5

I am not a morning person, but my body thinks I am. The second a ray of sunlight touches my skin, flits across my face, I'm wide awake, and why oh why was dawn so early? My eyes flew open in the barely-daylight, and I was completely disoriented, wondering for a moment where I was (what hotel, what city, what concert date) and whether it was dusk or dawn. Then everything about the last 24, 48, 72 hours came flooding back, and all the feelings I'd been fighting to repress came along for the ride. Don't get me wrong, the man who lay in bed with me, whose name I still didn't know, had been the one bright spot in a thoroughly depressing week, but he was sleeping soundly rather than distracting me with his mouth and hands. While the thought of teasing him into consciousness had its appeal, it seemed unfair to him, and besides he looked so adorable with his face relaxed and open, a bristle of stubble showing on his jaw. He looked younger, more… Innocent. He looked like the type of kid who wouldn't even know the f-word, let alone how to use it to such incredible effect in the proper circumstances.

Anyway, it was easier than I'd have expected to resist waking him. Last night, he'd managed to take me out of myself, and I hoped I'd done the same for him. But what we'd done to each other, for each other, hadn't undone all our mistakes and regrets, much as I wished it had. And now, in the rosy early morning light, I was coming dangerously close to thinking about things I had sworn I would push aside for as long as possible. Mistakes. Regrets. There wasn't time for them, not when it was my responsibility to handle all the details of my mother's death. The funeral had been simple enough, executed with a ruthless efficiency I'd forgotten I possessed ("Put the body in a box and put the box in the ground, how hard can it be?"), and thank god it was over. This morning I had to meet with her attorney, however, and to do that I had to remain focused. Composed. All the memories and ghosts clamoring for my attention would ruin my composure if I let them, and so I wouldn't. Couldn't, which amounted to the same thing.

With all of this resolved, I slid out of bed, creeping quietly towards the door, pausing only to grab the collared shirt I'd stripped off my distraction last night. I needed to use the restroom and maybe shower, and then I needed to figure out how to get my guest out before my mother's lawyer arrived. Turning the doorknob, I held the door in place before opening it, allowing it to swing inward silently. This is the best technique for this kind of thing, in case you didn't know, as evidenced by the fact that the man in my bed didn't stir, and I closed the door behind me in the same covert way before padding down the hallway.

My first glance in the bathroom mirror seemed to reveal that I looked halfway decent, at least until I realized that I'd tucked my glasses into my purse at some point last night and I wasn't wearing my contact lenses. My vision is horrible, and without some form of correction the entire world, not to mention my face, looked smooth and beautiful, like an impressionist watercolor or a love scene filmed in very soft focus. Leaning close to the mirror, nearly pressing my nose against the glass, showed me that actually I looked like hell, which I suppose was only to be expected. Yesterday I'd felt like hell, last night being the exception, and today… Well, I felt alright. Relaxed, sated, aching in a good way, but beneath all of that there was an edge of panic, fear that I wouldn't be able to hold myself together, fear that I'd just come apart and never reassemble.

No. I'd already decided I wasn't going to do this now, so I didn't. Instead, I hopped in the shower and scrubbed myself down, strangely unhappy to wash the scent of sex from my body. He had smelled incredible, like cologne and sweat and heat, and I liked the smell of him on me. But that was kind of weird, so I used my favorite body cleanser, and washed my hair, and brushed my teeth and smoothed on some tinted moisturizer to make me look halfway human. There were marks all over my body, bruises on my wrists and forearms, scrapes from his stubble and teeth along my neck, not to mention the visual reminder of his lips over my pulse, sucking hard. Looking at them, I smiled, because they along with the way my body hurt proved that last night had happened. My smile didn't dim as I relived it in my mind, and I toweled my hair dry on autopilot, distracted by the mental images. Strangely, those images focused on his face, his expression, the look in his eyes, everything other than the more primal details of our night together, and that really should have been a warning sign but I'm stupid so it wasn't.

Once my hair was damp rather than dripping wet, I pulled on the white button up shirt I'd snatched from the floor. It was big enough that it skimmed my curves, long enough that it was at least as modest as the skirt I'd worn last night, but I only bothered buttoning a few buttons. There was a nice business suit waiting for me in my suitcase downstairs, one perfectly suited (oh, I kill me) for my meeting with the attorney, but it wasn't exactly the kind of outfit most men wanted to wake up to.

I made my way back to the guestroom, wishing that I had orange juice or pancakes or something to offer the man waiting for me- that was traditional, right?- and suddenly nervous about facing him in the light of day. My first order of business would be to find my glasses, because they were nine tenths of my disguise and without them this morning would be even more awkward than necessary. ("Good morning, thanks for the amazing sex! By the way, I'm kind of a big deal, and I'll be very irritated if I read about last night while indifferently skimming the tabloids in the supermarket checkout line. Okay, I have a subscription, and anyway my assistant does all my shopping, but the point still stands.") Luckily I spotted my clutch lying forgotten against the wall a few feet from the guestroom door; I hadn't even remembered dropping it. Glasses in place, world in focus, I opened the door.

He was sitting up, blinking in disorientation (much as I had when I'd first awoken) and he was at least as beautiful in the brightening daylight as he'd been in the dark. No, even more so, which I didn't think could be possible until I saw that it was. I could see golden strands in his light brown hair, hints of green and gold in his hazel eyes, a noticeable cleft in his chin that I'd somehow failed to notice, and it all robbed me of my power of speech for a second.

"Hey," he murmured with a hesitant smile. There was new color in his cheeks, and I'd have called it a blush if he'd been a sixteen year old girl, but since he wasn't I simply noted the phenomenon and didn't try to label it.

"Hey," I echoed, smiling. "Sleep well?"

He let out a small chuckle. "Like the dead."

"I'm not surprised," I said, my smile becoming wry as I thought of how exhausted we'd both been and why.

"Right," he answered, and the color in his cheeks intensified. "Look, I… I mean, I remember last night-" (as his embarrassment clearly showed) "-but some… Details are a bit fuzzy. Did I… Well, did I ever get your name? Because if I did I've forgotten it. I'm so sorry, I keep thinking and thinking but I can't…" He trailed off, looking as mortified as ever.

I laughed in genuine delight, wondering how he could possibly be worried about a little thing like that after the obscene things he'd said and done to me last night. It filled me with an entirely alien sensation, a kind of fondness I'd never felt before, and I didn't understand it at all.

"It's okay," I assured him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "I don't think we ever got to the name exchange." And I hadn't thought he could get any redder, but he did.

"Oh, god." He rubbed his hand over his face. "I don't know… I mean, I've never… I guess everyone says this, but I've never done anything like this before."

"I wouldn't know what everyone says," I responded, voice prim. "I've never done anything like this before."

He smiled at me, still shy, still embarrassed, and I found it… Endearing, I suppose. It was strange, because last night he had been many things, most of them intense and dark and thrilling, but in the light of day endearing was really the best word for his smiles and behavior.

"Well then," he said finally, "what are the rules? Are there rules?"

"I think it's the kind of thing where we get to make our own. Name exchange or no? It's all up to you," I told him, and I meant it, or thought I did. If he wanted complete anonymity I believed I could give it to him.

"I'm Will," he said quickly, reaching out to shake my hand.

I met his wide hazel eyes and grinned at the incongruity of the gesture. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Honor, and yes, it's a name." Seriously, it is.

"I think it's lovely," he murmured, holding my gaze and my hand, stroking my fingers with his.

"It's a family thing," I offered, though I'm still not quite sure why. It was a dangerous direction to head in, as I had no desire to discuss my family, and I could tell he was curious now. I wracked my brain for something else to say, some kind of distraction. "Are you hungry? Wait, scratch that… Even if you are, there's literally nothing in the kitchen." I had called a cleaning service from LA, and they had done a very thorough job, thank god, because as I understood it she'd had dinner all laid out and… No. Not going to think about it.

"It's okay," he responded, his voice becoming slightly hesitant as he added "We could always go get breakfast. If you want, I mean."

This is the point where alarm bells began to go off in my head, and in case you're not keeping count that's about 15 paragraphs too late. I can't really explain what frightened me; it was either the way I immediately wanted to agree to his suggestion, or the fact that he seemed completely different from the man I'd brought back last night. That man had been perfect one-night stand material. Will was… Not. And I didn't know what that made him perfect for. I just knew I didn't want to find out, couldn't afford to find out. Logically, this meant breakfast was a bad idea, as was further interaction of any kind. (But I want him.)

"And if I'm not hungry?" I asked as I approached the bed, taking his hand and placing it on the placket of his shirt, biting my lip suggestively, and I am obviously not a creature of logic.

He looked at me with another of those endearing shy smiles, toyed with a button. "Then I'm not, either."

Well then.

TBC