22. Chills, They're Multiplying

We both stood facing the mirror in his bathroom, competing for sink space as we brushed our teeth. He hipchecked me and laughed as I nearly punctured my tonsil with my toothbrush. Clearly he had no idea he'd almost cockblocked himself. He was fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. Guys are so sexy when they get out of the shower. It's like their mommies never taught them how to dry off properly, so their skin shines with a slick layer of clean and tiny water droplets cling to the ends of their hair. Brady was no different.
My head was fuzzy and I hadn't yet regained the feeling in my lips. I looked at his reflection, letting my eyes wander down to those inner-hip indentations I loved so much. I don't know what my obsession was with those indentations, but whenever I saw really defined ones I couldn't help but want to run my tongue across it, even if I'm not attracted to the guy. (It's weird, I know.) But I was attracted to Brady.
I tried to remember what he looked like without his shorts. I'd seen him fully naked a few times back in our college days, but that was years ago, so I had a hard time conjuring up an image. He bent over to spit. Then I remembered what I loved most about a naked Brady: He had the most perfect butt. Usually I don't like butts. I think they're gross. That, and the upper thigh area, all pale and hairy. No, thanks. If men lacked asses and upper thighs, I'd be perfectly happy. But I'd want Brady to keep his ass.
He caught me assessing him from behind and gave me a knowing smile.
"You brush your teeth for too long."
I shrugged and kept brushing, going back to my memories of our sleepovers. Everyone always told me I brush my teeth too long. I don't mean to, but that's when I get a lot of my best thinking done.
He smacked my ass and headed toward the bed.
"You coming?"
I nodded, afraid if I tried to talk I'd drool toothpaste foam all down my chin and make him regret asking me.
Suddenly, I was overcome with nerves. Was I sobering up or something? My heart started beating too fast and my chest felt tight. I spit out the toothpaste to avoid choking.
I walked over to the bed on wobbly knees. He pat the empty spot next to him.
At this point I wasn't sure if we were sharing the bed as good ol' pals or as good ol pals with benefits. Considering the amount of tequila involved, I hoped for the latter.
Either way, I still follow the no-demin-in-bed policy, even when I'm at someone else's place. So I unbuttoned my pants and tried to pull them off without any grunting or heaving or having my hand slip off and punch myself in the face. Damn skinny jeans. Once I was free of them, I took the place next to him in bed. Both of us on our backs, our arms almost touching.
He reached up and turned off the light, and I immediately started shivering.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
I shake like crazy when I'm nervous or anticipating something. The thought of being half naked and drunk in bed with Brady had my teeth chattering so hard my jaw started to hurt.
He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me against him. He was trying to warm me up, but he only made it worse because now I could feel his warm breath close to my ear.
"Are you OK? You don't feel cold." He said, he had his hand on my stomach, under my shirt.
"I told you, I'm not cold," I said through clenched teeth so I wouldn't bite my tongue. "I'm excited." (It sounded better than "nervous as shit.")
With that, he pressed his lips against mine. Softly at first, probably afraid I'd bite him. Then I remembered what Brady kisses were like. They were soft and sweet at first, no tongue, just lips against lips. I realized the feeling was back in my lips, but I still had a drunk buzz radiating through the rest of my body. My jaw relaxed and the chattering stopped. I tried to force the rest of my body to lie still, but as his hand slid from my stomach to my bra, a wave of shivers followed it.
He kissed me harder and my body calmed.
His fingers grazed the top of my bra. Then I remembered something else about Brady. He's a boob guy. He loves boobs. I was reminded of this as he rolled me on top of him and unsnapped my bra on the first try.
"Let's get rid of this, too," he said as he pulled my shirt up over my head. I let my bra slide off my shoulders and he tossed it to the side of the bed. Then he just lied there staring up at them while I stared down at him. He'd get the cutest look on his face whenever we'd mess around, almost like he'd just eating five bites too many of a pot brownie. Eyelids at half mast, mouth parted slightly. Maybe if I slapped him he'd come back to reality.
Brady and I had never had sex because I was a big ol' virgin (unless you want to count the time we played a quick game of "Just the Tip, Just for A Second, Just to See How it Feels," during which I learned that I never wanted to play again because it hurt like a BITCH). But sitting there on top of him with his hands grasping my boobs, my body full of tequila and raging hormones, I wondered if we'd play the game again. Only for longer than a second (hopefully).


We didn't.