All Chapters of Foster: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The book is disinteresting, and that's the extent of what I think about it. The title isn't even notable, nor is the author. I do wonder if the writer has any extraordinary books to offer, perhaps I just selected the wrong one at the store. It'll teach me not to shop by cover, more importantly, not to shop by dramatised blurb built to draw in sales with no actual relationship to the novel itself. Sasha is out with James. That's the extent of what she told me as a passing alert when she ducked through the front door. I could have guessed a

I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming that my phone is ringing and the floor is on fire -- but the floor isn't on fire. When my feet meet the ground and my hand gropes the nightstand for my phone, my skin isn't burnt. I don't have pants on. This isn't my nightstand. I feel my heart sink. Am I on the brink of doing a walk of shame? Did I give my virginity to boxed wine and a Tinder date? Did I fück James? 

That's how he does it. All in hypotheticals. It's firm yet indirect enough not to offend -- still, it kind of turns me on but angers me at the same time. I'm twenty-four, I can do whatever the hell I want to do. He can't stop me. Maybe next time, I'll throw up in the gutter and curl up there. I'll let a stranger kidnap me... he'll be forced to mop up my vomit from the basement floor and clean everything up, otherwise, he's risking leaving behind DNA evidence of me being there. The captor won't complain -- like it seems Damon is right now.

The man has my face between his hands and his lips have somehow found mine in the blink of an eye. I'm shocked... at least I think I am. I don't have enough time to decide what exactly I am thinking... and when he speaks again, he doesn't dare to lift his mouth away from mine; he speaks into the kiss I'm too stunned to return... It's probably like kissing a petrified cat who had been scooped from the floor with no warning. Or at least resembling of. Like Milo, when I tear him away from the couch and cradle him as if he should thank me for it. Is that what's happening right now? 

"Since when do you lock your window?" James is the least graceful I have ever seen him as he squeezes through the small gap I've allowed him. He's bitter, I could imagine — he's insulted I've denied him the freedom of sliding open my window and climbing through in the middle of the night as he pleases. It's not a human right, however, so he can stick his complaints where shit sticks between the cheeks and he can suck my hard-on. I'm sure that would please him far more than finding I locked my window for once, like any sane person fearing a break-in. I won't tell him I got creeped out watching a horror movie and locked the window so little monsters couldn't molest me in my sleep. He doesn't need to know that.

"Can you button me up?" It takes a moment for my eyes to refocus, from a page to the form of a girl. It's Sasha. Her hair is straightened, yet she still isn't wearing any makeup... she'd never put that much effort into fitting a standard of beauty. She refuses to shave her legs, she refuses to wear anything beyond what she calls 'light foundation' (whatever the hell that means), she refuses to pluck her eyebrows -- yet she has... if it had not been for the obsession she holds with her hair and the state of her hair, she'd be just about the effort of having a son. I admire that. She's low-maintenance. I wonder, however, if she'd wear makeup if we were to ever be married... 

I cross my own arms. I'm now mirroring her. "Not at all," I wait for her to say 'then just kiss me' or something to the effect. Maybe she truly does have to be drunk to have the need to kiss me — it'd be a far better fate than having to endure the pain of constantly needing some form of deeper sexual contact from either one of us. It's all I'm consumed by, each and every waking moment of the day. "So go on, and go out, and get drunk so I can make sure you don't get taken home by some stranger, and hold your hair back so you don't get vomit all through it, and kiss you when you won't remember it," 

She's the one kicking her dress to the floor in only a matter of seconds as her fumbling hands inch my pants further and further down from my hips — she's physically driving me mad as she moves and she squirms to get her bare skin against my own. I myself, can't wait any longer, yet the girl seems to have even less patience than I do. It's fascinating. "This thing," She gasps the words as she lifts her hands to my shoulders. She's unbelievably warm, especially her bare stomach against my own as she heaves for breath. I never want to

It takes a while for me to realise I'm awake. By then, I'm not entirely sure how long I've been conscious... all I do know is that I'm alone when I do finally shift in place; Damon must have already left. It hurts my feelings, sure, but what can I do? Can I call him and yell at him over the phone because now I'm naked and alone in his bed? Can I give him the silent treatment yet again? Should I just wait for tonight and have a passive-aggressive conversation to express my disappointment?

My hand isn't enough to keep him where I want him, yet I make a move to place a palm to the side of his face. And then my lips are to his again, and I feel complete -- if only for even a moment. It takes a moment longer than the time I'd be happy to have been kissed for, for the man to tug me on top of him. It takes the same moment for me to completely fall to pieces. Damon makes me weak and he makes me stupid and limp and hormonal and aching for him... The worst part of that is that I lo