His move went surprisingly well, without a single hitch. Well, just one. She was almost an hour late and by the time she changed into her work clothes, most of the heavy lifting was done with the furniture placed. She began to unpack the boxes that were scattered throughout the place as the guys who came to help him brought in the last of his belongings. After the usual banter with them, and a stern lecture from her that every single person with a license should be able to drive stick, the boys left, leaving them alone. He asked her to stay, helping him unpack and to, in his words "organise the shit out of this mess". He saw a level-three nuclear disaster. She saw a pile of stuff needing to be sorted and agreed. Besides, the payment of an all-expense paid dinner at their favourite pub was too good to pass up.
She walked out of his bedroom, her arms full of carton boxes, the closet finally settled. She placed the empty boxes in the corner of the living room and stretched. From the corner of her eye, she saw him carrying a box into the kitchen, his back straining with its weight. The setting sun pierced through the windows, outlining his form. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, something that was becoming a regular occurrence of late whenever she was around him.
When was it that she started to notice him as something other than a solid figure in her life, being the person that they each could depend on, a sounding board, a pillar of support? When did she begin to look forward to their occasional afternoons of coffee and conversation that inevitably segued into dinner and drinks? When did she begin to hold him to the half-promises of 'we need to do this agains'?
When did she begin to feel the soft twinges of jealously when he spoke about some of his girlfriends and the relief she felt when he mentioned that he was single? When was it that she felt reluctant to share the stories of her trysts? When was it that she just didn't care about them and stopped her sporadic casual fun?
When did his texts begin to give her small flutters to her stomach? When did she begin to find any excuse to message him, to call him, just so that she could feel the squirms of pleasure coursing through her? And how the hell did he begin to play the leading role in her fantasies as she rubbed herself each night, bringing herself to countless orgasms as the reel of imagination projected ever more erotic scenarios onto the screen of her brain - when did that happen?
When did she notice him not just as a man, but as a sexual being? Was it when she belatedly realised that she had sensed that he may have wanted to kiss her? Or did she just simply misinterpreted that? Or was it that time when they shared some erotic fantasies? Was it when he looked to her for a shoulder after his hardships, breaking her heart that she couldn't share in his pain to alleviate his suffering? Or when she turned to him for advice when she really just wanted to cry and feel the comfort provided by the warmth of his body?
She noticed the small rivulet of sweat meandering down his neck, and she wanted nothing more than to lick it clean before sinking her teeth into his flesh. She looked at his hands as they tore the packing tape from the box and she could feel them on her body, pinning her wrists, stroking her neck. His scent of sweat filled her nostrils and she could feel her mouth water.
"What?" he interrupted, his smile quizzical. She had been staring. She shook her head and threw him a dazzling smile.
"Nothing," she replied. "Just thinking about work and the report I have to write." At that moment she mentally kicked herself, but really, what could she do? Tell him that she was picturing herself on her knees in front of him as he grasped her hair and plummeted her throat?
"So," he began. "I figured that once the kitchen and the office is mostly unpacked, we can go grab some food and then after, maybe I can think about decorating."
She thought for a moment. "If you want it done in a day, you may want to get Jessie and offer a bottle," referring to their mutual friend with a knack for interior design and penchant for vodka. "Your bathroom is pretty much set up." He nodded his thanks. "Want me to start on the kitchen?"
"I think I got it. I mean, I don't have your mad organising skills but I do pretty well."
He started to unpack the bins, throwing the various pots and pans haphazardly into any random cupboard, his spoons into the drawer whereas the forks and knives were dumped on the second shelf. He glanced at the chasing looks of horror and disapproval that crossed her face while placing the pitcher in the pantry and plunking the slow cooker on top of the microwave. The cheese grater was stuck in the breadbox and he shoved the mixing bowls into his oven. She shuddered.
"Oh, for God's sake! Give me that!" she stormed, grabbing a stack of plates. He looked up, his entire visage the very epitome of innocence, one that echoed a cherubic Renaissance painting. Botticelli himself could not have produced such beguiling virtue. He stepped aside as she began to quickly and efficiently sort his kitchen.
She noticed his smirk. "You did that on purpose, you ass!"
"Maybe," he replied, the chortle clear in his voice. "Or maybe I know how much you like organising and I just gave you a present." He had to duck as a wad of tape flew, the projectile missile barely missing his head. She gave a satisfied grunt as he chuckled.
"Tell you what," she offered. "I'll finish the kitchen and you work on your office. Your bedroom is pretty much done anyway; your bed needs to be made and I think that's it."
"You sure?" he asked.
"Sure."
"Really?" She gave him such a withering look that he disappeared into the room that will become his office, his howl of laughter ringing across the apartment.
It took less time than she anticipated. There was a certain comfort in bringing order to chaos, in organising. They have been close friends for so long, working together on the same committee that she could comfortably predict where he preferred his utensils to be. That, and the few times he came over to her place he had a tendency to rearrange parts of her kitchen.
She paused and could hear him setting up his computer. Knowing how particular he was with his equipment, she began to clean his living room, wiping the dust, straightening his furniture and organising his extensive collection. She was so engrossed that she jumped when he came up behind her. He reached out to steady her, giving her shoulder an apologetic squeeze.
"How about we go out for that dinner that I promised?" He reached over swipe the streak of dust off her cheek.
"How about I take a quick shower before?" she grinned.
"Be my guest. Do you need towels? Where did I put the towels? On a second thought, do I actually have towels?"
She laughed. "You have towels, and yes, they are already in place. Told you, the bathroom is set up. All that it's missing is your touch." She winked as she sashayed into the lavatory, removing the bandana from her head that kept her hair clean.
The door didn't quite close; she could hear him washing his hands and face at the kitchen. Staring into the mirror, she told the reflection to get herself together. Pinning her hair into a knot, she quickly stripped and turned on the shower. She gasped as hot jets hit her back. The door may be broken, but at least the hot water tank is fully operational.
She wasn't all that dirty, mostly just dusty. She rinsed her body, and finding a bit of conditioner, she lightly massaged her skin with a washcloth. She stifled a moan as the rough fabric grazed her nipples, hardening them. When she reached the apex of her thighs, she hesitated, glancing out the curtain and through the half open door, watching him putter around, moving with his sure movements. She bit her lower lip. Should she? They weren't sleeping together, they weren't even dating. Was it even appropriate?
She realised that she didn't care.
Closing her eyes, her fingers drifted. A tiny moan strangled as her hand moved in its familiar pattern, circling her clit as the water pounded on her back. She slipped a finger in and drew out her juices, smearing the hard bud. She luxuriated in the moment, the steam, tingles and the water titillating her.
She reluctantly stopped. As much as she would love to continue, to rub herself to that release that her body desperately craved, it would not do to waste his hot water. And in that instance, she realised she did care whether or not she orgasmed in his shower. It just... didn't feel right. With a sigh, she continued to briskly wash her body and turned off the water.
Wrapping herself in a towel, she stepped out of the shower only to notice her fatal mistake.
She forgot to bring her clean clothes.
The bag that held them were by the entrance, right beside the kitchen where he was leaning against the counter, drinking a mug of coffee. There was no way she could sneak out to grab it and there was no way that she would put her dusty clothes back on.
So she did the next best thing that she could think of in that moment of aroused panic. She walked out, her spine stiff, her gait as casual as she could make it. She almost convinced herself that this was something she did regularly, walking out in a skimpy towel after taking a shower in her friend's new apartment. All she needed was to be confident and smooth and unperturbed. All she needed to do was to glide and slink and...
