400 that I owned during college, and which got me through two transit strikes and to the three jobs I was working at the time. I drove with J. whenever our crowd went anywhere together, and I would invariably watch you with a faint pang of jealousy as you rolled up behind us, whatever girl-of-the-week you were seeing perched on the seat behind you, her arms wrapped tight around your chest.
It was my arms around you this time as we pulled out and headed home, zipping easily through the rush-hour grind. The weight of my backpack had me off balance, so that I had to grip you hard to hang on. And like you were worried that I was holding tight because I was scared, each time we stopped at a light, your right hand came to rest on both of mine where they interlocked around your waist. I smiled in reaction to the feel of well-worn leather, and to the comfort of your touch.
It was already getting dark when we arrived back at my and J.’s building. But as you helped me get my helmet off, you surprised me with an unexpected invitation. “The reservations are for eight,” you said. “Shame to let them go to waste because J. can’t keep normal hours. You should get ready.”
I didn’t need any more persuasion than that. Dinner out and great conversation would be the perfect end to a very long week, and I told you so as I led you up to the apartment with me.
As you made yourself at home, I showered and changed. I heard the TV on as I exited the bathroom when I was done, crossing to the bedroom draped in a towel as I wrapped another around my hair.
You were on the couch, channel surfing with an iced tea in hand as I passed. The tiny studio apartment was all that J. and I could afford until his residency was done, and it had seemingly been built for maximum intimacy. Every room was adjacent to every other room by way of the open dining room fronting the small kitchen.
“ I’ll be ten minutes,” I said, and you waved without looking over.
In the bedroom, I dug through my closet for something to wear, finally selecting a white blouse and black skirt that I realized ruefully was only slightly more stylish than what I’d worn to work that day. Too many months of high-end office jobs had gotten me used to dressing down to go out, I realized, and it would be good to spice things up for a night. I put a dab of perfume at each wrist, then went to the mirror to dry my hair before I dressed.
It was only when I clicked the blow-dryer off that I realized the volume on the TV in the next room had suddenly risen. I glanced to the corner of the mirror to see that I hadn’t fully closed the bedroom door, and that it had swung open just enough to line up a perfect view of me from the kitchen — where you were standing at the fridge, filling your glass again.
You had been watching me as I dried my hair, your gaze roaming my bare legs and shoulders, but that wasn’t all. With both arms raised, I realized belatedly that I had also raised the towel that still wrapped me, giving you a decidedly generous glimpse of my ass.
I had never been any more modest around my male friends than my female friends, a habit born of my fairly puritanical upbringing. Not that I was a flirt or liked to show off per se, but just that I worked hard to make sure none of the shame I’d been raised with still clung to me. But I felt myself blushing regardless as I carefully adjusted my modest covering, laughing to let you know you were busted.
“ Sorry,” you said with a smile.
“ My fault,” I replied. “And anyway, you’ve seen it all before.”
That was true, of course, but not in any illicit way. One of our first real outings together after J. and I met, our group headed out to Denny Blaine Park for a quiet evening of skinny-dipping. I don’t think I ever even learned the name of your girl-of-the-week from that scorching afternoon, but I remember spending a fair bit of time clandestinely watching the two of you staying very close in the
It was my arms around you this time as we pulled out and headed home, zipping easily through the rush-hour grind. The weight of my backpack had me off balance, so that I had to grip you hard to hang on. And like you were worried that I was holding tight because I was scared, each time we stopped at a light, your right hand came to rest on both of mine where they interlocked around your waist. I smiled in reaction to the feel of well-worn leather, and to the comfort of your touch.
It was already getting dark when we arrived back at my and J.’s building. But as you helped me get my helmet off, you surprised me with an unexpected invitation. “The reservations are for eight,” you said. “Shame to let them go to waste because J. can’t keep normal hours. You should get ready.”
I didn’t need any more persuasion than that. Dinner out and great conversation would be the perfect end to a very long week, and I told you so as I led you up to the apartment with me.
As you made yourself at home, I showered and changed. I heard the TV on as I exited the bathroom when I was done, crossing to the bedroom draped in a towel as I wrapped another around my hair.
You were on the couch, channel surfing with an iced tea in hand as I passed. The tiny studio apartment was all that J. and I could afford until his residency was done, and it had seemingly been built for maximum intimacy. Every room was adjacent to every other room by way of the open dining room fronting the small kitchen.
“ I’ll be ten minutes,” I said, and you waved without looking over.
In the bedroom, I dug through my closet for something to wear, finally selecting a white blouse and black skirt that I realized ruefully was only slightly more stylish than what I’d worn to work that day. Too many months of high-end office jobs had gotten me used to dressing down to go out, I realized, and it would be good to spice things up for a night. I put a dab of perfume at each wrist, then went to the mirror to dry my hair before I dressed.
It was only when I clicked the blow-dryer off that I realized the volume on the TV in the next room had suddenly risen. I glanced to the corner of the mirror to see that I hadn’t fully closed the bedroom door, and that it had swung open just enough to line up a perfect view of me from the kitchen — where you were standing at the fridge, filling your glass again.
You had been watching me as I dried my hair, your gaze roaming my bare legs and shoulders, but that wasn’t all. With both arms raised, I realized belatedly that I had also raised the towel that still wrapped me, giving you a decidedly generous glimpse of my ass.
I had never been any more modest around my male friends than my female friends, a habit born of my fairly puritanical upbringing. Not that I was a flirt or liked to show off per se, but just that I worked hard to make sure none of the shame I’d been raised with still clung to me. But I felt myself blushing regardless as I carefully adjusted my modest covering, laughing to let you know you were busted.
“ Sorry,” you said with a smile.
“ My fault,” I replied. “And anyway, you’ve seen it all before.”
That was true, of course, but not in any illicit way. One of our first real outings together after J. and I met, our group headed out to Denny Blaine Park for a quiet evening of skinny-dipping. I don’t think I ever even learned the name of your girl-of-the-week from that scorching afternoon, but I remember spending a fair bit of time clandestinely watching the two of you staying very close in the
Similar Books
