#narrative dissonance folks

She’d stepped into his home, and he’d pushed her up against the wall, a hand between her legs. She’d wandered into his living room, and he’d fucked her on the sofa, made her beg for it. She’d found the kitchen on her own, but he’d come in behind her, made a mess of it that was more than just a few dirty dishes and the splatter of last night’s stew on the surface. 

She’d slipped into his bedroom while he was showering, washing the sex from his body, and she’d found his shirts. She’d wrapped herself in one, curled up on the bed, and stolen some time to herself. She knew he’d come, eventually, prowl in like the predator that had been stalking her all evening, and she’d probably have to wake, and she’d probably have to fuck again. And she’d probably enjoy it, too. She may even be looking forward to it.

But right now was just her, alone, enjoying a moment away. A second to recuperate, recharge, rejuvenate. To slip between the lines, lose herself in the moment, and smell him without having to be his, at least not right now. She pressed the shirt to her nose, her lips, her neck, and felt that slight pang of absence. It was sweet, it was bitter. She could hear him in the other room, almost the faint mumble of him singing something to himself as he washed. 

He felt awfully far away. She knew he’d be close, soon. And that let her drift off, a sleepy, sex-tired smile on her lips.