Page 106 of The Art of Almost Losing It
I gingerly scoot onto the very edge of the mattress. I have never, ever, in my entire life, shared a bed with a male.
This is so weird. How do people do this for, like, decades? There’s just, like, a man in your bed. At night. Every night. Also, why is he generating so much body heat?
His hand is like an inch away from my butt. I slap down the thought of him inching that hand closer to me, his fingers feeling me through the thin fabric of the shorts and my panties. Which I am wearing, thank you very much. Though they are uncomfortably wet.
My back feels tight. I should flip over, but then that would put my boobs close to him.
I can feel him breathing—like the mattress moves whenever he inhales or exhales. It’s not right to be this close to another person.
I roll over onto my back and cross my arms over the top of the covers, but now our arms are touching.
“Stop manspreading,” I finally whisper.
He sighs and scoots over. “I’m surprised you’re sober enough to have that much spatial awareness.”
“I don’t do dry January,” I whisper. “I do couch-snack January. But I’m really thinking I might do, like, a dry April or something.”
He lets out an annoyed sigh.
“Paris,” I whisper. “Let’s go to Paris.”
There’s another annoyed breath. “I don’t want you puking in my plane.”
20
GRAHAM
There’s someone staring at me.
I don’t sleep soundly. Ever. Never have. It was dangerous in the cellar, to sleep without one eye open.
Something happened last night, though, and I’m sluggish as I try to wake up out of my uncustomarily deep sleep. My body remembers, though.
Wake up—there is someone here.
Finally my eyes open, and I’m staring at a gray T-shirt and inhaling deeply. There’s that smell of something sweet and fruity.
I feel fingers in my hair.
My hand tightens on the hip that, for some reason, I’m gripping.
“Why are you looking at me?”
Dani squawks and falls off the edge of the bed. I peer over at her on the floor.
“You’re hogging the whole bed. Also, did you know your lashes are absurdly long for someone with a Y chromosome?”
“Why are you staring at me?” I demand. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Relax, you’re not that kind of kidnapper.”
I strangle a curse. “Get back on the bed before someone thinks you spent all night on the floor.”
I don’t want her in the bed with me, of course. I don’t want to curl up next to her, to go back to whatever state that was where I was safe and dreamless.
Her hair is in soft curls around her face. She’s there in my shirt, the outline of her curves under the soft gray fabric, her lips parting when she looks at me, still sleepy, but like she trusts me enough to sleep next to her and not pin her to the mattress.
Not relish in that squeak she’d make when I hike up her leg, run my tongue along her pink slit, bury my face in her pussy, work my fingers up her cunt, suckle her clit until she’s fucking herself on my hand while she squeals like a little sex doll—
