With your leggings pushed off your legs, you lay on your floor, rummaging through one of the boxes you set aside beneath your desk. You took things out, then set them back in, proceeding to check three times in case you missed it the first or second time. Sitting up on your knees, you pushed your hair from your face, and tapered your eyes across the room, swearing under your breath. It must've been somewhere, although in its defence, you hadn't used it in a good two months. Standing up, you walked to the other side of your room, swinging open the cabinet in the alcove, you bent down, taking out every pair of underwear you kept, and groaning when, of course, it still wasn't there. Slamming the cabinet shut, you approached your door, pulling it open and slipping into the corridor.
Michael, fortunately, was out to finish the last tracks for his band's new album, and told you to not wait up for dinner seeing as they planned to celebrate afterwards. He insisted you to come, but you very much needed a night alone, which so far went well – up to the point where you misplaced your vibrator. Now, you were pacing around the apartment, your hair still wet from the bath, and only a buttoned up night shirt over your underwear. Sighing, you peer over the threshold of the bathroom and stepped in, opening up your cabinet beneath the sink. After many petty arguments about whose razor was whose, you and Michael both decided to have separate cabinets – his above the sink, and yours below.
You pushed everything in your way to the side – pads, wax strips, hair removal cream, shower gels – in vain hopes that the vibrator would be somewhere behind them. Although you knew you wouldn't have kept it in a place where your roomate could find it, you still checked everywhere in the bathroom to make sure. You didn't need him to know the sordid details of your privacy, just as you didn't need to know his, either. The tightness in your stomach grew, and you sat yourself down. The wetness between your thighs was too much of a distraction for you to concentrate on anything else.
Entering the living room, you slumped across the sofa, tugging up your legs, and rubbing your thumb over your forehead. Where could it be? Your clit pulsed beneath your underwear, but you refused to take them off. Not unless you found your vibrator. You knew you couldn't make yourself feel as good just with your fingers – it just wasn't something you were good at. Every moment you tried pushing it away, the ball knotted in your stomach deepened into your heat. Huffing, you pushed your hair from your eyes, and tried switching on the TV. Your fingers trembled and your head whirled. You couldn't remember a time your body was begging as much as this.
When you heard the lock on the front door click, you weren't even bothered to hide your naked legs. You lay there, your gaze meeting Michael's as he walked into the apartment. He stopped taking off his jacket midway, and stared at you, eyebrows furrowed as he tried figuring out what happened. Of course, you looked like a mess – no pants, your hair still wet, and an unamused expression washed over your face.
He laughed. "You okay?"
"No." You crossed your arms, and averted your attention to the TV. An old rerun of Pretty Little Liars was playing on the low volume.
Shaking his head, he hooked up his jacket and joined you on the couch, pushing your legs out of the way so he had room. Unfazed by seeing you half naked, he snatched the remote out of your hand and changed the channel. You stared at him, and considered kicking him off the sofa so you could reclaim your taken space. Shrinking into your corner, you pulled your knees up beneath your chin.
"What's wrong?" he asked, not looking away from the TV.
Heat rose up your neck; you touched your cheek with the back of your hand – warm. "I lost something."
You watched his Adam's apple move beneath his throat, and found yourself staring at his lips. Bloomed with red, and parted perfectly enough to take a sip of the beer he brought into the apartment. Any other day, you would've been paranoid he would spill it somewhere, but that evening, all you could see was how good his mouth looked smeared with alcohol – shiny and wet. You looked away when he met your gaze, an eyebrow raised, and a teasing shimmer in his eyes.
