“Jesus,” he said.
“Mmm,” Abby agreed. She felt confident she’d remember words at some point, but, at the moment, sounds were all she had. Sebastian disposed of the condom, then pulled her close, spreading the comforter out and letting it settle against them, soft as a sigh. Abby gave a contented hum, and they both fell asleep.
It was still dark when Abby woke up. She was lying on her back with Sebastian curled around her. They turned toward each other wordlessly, mouths meeting, hands roaming. The second time was slower, sweeter, full of pleased murmurs and gentle caresses and something that felt like tenderness. When Sebastian brushed her hair back from her face, when he braced his body up and leaned close to drop kisses on her cheeks and forehead, or gasped “Sweetheart,” with his mouth against her neck, she felt closer to him than to any of the four other guys she’d been with.
When it was over, they flopped back against the pillows again. And then, just when Abby thought things couldn’t get any better, that she’d hit the absolute peak of her sexual experiences, maybe even the peak of her entire life, Sebastian asked, “Are you hungry?”
Trick question, Abby thought. Just as she’d struggled with sex, she’d also struggled with eating in front of guys, with what she’d allow herself, and how much of it, but in Sebastian’s bed, the combination of the liquor and the postorgasmic endorphins buzzing through her bloodstream erased any self-consciousness.
“I’m starving,” she said emphatically before she could overthink it.
Sebastian looked pleased. He got up and padded, naked, into the kitchen. “Stay there,” he said. “Be right back.” Abby snuggled under his comforter, which was not too heavy and not too light, and smelled like fabric softener and Sebastian’s subtly spiced cologne.
He didn’t have a headboard, but he did have a top sheet and a fitted sheet, plus the four pillows pushed against the wall. Points for that, Abby thought and began arranging pillows in her customary fashion, one behind her head, two more parallel to the edge of the bed, a bulwark between her body and the floor. She’d slept that way since she’d been a little girl and had developed an irrational fear of rolling out of her bed in her sleep. Building your burrow, her father had called it. He’d called Abby his little badger. It had been a much better nickname than Flabby Abby.
When Sebastian came back to the room, holding two steaming bowls of pasta that smelled deliciously of garlic and cheese, he looked at the pillows, then at her. “It’s my burrow,” Abby said without thinking.
“Got it,” he said. Abby sat up, and he handed her a bowl. “Pasta alla mamma,” he said. Abby twirled a forkful of noodles. The pasta had a perfect bite, and the sauce was creamy and salty and meltingly rich.
“You just made this?” she asked. “Just, like, went into the kitchen and whipped it up?”
Sebastian looked pleased. “It’s just leftover pasta. You crack an egg into it, and grate in a bunch of cheese,” he said modestly. “Oh, and garlic and fresh cracked black pepper.” He cleared his throat. “It’s actually the only thing I know how to make, besides ramen with an egg. But it’s good, right?”
Abby took another bite and groaned. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she asked, with her mouth mostly full, because she didn’t want to stop eating. “Or a wife?” She took another bite. “Or a harem?” She swallowed and licked her lips. “Why has no one chained you to her stove and made you cook this every night?”
He smiled, and said, “Do you want to chain me to your stove?” He’d put on pajama bottoms and a white undershirt, and he was almost unbearably appealing like that, so handsome and endearing that Abby couldn’t look at him directly for too long. She contented herself with taking peeks as he climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged beside her, balancing his own bowl on his knee.
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “Are you available?”
Instead of answering, Sebastian twirled her a forkful of pasta from his bowl and offered it to her. Abby opened her mouth and sucked the fork clean. She told herself it didn’t matter if the guy thought she was a disgusting pig. She’d never see him again. She could even ask for seconds! She smiled at the thought, and Sebastian smiled back, reaching out for one of her curls, pulling the light-brown strands straight and letting the curl re-form and bounce against her temple.
“So, what do you do when you’re not cooking pasta?” she asked.