sign {h.s.}

hoofdstuk vijftien

WHEN I WAKE up, I know that I am not in my dorm: I am in a king size bed.

It's such a small thing to take notice of. But, having spent the past several weeks on a twin sized bed, the upgrade makes all the difference. Obviously, it's not my own. More than just the size, it's incredibly comfortable. Comfortable in a way more than all of the mattress pads in the world could be. My next thought is fleeting, though, truthful enough:

With a bed like this, it doesn't matter that I don't know where I am... so long as I don't have to leave this bed, I'm entirely okay with it.

Slowly, I regain feeling in my body. Sprawled out like a star in the middle of the bed, I'm assuming that no one slept in the bed with me last night. If they did, they would have been holed-up in the smallest corner of the bed; something that I can't imagine they would have been very comfortable.

The next realization centers around my clothing. Or, lack thereof. Not in my own clothes—I can see those folded neatly at the bottom of the bed—I realize that I'd been changed into a pair of pajamas. Looking down at myself quickly, I see the Gucci logo printed across the white t-shirt that hugs my torso.

It is the Gucci label that acts as the last piece of the puzzle. I know only one person who would own Gucci pajamas.

Oddly set at ease by the realization that I am in Harry's apartment, I take my time to study the room. He's not in here, to start. Curiously I examine the consistent whiteness; something that has become indicative of his apartment. Void of all attempts at personalization, the room appears something out of a minimalist, monochromatic catalogue.

Shifting slightly, my entire body burns with an overwhelming soreness. Memories from last night flood me all at once. I do remember almost everything from the evening. Everything up until the point in which I accidentally fell asleep in the backseat of the Uber that Harry had ordered for us.

I can remember most everything: the kisses, the teasing, the threesome. Mortified doesn't properly explain the onslaught of emotion. Not entirely regretful—the experience had certainly been great fun and immensely pleasurable—I do feel a sort of embarrassment by the way that everything came to be. Part of me even feels guilty for Brody. Though he had every right to turn us away at any point in the evening, he definitely was cornered into making his decision.

Finally sitting upright in bed, I push through the pain to lean my head against the headboard. Last night, I hadn't considered the upcoming days. I hadn't considered what my vagina and core would feel like after being relentlessly pounded by two very visibly large dicks. While I'm not in pain, per se, I would definitely consider myself rather uncomfortable presently. With each movement, the area between my thighs protests. "Jesus," I hiss to myself, one hand pushing against my stomach, futilely hoping that the pressure will alleviate some of the pain. As a result of my new position, my eyes flicker upwards towards the ceiling.

Earlier, I had believed Harry's room to be sparsely decorated, like the rest of his apartment. That is to say, I expected no unnecessary decorations. Though, my eyes catch on one splurged decoration: a mirror hanging from the ceiling.

Instinctually, I jolt at the sight of myself. Though my face had apparently been washed last night, I still look like an absolute mess. Pallid and puffy, my face leaves a great deal to be desired. Laughing only slightly at my reflection, I run a hand through my frizzy hair.

I'm not stupid. There's really only one reason to have a mirror hanging above your bed.

Surprisingly, I don't find myself aghast at the notion. Intrigued would more accurately summarize my present feelings for such. Shame floods to my cheeks as I mentally scold myself for finding this attractive. More that that, for picturing the image of Harry enjoying such a feature. The imagine is sinfully hot and dangerously sexy.