Blind Carnival

Change of Heart

"We don't?"

She's staring at him. The lack of narration in her head has a funny side effect: she apparently can't think at all.

"No." He's shaking his head, probably trying to fit the marbles back to where they belong. "There's a box in the washroom, but... I don't have any here."

She has some in her handbag, but it's by the entrance door. And this time she hasn't thought of stashing some in her pockets. It's funny, because she was planning to jump him when the two of them were in the shop, but then she got properly distracted by him saying he gets randy from her intellect.

"That never happens in my books," she blurts out, and he gives her a shy smile.

"Should I go get some or should we move?"

"Move, probably..."

He nods and tries to get up. His pants are still tenting from the erection, and his denim is around his knees. And somehow it totally kills the mood for her. It might be the disappointment after that hot little fantasy she had, him shagging her, on the sofa, impatiently, her legs maybe even on his shoulders. She knows it's a cliché and might be very uncomfortable. She wrote thousands of those. It just seemed very immature and... steamy.

Also, the view of a man's naked legs... Well, it's just not sexy. She's done her research. There are forums where women can be asked to vote for such things. She's not the only one. In most cases, even if a man has nice thighs like the ones right in front of her, it's still... well, just no. It might be explained by the view of the pants too. Because when they are fully naked, it's a completely different story. But pale skin and hairy legs... Nope.

He finally gets up and pulls up his trousers with one hand. What is she supposed to do? Take the hand he stretches to her and walk after him into the bedroom, or tell him she lost the spark?

She's also cold, in only her knickers and bra, and the knickers are now sticky and wet, and she hates thongs.

She knows that many other women would just go with the bloke and hope they get back into the mood after a tad of heavy petting. Or, in a worst case scenario, some give him a blowjob just to appease him and be done with it. She'd never do the latter, but saying 'no' is a skill and society doesn't teach it to us.

She stares at his beautiful back and then digs her heels into the carpet. He looks at her in surprise. That constant soft smile of his makes her less embarrassed. It makes it easier to breathe, because it's just so him, and it's John, and he is wonderful.

"Um... I sort of... don't want to anymore."

She sounds apologetic. She has nothing to apologise for, but societal programming is hard to overcome. And you call yourself a writer, Olivia? Surely there was a better way of putting it. His eyebrows jump up.

More so, she doesn't want to try to reignite that fire, as she would put it in her novel. She wants to take off the sodding weapon of torture rubbing between her buttocks, put on the PJs she has in her bag, and cuddle with him. Yes, she's not ashamed to say it: she wants to cuddle.

"Do you want to watch a film then?" he asks lightly.

And that is when she realises she's in love with the bloke. She's gaping at him, she might also have her jaw hanging level to her unimpressive tits.

"What?"

He cannot be real. Real men don't take it that easily. Real men aren't considerate and don't react to revoked consent with a cheery offer of watching a film.

"I have a couple films I downloaded from iTunes, and I haven't seen the latest episode of Doctor Who, don't know if you are watching it–"

She jumps at him and hangs on his neck, peppering his nose with kisses.

"I do! I do want to watch Doctor Who! With you!"

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her up. His eyes are close to her, and they are this wonderful Columbia blue.

"You're slightly odd, you do know that, right?" he says.

It sounds like the biggest of compliments. Like he fancies that Olivia's 'slightly odd.' She dangles her feet in the air.

"I am aware," she murmurs and quickly pecks his lips.

***

The two of them are in his bed, his Argos laptop tray - Milo Bentwood one, if she's not wrong; she did research for that novel about the paraplegic former pilot, now mystery novel writer - is over him, and they are watching Doctor Who. She's comfortable, he's warm, and the episode is ace.

Her PJs are as sexy as possible with her wardrobe. It's silky bottoms and a lace vest. But she also put on a hoodie he gave her over it, so there is no oh-la-la effect. She peeked at him a couple times, but he seemed properly content with the status quo, so she just enjoyed the show and snuggled into him.

After the episode is done, they plod sleepily into the washroom, brush their teeth, and then crawl into bed. He scoops her, spoons her, and nuzzles the back of her head.

"Night, Olivia," he mumbles sleepily.

And that's when she's suddenly awake. And so is her libido. Oh poop.

***

She has two choices. She can suck it up, as they say in American films. She's decisively and utterly aroused, her comfortable cotton knickers, which she changed into before climbing into his bed, are drenched. Let's face it, she did put this phrase into her stories many times, but it's more of a medium size sticky spot than an actual flood. It's still bloody annoying.

She's hot and acutely aware of every single inch of his body pressed into her. Ask her right now, she'd say his legs are the single most sexiest thing in the world. She carefully shifts and rubs the sole of her foot to his shin. He makes a soft pleased noise. But he clearly isn't randy, otherwise she'd feel the delicious, hot, long, thick– Oh goddess, Olivia, you're fantasising about his cock! And you refused him, just a couple hours ago!

Her second choice is to try to do something about it. For example, she can continue rubbing some of her parts to some of his parts, and something might come out of it, right? She has a brief moment of panic, though. What will he think of her then? That she's moody and changeable? Because it seems that she is. Oops.

What if she starts making advances, so to say, and he's not in the mood, would he be upset? Blimey, it's so difficult! She honestly can't remember how it was at the beginning of her relationship with Allan. Was it the same 'walking on eggshells' sensation? It was probably worse, since John is so simple, and easy, and lovely, and... Oh god, what if he doesn't want it, can't get it up, and starts doubting his prowess?! She interrupts her own thoughts. The latter scenario is unrealistic - especially considering that she's too nervy to actually make any sort of advances.

Her mind is thrashing. She's chewing her bottom lip when she hears a warm chuckle into her hair.

"What are you thinking about so intensely?"

His breath brushes at her nape, and she shivers. Oh she wants him so much right now, it's plain painful!

"Um..."

He yawns. His arm goes around her waist tightly, and he snuggles into her. It's a bit of a torture, since for some reason it makes her mind supply her with a graphic picture of riding him in reverse cowgirl.

"Are you writing? It's so fascinating. You can take the laptop if you need to write it down." He yawns again. "You can turn on the light, it won't bother me."

Or she can turn around, grab the back of his head, and snog all sense out of him, while pushing her hand down his PJ bottoms— Pull yourself together, Olivia!

"I'm thirsty."

That's the only thing you came up with? Pathetic, Olivia.

He hums and lets her go. Olivia flees.