my arms like some perverted laundry service on meth.
On my way back in, I pass the table, glance down, and instantly regret it. Two plates of sadistic culinary war crimes sit there. Cold. Black on the outside, wet and raw inside. It gives me a full-body shiver. That crap tasted like depression and regret.
Sliding the doors shut feels like closing the lid on a grave.
Goodbye, lasagna.
I yank on my boxers and pants just as she comes back in, looking like a completely new woman. Still naked. Still flawless. Like her trip to the bathroom somehow involved a full spa session and angelic rebirth. I hand her the clothes and bag.
She’s got goosebumps on her arms, but looks like she couldn’t care less. “That’s better.”
I toss my shirt on, still warm from the rising sun. “Coffee?”
She glances at the clock. “Better not. But if you want, and you’re not busy, maybe tonight I’ll come over and cook for us. Something we can actually eat.”
She pulls on her panties and bra, steps into her dress, zips it up with one fluid move that probably shouldn’t be as sexy as it is, and slips back into her heels like she’s been doing it since birth.
I grin. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d really like that. But before you go… I just need to do something.”
She’s fixing the strap on her dress when I reach for her, pull her into me, and kiss her. Hard. No warning. No permission asked. Just need.
Her hands are back in my hair, mouth crushed to mine like she’s starving all over again. By the time we break, she looksat me like that dress is about to hit the floor again, but instead she sighs, kisses me once more, softer this time, and steps back. “Talk to you later.”
And then she’s gone.
I stand for a second, still tasting her on my lips, wondering if I should’ve just pulled her back in and said screw whatever meeting she’s got. But then I hear the silence. No more heels tapping. No more perfume hanging in the air. She’s really gone.
I shower quickly, blasting the cold water for the first ten seconds until my system adjusts. I need it. My body’s sore, not from any game, but from her. It’s worth it, every second of it.
Dressed in a black tee and track pants, I hit the floor and get through some stretches. My hamstrings are tight, and my right shoulder’s stiff. Nothing new. Breakfast is two eggs and toast, not exactly five-star, but better than that carbonized lasagna catastrophe from last night.
Upstairs again, I grab my gear bag from under the bed, toss in my gloves, skates, pads, and compression shirt. Puck tape and my lucky jockstrap, don’t judge.
I run a comb through my hair in the mirror, not because I care much, just out of habit. Then I lean in closer. Hairline check.
