An Unforgivable Love StoryBy: B.L. Berry
Five Months Earlier
The Morning After
I hear him before I see him.
The soft footfalls of each step as he approaches me from behind, ever so slowly.
As he draws closer I savor the scent of the freshly showered man that fills my apartment. It’s pure. Seductive. Disarming.
And the passion and desire emanating from that man behind me is palpable.
I close my eyes, hold my breath … and wait.
“Good morning …” Simon croons in a captivating, whispy breath. He leans down behind me and kisses the soft curve of my neck, just above my shoulder. My skin prickles at the heat of his breath and my palm welcomes the touch of his hand. He laces his fingers in between mine.
Just like last night.
“Mmm … a very good morning, indeed.” I shift in the wooden chair, turning my body to face him in all of his glory. Simon gives my hand a tender squeeze which unleashes my girlish tendencies from within. I smile. Which causes him to smile, exposing his wolfish teeth. He is even more mouthwatering than I remember him being last night. Beads of water drip from his jet black hair, sliding down his face and chiseled chest. My eyes can’t help but follow the lines of his abs and well-defined V which point directly to this man’s greatest asset.
An asset which I took full advantage of last night.
Wrapped around his waist is a thin, navy towel leaving little to my imagination. Or a hell of a lot, depending on how you look at it.
Please let it fall to the floor. Please.
I fight the urge to strip down and devour him right here on my kitchen table. One last taste wouldn’t hurt. Would it?
“So …” he muses, piercing my gaze, never letting go of my hand.
“So.” I will my palm to not get clammy. It’s not like me to get nervous around men I barely know, but for some reason Simon makes me feel all shades of anxiousness. Good anxiousness.
Mornings like this should be awkward. Girl meets boy. Boy buys girl drinks and charms her to no end. Girl invites boy up for a night of no-strings-attached lustful tomfoolery. And then … morning comes. Usually it involves someone slithering out of the bed, tiptoeing around, grabbing clothes and escaping out the door before the other person wakes up. But thankfully, I’m the kind of girl who can see it exactly for what it is … a one night stand. And I’m okay with that. Recently I’ve been collecting them like most women collect shoes. And before you go judging me, no, I don’t think that makes me a slut. I think of it more as being in complete control of my own sexuality since I have no time or patience for love and relationships. The last time I was in love, I was left with a third degree burn. And if you look close enough you can see the scars.
Now, under normal circumstances, I don’t let them stay the night. And obviously that helps me avoid the morning after uneasiness.
But Simon? Simon is different. Sending him home at three in the morning felt like a crime … an inconceivable act that I would inevitably regret for the months to come. Even though we only met yesterday, it feels like our souls met decades ago. He’s comfortable like your favorite sweatshirt on a snowy day. I want to wrap myself up in him like a blanket and feel his skilled touch all over my body.
He clears his throat, pulling me from my reverie. “Thanks for letting me take a shower.”
“No problem.” I pull my hand from his and silently curse myself for not insinuating an invitation to join him.
I grab my coffee mug from the table and dangle it in between my fingers before bringing the rim up to my lips to seductively blow over the piping hot liquid. I take a small, satisfying sip.
“When can I see you again?”
I watch as he begins collecting his clothes. Pieces of last night’s outfits litter the floor, left like a trail of breadcrumbs from my front door to the foot of my bed. I note the cherry red smudge of lipstick I accidentally left on his collar last night. The fact I’ve branded him on some minuscule level lights my insides afire.
“Elyse?” He pulls me from my thoughts and raises his eyebrows, wordlessly asking his question again.
Admittedly, I’m a little surprised by his request. The sex was phenomenal. Beyond phenomenal, actually. It was just as I suspected it’d be based on the chemistry we had when we first met. But one great night doesn’t mean he needs to feel obligated to see me again.
Do I even want to see him again?
I think I do.
“Um … not sure. Why don’t you call me sometime and we’ll try to meet up?” I try to keep it casual and tear a piece of paper off the notepad on the table. I hesitate and consider giving him a fake number — I try not to make a habit of repeat performances with the men I hook up with. But the memory of his hot breath as he kissed my breasts, the searing touch of his strong hands as he tightly pinned my wrists above my head, and how he fucked me until I saw and felt fireworks ultimately wins out. Eagerly, I scribble my name and cell number down for him and slide it toward him on the table. He picks it up, his electric blue eyes never leaving mine. He probably stares at me for a few seconds, but it feels like an hour. His eyes flick down to the scrap of paper in his hand.