Twist Of Fate

Thirty Eight

CHLOE

When I wake the following morning, for a second I don't remember. I hear the sound of the shower running and I can see a crack of daylight breaking around the edge of the heavy curtains. I can't hear any sounds from outside - the double glazing is too thick - but I imagine I can hear seagulls shouting for their breakfast as they circle the promenade and the beach in front of the hotel. The bed is soft and comfortable and I lie still for a few moments allowing myself to wake up slowly, the events of the previous night a strange haze, yet something needles my subconscious as though a momentous event has happened that I am forgetting.

And then I remember.

I remember his lips on mine, his hands on my breasts, the feel of him inside me. I remember the anticipation, the tension building, the incredible release. 

I sit up in bed, holding the covers against my bare chest, my heart pounding. Where the hell did that come from last night? One minute we were yelling at each other, the next he was kissing me. One minute I had been goading him, consumed with jealousy thanks to his flirting with the girl on reception, and the next he had been pushing me back onto the bed, pressing his erection slowly into me while I squirmed and moaned beneath him.

I feel my cheeks reddening as I recall the noises I made, unable to contain my enjoyment while he thrust into me, coming not once but twice. How did we get from spitting venom and hatred at each other to sharing the most intimate moment that any two people can?

In the adjoining bathroom the sound of the running water stops and my stomach performs a sickening backflip. I am nervous about seeing him - I have never slept with anyone under these circumstances before, and woken up the next morning in their bed. My only previous experiences have involved other people being in the next room drinking lukewarm beer and playing video games, and getting dressed immediately afterwards to go and join them. I don't know what to say to Harry. I feel incomprehensibly awkward, like I would rather run out of the room naked then face him right now.

Before I can come up with a plan, the door to the bathroom opens and steam billows out, followed by a tall figure with tattoos on his chest, hair wet against his forehead and a towel wrapped around his waist. He avoids looking in my direction, heads straight to his holdall on the floor and begins rifling through it for some clothes, his back to me.

Perhaps he hasn't seen that I am awake. My voice shakes slightly as I greet him. "Morning. You're up early."

He gives a grunt, and replies in a monotone. "Dream woke me up. Couldn't get back to sleep."

"I know the feeling," I mutter, recalling my own sickening nightmare. "Did you sleep OK, apart from that?"

"Yep."

He stands up again, a couple of items of clothing in his hand, and walks back into the bathroom, shutting the door pointedly behind him. I can feel my cheeks burning with humiliation at the way he has all but ignored me, and I take the opportunity while he is getting dressed to jump up from the bed and grab my dress from last night from the floor and throw it over my head. With trembling hands I pull a pair of shorts and a tshirt out of my bag, along with some clean underwear, and by the time the door to the bathroom opens again I am ready to dive straight in there without looking at him, turning the lock the second the door closes behind me. 

I feel utterly sick to my stomach. I don't know what I expected, but even just a brief acknowledgement from him would have been nice. A smile, a nod, even just eye contact to let me know things aren't going to be awkward. But instead I get complete avoidance. I would rather disappear into oblivion and never see him again than experience total indifference. Last night might not matter to him, but after everything that happened yesterday surely he must know it meant something to me, even if it was just a source of comfort after my emotional breakdown.