Beyond Compare (h.e.s)

part six

You're wearing those tight type of jeans that girls with fantastic legs—like you—wear so well, and that guys who can't take their eyes off those girls or their legs—like me—love. But they're not the easiest things to take off. In fact, after a certain point, they won't go any lower, and I actually have to hop off the bed and yank on them a little because they seem to be caught around your ankles.

You take your shirt off just as I get your pants off and… wow.

Holy fuck.

You're lying on my bed in nothing but your underwear. You're not the first girl I've seen like this, but right now, I can't seem to recall any of the others. At the sight of your breasts, my brain seems to run away from me only to come back to ask a million more questions, all breast-related of course. Does this mean you don't wear bras often? Have I been around you, at the bar or the coffee shop, sitting next to you, completely oblivious to the fact that you're not wearing a bra? Have you hugged me braless? Because holy shit, that may be the hottest thing in the world.

I pull myself out of my thoughts and my head out of my ass and correct myself; it's the second hottest thing in the world, the first being that you are lying on my bed in nothing but your underwear.

I can't really form words, but my thoughts are racing:

That hollow in your collarbone.

The soft swell where your hips turn into your ass.

The curve where your chest becomes your breasts.

Your breasts.

Your nipples.

Your belly button.

That fucking tease of a bow at the top of your underwear.

Everything underneath that bow.

These are all the places I want to touch. These are all the places I'm going to touch, because you're lying on my bed in nothing but your underwear…

…And I'm standing here like a moron. I slip my shirt and pants off and you watch me, not even bothering to pretend that you're not. You've never looked at me like this, and I like the feeling of your eyes on me. I like being admired by you. I like knowing that you want me as much as I want you.

Then, as if we both are sharing the same thought, we pause. Because this is it.

Two pieces of clothing, and we're naked.

—|—

"Isabelle, call for you. I'm transferring it," my co-worker Amy says. "It's Harry."

I roll my eyes as I pick up the phone. I would love to take a deep breath, maybe center myself a bit as I haven't had a chance to talk to Harry since his confession last night, but I sit in a half cubicle at the realty office where I work, and Amy will notice if I hesitate on a call from Harry. I mean, in the three years we've worked together, Harry has probably called me more than a thousand times, and I've never once hesitated. It would raise questions that I not only don't want to answer, but at this point, I don't even know how to answer.