In Drunken Matrimony ✔️

Thirteen - He Who Shall Not Be Named

Update today because I'm no doubt going to be immensely hungover tomorrow xo

Hᴀʟʟɪᴇ

The pair of us fall asleep on the sofa. Somehow, I find myself tucked into Oli's side, his legs hanging off of the couch as mine are pressed into the backrest. He has an arm folded beneath his head, whereas I have simply used his chest as my pillow for the night.

I would've thought it would have been uncomfortable, considering his torso is all but a slab of chiselled marble, but I actually had the best nights sleep of my life. Warm, wrapped in his clothes and his arms, with the television lulling us to sleep, and full stomachs following our indulgence of the best food. Seriously, the best - I don't know how I've ever actually lived a life without it.

I flush with embarrassment due to the closeness I have found myself with Oliver - this boy whom, two weeks ago, was a complete stranger to me. Alas, here I am now, tangled up rather intimately with this boy, yet somehow, it almost feels natural.

He's still sound asleep, and so I try my best not to wake him as I slowly lift myself across him. As one leg goes across, leaving me to straddle him most precariously, I silently will that he won't wake. Of course, the morning glory that prods at me makes me gasp aloud, and he stirs.

"You don't want to touch that bomb." He mumbles in a thick gravelly tone, eyes still closed. "It'll detonate."

My lips twitch, perhaps with amusement, or repulsion. "Well I have to tidy up." I tell him, trying to move from above him. His hand clamps down on my waist, gentle yet somehow firm. "Oliver," I warn, burning violently when his hard penis grates against me.

"Can't we cuddle a bit longer? It was nice." He asks.

"I need to tidy - and you need to sort your little situation out." His eyes dart open and he scowls at me.

"Little?" He echoes in disgust. "There is nothing little about my situation Hallie." I laugh, finally standing and keeping my eyes averted from the tent that has found itself in his pants.

"Well, go sort it. Quietly. And we have an interview today, remember?" I begin clearing the coffee table, stacking the bowls and filling empty packets with wrappers.

He stands behind me. "Do you want to help me?" I freeze as he runs a hand down the length of my knotted hair.

"Excuse me?" He takes a hand to my shoulder, twisting my unresisting body to face him. His eyes devour me, swallowing in every inch of my figure, my face, as his fingers trace languid patterns along my bicep. "Help you?" I manage to repeat in a whisper.

"With my problem." He expands, and involuntarily, I glance down toward said topic, gulping at the proposition. "There's just something about you," he begins, "and seeing you in my clothes just makes me want to tear them off." His words steal my lungs or their air, send my blood rushing to my skin, prickling me with a blushed warmth. I want to look away, look away from the eyes that capture mine, wordlessly speaking of all the things he thinks of me, but I'm trapped, seconds away from falling into his proposal. Falling.

"Boundaries Oliver. You're crossing them." I breathe. He hums, clearly not believing that the words I say are ones I actually agree with, but steps away regardless.

"I'll go get ready." And with that, he walks off, leaving me a flustered muddled mess.

꧁ꨄ꧂

"Ready?" Liberty stands in the foyer holding a clipboard to her chest. She's dressed smartly in a pastel blue pant suit, her fringe only complimenting such as it curtains her face, the rest of her cropped blonde locks sleek back in a high tail.