After Midnight (a.i.)

23

(Ashton's POV)

I can't get her out of my head. Those strained whimpers and breathless moans of pleasure dripping from her cherry lips tainted my ears and took over my train of thought. As always, she stole my focus and brought it directly on her, like she reached out and wrapped her dainty fingers around my aimless attention and branded my brain with her devilish smile. Even with a pill, nothing intoxicated me more than her. This current moment was the last place I needed to be thinking about her, but nothing in my feeble idea bank could stop it. She had full control of my every thought, steering them straight toward her seductive grin and creamy skin. God, I feel starstruck.

"Did you find it?" A frail voice brings me out of my head for a second, though I know it wouldn't last long. Nothing can get my mind off of her, it's a never ending loop of those icy eyes begging for more.

"Yeah, I'll be there in a second." I reply, physically shaking her from my mind while I try to remember what the hell I was doing. I take in my surroundings, trying to jog my foggy brain with the refrigerator light in front of me. What the fuck did she want?

My eyes drag over the milk, eggs, leftover tupperware, miscellaneous shit before I spot the cranberry juice hiding behind a jug of coffee creamer. That has to be it. I swipe the juice from the fridge and shut the door with my foot, scooting toward the cabinets for a glass. The oak door creaks open from its bare use, revealing the various cups and dishes inside.

"Fuckin' hell." I curse to myself, noticing all of the tumblers are not on their usual shelf. They must be dirty, and I'm not about to do dishes. My brows involuntarily knit together while I improvise, grabbing a plastic cup and sneaking through every drawer in hopes to find anything that could work. There was a glass cup with a lid, but I know glass would be too heavy.

I hold the plastic cup and juice in my hand while I dig through the kitchen, losing patience with every handle I tug. She doesn't have any fucking straws?

I turn to the opposite side of the kitchen, hopeful with my search. My eyes land on the counter beside the bread box, the dim light above illuminating the reflective sparkly glass on display.

My feet carry me toward the drinkware, stopping to let me admire the golden cocktail shaker and practically brand new detailed rocks glasses settled on the complimenting gold tray on top of the wooden counter. The matching glass holder embraced the royal gold bar utensils with grace, looking as if this was some sort of decor in her home. It looks completely unused, fresh from the old box it came in. My lips curve as I take in the alluring cocktail station, feeling the temptation run through my veins.

She would love this.

I stare a bit longer, but that impatient reminder yells once more and I quickly back away from the counter out of habit, slowly tearing my eyes from the glassware to continue with my mission.

Just as I'm about to give in out of irritation, the final drawer near the dated sink screeches open. My head rolls at the piercing sound and I curse. Apparently she's never heard of WD-40.

I fish around for a clean straw and drop it into the plastic cup, soon filling it halfway with the desired juice. I've learned many times not to fill it to the rim, cleaning up spilt cranberry juice is a bitch.

Out of habit I stir the dark juice with the flimsy straw before returning the carton to the fridge, making sure to put it front and center for my inevitable second trip.

"I'm dying of thirst." She calls out again, making my eyes roll out of my head as I travel to the back bedroom. Impatient as always.

"Calm down." I grumble once I reach the door, slowly pushing it open and hurrying to the bedside.