Love Me Harder (18+ Only)

Part 11

My phone clattered on my night stand once again. I ignored it. Again. I shoved the spoon into a pint of Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra. The chocolate and caramel ice cream swirled into a pool of delicious mouth-gasmic experience. Mmmm... I wonder if I can get more.

That meant I had to get out of bed. But I'm trapped underneath a fort of soft fluffy goose-feather pillows. I would also have to get dressed. I don't think the mini mart would appreciate me running in there in my sleep shorts and cami. Not a chance in hell.

This ice cream is enough. It comforted me. It said, "Eat me, Gwen and forget about how your boyfriend decided to do something decent and take care of his unconscious wife."

The vibration of my phone distracted me. Isn't vibrate supposed to be discreet? Then why does it sound like someone's banging on the walls?

Am I drunk from chocolate?

Wait a minute. Someone IS banging. On my door.

That meant I had to get out of bed. But I'm trapped—

"Gwen! I know you're in there!"

Bang. Bang. Bang. My head pounded in pain. "Leave me alone," I said but my voice was too soft I don't think anyone heard me.

"Answer your phone, damn it!"

Bang. Bang. Bang. The banging is in my head. It pushed against my eyes and temple. It was loud and hot like molten lava trying to escape from my skull.

Vibrating phone VS banging door.

Lesser of two evils. I swiped on the phone screen. "Stop fucking banging on my door."

"It's Adam."

"I know it's you. Leave me alone."

"What's wrong? I saw your posts." Oh. Facebook and my inner drama queen diva personality really adore each other. "If you wanted to be left alone, you shouldn't be posting stuff like 'Wish my head would slam into the wall and fill my room with brain matter and blood. #thestruggleisreal #icecreamismybestfriend.'" I sound like an angsty fifteen-year-old attention whore.

"That's creative writing. I work for a magazine. Leave me alone." Ice cream IS my best friend.

"Let me in. I have Patrón."

Tequila could be my best friend.

"I'm not dressed to receive."

"Seriously? Open the fucking door. I wanna make sure you're okay. Your Facebook friends want me to take a selfie with you to show them you're not as suicidal as you sound online."

"Whatever, Mr. I'm-your-hot-neighbor-do-whatever-I-ask."

"Are you gonna?"

Balancing the phone between my shoulder and cheek, I pushed my body off the bed. The pillow fort crumbled. My feet fell heavy on the carpet, then the hardwood floors as I walked to the door. Through the peephole I could tell he wasn't lying about the tequila. When I opened the door, I heard a hiss as the vacuum air escaped. I hadn't had fresh air in three days. It smells weird like the real world moved on without me.

"Thank you."

He really knows how to stand. I mean, he knows how to stand really well. He held the bottle with one hand and it perched on his hip. The plain black crew neck shirt didn't even pretend to hide his muscled chest and arms. He was smiling and it threw me off because it was a boyish smile—totally out of sync with the sex-on-legs body I was drooling over—mentally.

I was thirsty all of a sudden.

"I'm glad to see you're still alive." He walked into the room and I noticed how his jeans were desperately holding onto—clinging—his narrow hips. I don't blame them jeans. I'd do the same.

I closed the door. "Nothing's wrong with me."

His eyebrows raised. "Is that why you haven't stepped outside in three days?"

"Stop stalking me. Seriously." My hands shot up to grab the bottle from him but he moved it away too fast.

"Have you showered?"

"Of course!"

"Brushed your teeth?"

"What the fuck? YES!"

Why is he asking me these stupid questions? I just wanted to drown my sadness in tequila. Is that too much to ask?

"Good."

Before I knew what was happening – or maybe because he dropped the bottle onto my couch and for a split second I was concerned it was going to fall and break and I won't look cute licking tequila off the floor—big, strong arms wrapped around my body and my breasts crashed into his firm chest.

"What are you doing?"

"You needed a hug."

Perceptive fellow but the hug was turning into an embrace. His hand stroked my back gently before resting on my "bass". Goose pimples popped up on the nape of my neck. I might have moaned, a little.

He buried his face in my hair and inhaled deeply. "I showered," my voice sounded like an indignant toddler.

His chest shook as he chuckled. "I can tell." His lips grazed my neck when he spoke, followed the line of my jaw until they barely reached my mouth. "Now to find out if you were lying—"

It started out as a gentle kiss. His lips captured mine like soft fluttering butterfly wings. My lips parted open and his arms tightened around me. He tasted like smoke and coffee. He was better than the ice cream. And the craving was stronger, deeper. I lifted myself up on tips of my toes to get closer to him, the need to feel his body against mine mounted. My fingers rubbed tiny circles on his scalp, tangling his hair. His tongue plunged into my mouth over and over. I clutched at the neckline of his shirt, breathless and incredibly aroused.

He tore his mouth away from mine. His blue eyes looked darker like a cloudy day in Seattle. His voice hoarse when he said, "You taste like chocolate and caramel."

"Karamel Sutra, I have some in my room."