She thinks of him in the morning. She thinks of him at night. She thinks of him any time she allows her mind to wander those little alleyways and corners of her thoughts, wading through hours of daydreams.
And sometimes, she allows herself the luxury that he must think of her, too. John – sleeping in the room above hers, a real-life flatmate whom she dreamt of when she wanted to relax – because he was safe, because he was healthy, because he was good.
Charlotte thinks of him in the morning, in the hours between sleeping and waking, face pressed into the creases of cloth. She imagines the weight of him, leaning into her, limbs tangled into the blankets. She can spend all the time she likes running over her favourite parts of him; his steady, muscular hands, his yellow hair, his nose, his mouth, the freckles just underneath his eyes.
Her thoughts flicker back and forth between imagining his features, and imagining his touch. It’s as worshipful as ever. As gentle as ever. Running his fingers over her thighs, up, and under, the tips of his fingers summoning sensitivity that makes heat swell in her spine. She hides her face in her shoulder as though its his, breathing in the scent of skin warmed and readied.
His hands glide further upwards, slowly, meticulously, threading through her ribs, along the slope of her navel. Up, up, up towards her breasts, her nipples, and he’s with her, muttering words in between kisses. His mouth moves now, along the nape of her neck, stopping at her chest again, lingering there for as long as she likes, as long as she wants him to. John’s all mouth and teeth and tongue, coaxing little gasps disguised as breaths.
Charlotte’s melting into the sheets by the time his hands sweep over body, over the crest of her hip. Diving in between her legs – resting on her venus hill, he takes a moment to watch her shiver beneath his frame. He rocks his hand, placing absent kisses where he could until her hips start to pitch and plunge with him. Her little gasps have loosened into long, mumbled vowels, and soon, her parted mouth is virtually unable to close.
One flicker of her eyelashes, one pant of his name and John readies himself in a moment, sliding the latex back onto his cock, steadying himself with his hand. Her name comes out a jumble of syllables, and he knows he won’t last long, not long at all, not after she’s caught his eye and watches him.
He’s there, close, closer, closer, cursing under his breath until his hips meld with hers, skin lined with sweat. She cants her pelvis towards her flatmate, mumbling incoherently into her pillow, catching glimpses of his half-bitten lip and exquisite frown. She grips him, pulls him in, in, in until he’s right there ohchrist right there–!
Her orgasm comes in the shape of a sweet, lengthy shudder, and so they stay fixed to one another, rolling of their hips slowing with the rise and fall of their breathing.
She smiles, and giggles. And then gradually she realises she’s giggling with herself – and so she laughs again – at herself, this time. Charlotte untangles her limbs from the sheets and swears at the passing time. She climbs into her pyjamas and heads into the kitchen.
He’s still there, poking at beans on toast with HP sauce and tea that’s going cold. She sits across from him, and they talk about little things while he tucks in. He leaves for work, and she spends most of the day purposefully ignoring deadlines for university and wondering how he would react if she told him.
And somewhere, a young working doctor smiles politely at all of his patients and disposes of little plastic ear caps and tongue dispensers. And past all of his politeness, and all of his shyness, he really wouldn’t mind.