When Felicia woke, it took her a moment to remember where she was. She was in a double bed, the sheets dark navy with pale blue pinstripes. The walls were a soft grey, the floors hardwood, with heavy, dark furniture accentuating the basic male nature of the room. Her eyes fell on the white shirt draped over a chair. The first three buttons were missing.
Oh, right.
She sat up abruptly, clutching the sheets to her naked chest. She was alone in the bed, and when she ran her hand over the other side, the sheets were cool. Where was Kyle?
She swung her legs to the floor and then paused, wincing. However she had felt about it at the time, she was paying the price for two – no, three – bouts of hot, vigorous, sex now. Her cunt ached. Her labia felt stepped on. She dropped the sheet and looked down at nipples still red and swollen looking.
She looked up again and saw herself in the mirror above his armoire. Her hair was a tangled mess, smashed flat on one side and poofed out on the other. Her makeup was entirely gone – the shower they'd taken together when they'd gotten here had finished that job – and her face looked bare and young. Her eyes were wide. Her lips were puffy with last night's kisses.
She stood up, wincing again. She was in track and field, and did yoga every Saturday with her mom, but her butt and the inside of her thighs were sore and stiff.
"I guess sex uses different muscles," she muttered to herself, and then had a fit of the giggles.
Where the hell was Kyle?
She retrieved the button-impaired shirt, spent two minutes grooming her terrible hair into a French braid, and went to the door. The hall smelled of coffee and bacon. She followed her nose.
Kyle was in the kitchen, back to the door, scrambling eggs. He was shirtless. He was humming.
She looked at him and had to smile. He was so cute and domestic. Nonetheless, this was the proverbial light of morning and she was seized with shyness. She suddenly recalled that she hadn't brushed her teeth.
Just then he turned around, pan in hand. He saw her and stopped. They looked at one another for a moment and then he said, "Good morning."
"Hi," she said and smiled hesitantly.
"Hi," he said and smiled back at her.
"How weird is this?" she asked with a nervous laugh, twisting the loose sleeves of the shirt in her fingers.
He put the pan down and came towards her. She watched him come, watched how his muscles moved in his chest and stomach, and felt a wave of wanting come over her again. It was surreal, this was Mr. Adams, focus of many crushes at Verdale High, funny but tough, he'd given her a B+ three weeks ago on her final assignment, he'd written one of her college letters of recommendation, for God's sake. And he was walking toward her with his shirt off, a look in his eyes that could only be described as "hungry."
He stopped in front of her. "It's a little weird," he agreed. "But I woke up next to you, and I had no regrets." He brushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead. "I guess I'm crazy." He grinned at her.
She reached out and put her fingertips on his left pectoral. "I guess I am too," she said.
He touched her cheek lightly.
She looked up at him. It was stupid, how shy she was feeling, how unsure. He'd seen her naked and now she didn't know how to get him to kiss her.
"Want some breakfast?" he asked, and turned away to the table.
"Sure," she said, cursing inwardly. She took a seat at the small table in the corner. A jug of orange juice and plates of bacon and toast shared the small space with a water glass stuffed full of marigolds.
