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I know all this.
It’s not helping with the way my mind keeps latching on every fucking word and gesture, turning it into something it’s not.
A rustle, his body moving even as he pushes me back against the wall, propping me there, then something soft falls over my head.
A towel.
He towels my hair off, and I can’t think or react. He throws a bigger towel over me and leads me out of the shower stall, stepping over a heap of soaked fabric. His pants, I realize, and wonder if I should pick them up, only he tugs me out of the bathroom, toward the living room.
Oh right. Okay, that’s fine. He didn’t want to keep fooling around in the shower, so we’re moving to the sofa. I’m sort of sleepwalking by now, but I can do this. Got it under control.
It’s just so warm, dammit. And the sofa he pushes me down onto is soft and smells vaguely familiar, of apples and Raine.
I blink as he grabs a pair of sweats from a chair and pulls them on, then blink again when he appears in front of me. Feels like I’m losing time.
“I’m gonna grab some dinner.” he says, looking down at me, and then walks away. His disembodied voice drifts over from the direction of the kitchen. “Didn’t eat anything tonight.”
Like I did? Heh. And the thought of food has my empty stomach cramping. Shit.
“Listen, Raine, I should get going…” I start, and stop.
I don’t wanna move yet. It’s so warm here… Warm and comfortable, and as a delicious smell starts wafting over from the kitchen, my stomach growls and twists with hunger. With my luck, by the time he comes back out, I’ll be drooling all over his sofa.
Yeah, I need to go. I make it to my feet, one hand braced on the back of the sofa since my legs still feel unsteady and the fucking room is spinning, when I remember that my clothes are wet and covered in puke and cum.
Fuck. I look down at myself, at the blue towel Raine has wrapped around my waist. Yep, I’ll have to put those stinky clothes back on and head out, pick up more customers.
“Hey.” Raine wanders back into the living room, sets something on the coffee table. A pan. “Did you have dinner? This lasagna’s pretty good.”
His words hang in space, floating like small balloons, unable to sink in.
Lasagna.
Dinner.
My stomach growls again, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet. “Uh, look…”
“Eat with me.” His gaze nails me, steel in his eyes, and I wonder what he’s pissed off about now. Then he shakes his head. “Sit. There’s enough for both of us.”
I blink at his handsome face, my heart thumping an uneven rhythm in my chest. “Okay, sure.” Christ, I hope my voice doesn’t betray me. “Thanks.”
Far be it from me to refuse a free dinner, and the smell’s killing me. He places a fat piece of lasagna on a plate, fluffy white and thick red sauce pooling, and it’s like food porn.
I swallow hard and sit back down.
He pushes the plate my way, together with a fork, and nods. “Dig in.”
It smells delicious, and I’m stuffing my face before he’s even served himself a plate. It’s hot, and holy shit, it melts in my mouth.
I barely notice when he turns on the TV on low and mutters something about channels and series and shit. Background noise. It doesn’t bother me—and since when am I so comfortable in Raine’s home?
Fuck it. I shovel in the food, barely pausing to breathe, moaning and not giving a shit. So damn good.
Then a doubt strikes me, and I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth.
Is this even real? Maybe I’m curled up in my sleeping bag, behind the dumpster, dreaming lasagna dreams.
Christ.
