Fifty Shades Of Park Jimin

THE ELEVATOR KISS

It's very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmm... I open my eyes, and for a moment, I'm tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am.

The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It's oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and golds and beige. How did I get here?

Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drinking, the phone call, the vomiting. Joe and then Park Jimin. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don't remember coming here.

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil.

Control freak that Park Jimin is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don't feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine.

It's thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviv-ing an arid mouth.

There's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can't seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in.

He's been working out. He's in gray sweat pants and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like his hair. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year old, if I close my eyes then I'm not really here.

"Good morning Roseanne. How are you feeling?"

Oh no.

"Better than I deserve," I mumble.

I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He's staring at me, gray eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what he's thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.

"How did I get here?" My voice is small, contrite.

He comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's close enough for me to touch. And the body wash scent come to my nose and Park Jimin, it's a heady cocktail - so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here," he says phlegmatically.

"Did you put me to bed?"

"Yes." His face is impassive.

"Did I throw up again?" My voice is quieter.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" I whisper.

"Yes." He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

"We didn't," I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.

"Roseanne, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive," he says dryly.

"I'm sorry."

His mouth lifts slightly in a wry smile.

"It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while."

Me neither but I didn't ask him to come and get me.

Somehow I've been made to feel like the villain of the piece.

"If I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit," he says acidly.

Pressing his suit! I glance up at him, he's glaring at me, his gray eyes blazing, aggrieved. I try to bite my lip, but I fail to repress my laughter.

"Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?" I giggle. "You sound like a courtly knight."