12. Bailey
twelve
Bailey
I lock the door, hands shaking, face burning. I bring trembling fingers to my lips, uncertain if I can trust the memory of his mouth on them. I’m still buzzed, but never really got drunk. That alleyway rendezvous killed any chance of that.
Movement catches my eye from a few feet away. I squint. I need my fucking glasses. I inch closer and smile when it hits me. A rogue feather. I grab it and bring it to my face, tickling my cheek with it.
I grab my glasses from the countertop and examine it further. A deep black with iridescent glitter on each barb that catches the light, even in my dimly lit apartment. I put it behind my ear with plans to find a place for it later.
I look down and a strange sound escapes as I recognize the stains on my black shirt, some deranged mix of a snort and a laugh. Jesus, what the fuck just happened?
Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t do it.
Fuck it.
I’m doing it.
The evidence clings to my fingers. Sticky.
I bring them to my lips. The taste hits my tongue, scrambling my senses.
Salty.
Sinful.
My spent dick twitches in my jeans.
I grin.
Goddamnit, Bailey. You’re being a fucking weirdo.
I laugh at the absurdity and head to the bathroom. I pause, remembering the feather, and head to my bedroom to find it a home.
I place the feather in the top drawer of my bedside table and then make my way back to the bathroom. My face is sore from smiling but that stupid fucking grin refuses to leave my face.
I pull my pants and boxers off quickly, my cheeks heating at the wet stains. Thank fuck I didn’t come in my pants. I’d been entirely too close to blowing my load while he was kissing me against the wall.
I peel my shirt off carefully, lifting it slowly over my head so I don’t get anything in my hair. I toss it onto the pile, shaking my head in disbelief.
The hot water is soothing, but its warmth pales in comparison to his. Those lips. Those endless brown eyes. His hands on me.
I shiver as I recall the way he guided my back up against the wall—effortless. Confident.
Sexy.
So fucking sexy...
I don’t want to wash his touch from my skin. The thought of scrubbing away the parts of him he gave me tonight makes my chest ache.
Generally, after sex, the first thing I want is a shower. Water hot enough to burn, scrubbing away any remnants. Letting the water carry with it the intimacy-adjacent bullshit.
Why is this time different?
Why do I already miss his hands on my body, his lips on my skin?
Fuck. I can still taste him. I close my eyes and sink further into the memory of him. The brush of his wings against my arms, the warmth of his skin beneath my palms. The way his body fit perfectly against mine.
My legs threaten to buckle underneath me as I shut off the water and grab my towels. I glance at my reflection. My hair is as messy as my heart and my skin is flushed, but my eyes…
My eyes are burning with something new.
Something unfamiliar.
I throw on sweatpants and an old tshirt, then collapse onto my bed, pulling the covers over me like they might help me contain every detail of him.
Brown eyes.
Wings.
They follow me into sleep.