"In Which Reality Is, Not in the Slightest, a Meet-Cute Moment"

(Pt. 3)

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Service Entrance, Encontrarse

3:10 PM

"You're just telling me that now?!" I exclaim, aiming for another kick to his shin.

This time, he swoops down and catches my foot before they can do any further damage.

I try to wrench myself away to no avail, his hold strong and unwavering.

I give up — at least until he loosens his grip.

Satisfied that he got my resentful attention, he starts to explain. "You told me we'll talk about it first thing in the morning. And then, you snuck away before I even woke up."

I grit my teeth, spewing every word like acid. "Now, you're telling me it's my fault?! Do you have any idea of what kind of shit I went through?"

"I can probably guess. About protection"—

I scream in frustration. "Forget the birds and the bees,* I have The Shot!* And, you'll bet your ass when I get a venereal disease, I'll be seeing you in court!"

"Same goes for you. And, don't think I won't include in my defense how you should've stuck close to your friend instead of attacking a man for his 'meat-stick'."— he finger-quotes — "I suppose everyone in the jury would agree that would've been the most common thing to do. But I guess common sense is not for everyone," he retorts in a condescendingly calm manner.

That's it, fuck his jawline that can cut through a diamond!

"Nobody told you to take me back to your place and have your way with me!" I vehemently point out, "You could've left me at a police station, for all I care! I had to listen to a sermon from all of my friends and beg them to drop a missing-persons search before anyone from my family finds out! What's more, I can't even exactly remember what happened that night!"

"If it helps, it was purely consensual," he offers as an afterthought to my — what he may have perceived as — incoherent rant. 

"No, it does not," I disprove, resuming my helpless struggle to get my foot free.

"Listen here, I have no idea why"—

"Oh," I interrupt him again, "I think you do. Carrying a drunk person to your apartment and fucking her, doesn't make any you less bad than any drunken assholes from the club last nig"—

He suddenly drops my foot, making me stumble a bit before I can regain my balance.

Arschloch!*

His square jaw hardens. A dark expression covers his features.

His voice gains a hard edge. "And yet, the difference is you didn't let those assholes fuck you, but you wanted me very badly."

"Because I was drunk! I could've humped on anything that had a rod. It's one of my defining drunken personalities."

A glint of curiosity briefly crosses his eyes."Are you saying there's more?" he asks.

I breathe through my nose, willing myself not to hit him — as much as that would really make me happy today. 

"The point is, you don't hear me screaming, 'Come, pillage my vagina!' while sober! When a girl flies at you naked, you don't just sit there and wait for her to impale herself on your dick —you restrain her or lock her in the bathroom!" I snap at him — literally, with my fingers.

He crowds me in again, leaning his head down. He tips my chin upwards until his minty breath hovers over my lips.

I hold my breath. A frisson of desire and apprehension clouded my senses.

His icy somber eyes invoke something from deep within the recesses of my mind.

"You sobered up pretty quickly enough to remember that part. Just because it's always a man who initiates the first move, doesn't mean a woman can't. And, you've proven that to me all too well last night."

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3:45 AM

Tia's Neighbor's Apartment, (Definitely) Averill

https://youtu.be/DyMMEmwFQUE

"Just give me booze," I say in a petulant tone, wrapping the covers around me as if they can mask the embarrassment swimming on my face.

Any sliver of sensibility — and dignity — had flown off the moment he took me into his cave and dropped me on the bed with a smoldering look in his eyes.

His shirt was already gone — torn to shreds when he was warding off every shot I took into sneaking my hand down his pants.

Oh, god. I sound like a thirsty bitch — and I'm living for it! 

His shirtless torso was a perfect thirst-trap. Wide and rippling with hard planes of muscles everywhere, it was lightly sprinkled with fine blonde hair.

I can still feel my mouth salivate at the thought of licking those criminally gorgeous packs of abs, lips tingling from the remaining heat of our kiss (if you can call our intense tongue-wrestling as kissing).

I may have initiated the kiss, but by the time his tongue sank in, he easily took control — and I let him.

It could be because he didn't rush.

No, he took his sweet time, exploring every crevice of my mouth while coaxing me to do the same with his.

He breathed me in like I was the last bit of oxygen in the world, his warm honeyed breath thrilling — and awakening — the sleeping sexual being in me.

His sensuous tongue, however, wasn't the final blow to my logic — or my 4-month long dry spell.

It was the act of dominance and possession as his strong hand tenderly collared my nape, pulling me further into the kiss and smashing every chance of escape.

He devoured me of my senses and rendered me defenseless and intoxicated — addicted — into wanting more.

And, dammit, I want more.

All because of a kiss.

Standing, his back ramrod straight, he had the kind of shoulders that can carry the brunt of his problems without him knowing the difference.

Atlas.* That was what I kept calling him throughout my aching state of arousal.

Pain etches on his beautiful features, his own arousal clearly apparent from the huge bulge on his pajama pants. That expression alone should've been a balm to my wounded ego. To know that I'm not the only one suffering from this attraction.

Yet, a part of me was inflamed even more as to why he's so determined not to give in the first place.

It's not because of vomit-breath, is it?

I cup my mouth. Hah-hah! I secretly smell my breath.

Talk about a total boner kill. Based on experience from countless hangovers, I knew the alcohol had to go somewhere — either at the front or at the back.

Why did it have to go front? And on his shirt too?

"It's not because you puked all over me. I just don't want this to be a drunken decision," he finally says in resignation, scratching the back of his neck.

It took me a moment to realize that I was saying my thoughts out loud. It took another moment for my ears to perk up. 

Why didn't he say so in the first place?

If this was an attempt to placate me... I'll take it, anyway!

Still, something held me back from pawing every slab of this muscular perfection.

I bite my lip, amusement toying at my lips. "Let me get this straight. You refuse to be like other guys who would act on something they would want to do — even when they can — because you're trying to respect me?"

The last two words fell into a chuckle.

"That was very.... noble of you." Something warm begins to blossom inside my chest. "oo bad, I'm too buzzed and horny to look into it.

I sit up and crawl onto his lap, my hand inching painfully near his growing arousal. "So you want my sober consent?"

He stares at me. This time, his eyes mirror the same yearning for touch as mine.

"Fine, Atlas," I slip my arms around his neck, my taut nipples brushing along his.

"I, Ave Michaels, am of sound mind and give you consent to have sex with me. Want it in writing, too?"

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Service Entrance, Encontrarse

3:15 PM

https://youtu.be/bc0KhhjJP98

"Atlas," I exhale sharply.

"You don't even remember my name, do you? Just forget it. You're welcome, by the way," he says, bringing me back from whatever acid flashback I was in.

I blink the lucid thoughts away, while a sense of turmoil grips the inside of my stomach.

He stares at me one last time, then turns his broad back and walks away.

No, not yet! A surge of panic fills me to my core. "Wait!"

He pauses for a bit in mid-step.

I hesitate for a bit. He resumes his step.

Oh, to hell with it! I bite the inside of my cheek.

"...Please," I mumble under my breath.

He turns around, and I feel the air get knocked out of me again by the Bishie Sparkle filter.

I blink at him, shifting my legs awkwardly. "I..."

He stares at me, his enchanting silvery-blue eyes glistening as bright as the bluest skies reflected on an ocean.

I square my shoulders. Here goes.

"I suppose you wouldn't mind giving me my jacket back?" I finally say, choosing to cut through the tension in the air. 

"Hey," I call behind him, "you owe me 150 bucks for that!"

He doesn't turn around — not even to peek over his shoulder. He just straight-up keeps on walking out into the street.

I clutch at my head in frustration. 

Yeah-yeah. Walk away, you infuriating man.

Two weeks from now, I'll personally get my jacket back, and after that, I'll torch your place.

Or, maybe replace your condom stash with smaller-sized ones.

Let's see you get laid with those!

Just you wait.

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P.S. Scroll down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality Is to Continuously Shoot Oneself in the Foot".

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

Fooled Around and Fell in Love — Elvis Bishop

Come and Get Your Love  — Redbone

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TRANSLATION

Arshloch — Asshole

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*[F/N]*

Birds and the Bees — a story sometimes told to children in an attempt to explain the mechanics and results of sexual intercourse through reference to easily observed natural events.

The Shot — (slang) an injection of hormones (similar to birth control pills) that keeps women from getting pregnant. Once a woman gets it, control is covered for three full months. 

Atlas — (Greek Mythology) a Titan who was responsible for bearing the weight of the heavens on his shoulders, a punishment bestowed on him by Zeus.

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SNEAK PEEK

"Tighten your spanks, everyone. The redcoat is coming!"

Gone was the laissez-faire atmosphere in the workplace and swiftly possessed by a high-functioning work ethos where its employees thrive on adrenaline and anxiety, as they seem to vie for the titular, 'Employee of the Month' picture frame on a proverbial break room wall.

I watch in strange fascination from left to right as everyone scurries into their desks, multitasking in between rearranging folders and binders while fixing themselves.

Some of them even throw away their thousand-calorie food and drinks, spraying the air with air fresheners and perfume to mask the smell.

I cough as one of them accidentally sprays a Chanel No. 5, its droplets dispersing straight to my face.

I glare at the person who, by the way, didn't even bother to apologize!

Like a bunch of ants, all this scene needed was someone to trip down and send papers flying in the air in total chaos while their coworkers trample over them.

They act like Miranda Priestly* is gonna come through that door any time now.

CLIP! CLACK! CLIP! CLACK!

The staccato sound sharply cuts through the air. A sudden wind of stillness blew over, not a single sound came from inside the hallway.

Just then, the glass doors swing open.

In a double-door entrance, Margaux Delamare, the illustrious editor-in-chief of Pulse, walks – no, floats – inside the room in all her immaculate Vieux riche glory, her great presence commanding every pair of eyes to dart up from their screens to look at her.

Her assistant immediately rushes to her side, her head slightly bowed in reverence with a tablet ready at hand.

She raises a thin arched brow, sliding her sunglasses off the bridge of her snub nose and slipping them on top of her hair, to reveal a pair of cold calculating argent eyes.

I spoke too soon.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André