Take It Slow

I woke up in Oliver’s flat the next morning to the heaviness of his arm across my stomach and the weak, white-ish English sun filtering in through the blinds of the window opposite the bed. I stretched a little bit, rustling the bed enough to wake Oliver up. He blinked at me sleepily and then grinned, as if he was just remembering what we’d done the night before.

“Oh, hello, Milo.” He said, drawing out the ‘oh’ in my name like he’d done so many times at the pub the previous evening.

“Morning.” I said dreamily. He dragged his upper body over to mine and disappeared under the blankets without a word. I was puzzled for a minute, but then felt his lips grazing my stomach and immediately didn’t care if he came back out any time soon. He must’ve figured that because he was meandering lower and lower, his breath rolling so warm across my skin. Not a bad way to wake up, I daresay.

Just as he was reaching my right hipbone, there was the sound of keys rattling somewhere outside the bedroom, and, without warning, the front door of the flat burst open, bouncing off the adjacent wall with a resounding thud. Someone came in humming some nonsense song I didn’t recognize.

“Bollocks.” Oliver said, thumping his forehead against my hip. He emerged and glanced at me apologetically, hair all askew. “Listen, I should tell you…”

Before he could finish, the bedroom door flew open as well, and its frame was filled with a tall and lanky familiar someone that I hadn’t as of yet had the pleasure of meeting. Oliver winced.

“Well, well.” James Phelps said from the doorway, all devilish grins, holding the strap of my discarded, lacy bra between the fingers of his right hand.

The truth is, Oliver and I hadn’t made it to the bedroom of his flat that first night. Really, we’d barely made it through the front door. We’d had fumbling, giggly, incredible sex on his living room floor. And that, dear friends, is the reason behind why James was waving my frilly underthing around as if it were a goddamn Union Jack. Oliver’s head whipped around, although the rest of him was poised over me, probably making it look for all the world like we were in the middle of something indecent. Suddenly more self-aware than I’d ever been in my life, I scrambled to make sure all my girly bits were covered by Oliver’s deliciously comfortable goose down bedspread.

“Sorry if I was interrupting something.” James said with a chuckle.

“Out.” Oliver growled.

“Hey, now.” James said, tossing my bra onto the foot of the bed. It lay there like sin itself, all black lace and bows. I blushed to the roots of my hair.

Oliver sat up, careful to keep the blankets around his waist. “Prick”. He spat, and, peeking out from my shelter of bedthings, I saw he was blushing, too.

“Come off it, brother mine. You were expecting me, remember?”

Oliver heaved an angry sigh, his nostrils flaring. “I know. But, c’mon, mate.” He threw his twin a pleading glance, which led me to believe he didn’t know I was looking.

“I’ll be in the living room.” James chuckled.

“Bloody idiot”. Oliver said once he’d gone, throwing himself back across the pillows. I emerged from my hiding place and stretched, not touching him because I wasn’t sure if the appropriate moment had passed or not. He answered that question by abruptly leaning down and placing a kiss on my mouth.

“Oh.” I said, relatively (understandably) shocked. He continued as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Sorry about him. He’s not used to seeing girls here in the mornings. They’ve usually gone by the time he gets here. Blimey, noon already. I could really use a toasted cheese sandwich. I’ve got so much to do today.” He was dressing as he spoke these rapid-fire, disjointed statements, pulling on plaid boxer shorts, worn-looking jeans, and socks. He didn’t bother with a shirt.

“I guess I should probably, ah, go, then.” I said slowly, sitting up and running a hand through my hair.

“Really?” Oliver said, coming over to my side of the bed. He was smiling slightly. “So soon?”

He crawled into the bed, his arms and legs on either side of mine, forcing me to sink back against the pillows again. He came to rest with his body pressed against the length of mine, his lips covering mine with a ferocity that made my heart beat too fast. I was mortified; I probably had morning breath.

“It’s noon.” I said around his kiss. His hand came up to cup my breast.

“Milo, you can’t leave without having a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich.” He murmured into my neck. I giggled stupidly.

“Oliver, you have things to do.” I said feebly. He ignored me, sighed heavily, and sat up.

“Can I have your number?” He asked as if it had suddenly occurred to him that we hadn’t bothered with the phone number thing the night before.

“Sure.” I said, reaching for my bra and using my toes to snatch my panties (which had somehow made it to the bedroom when nothing else had) off the floor. Oliver tossed me a pair of his boxer shorts and an Aston Villa tee shirt.

“Do you want me to get rid of him first?” he asked, suddenly concerned, jabbing his thumb at the bedroom door and the sound of James watching some soccer match on the living room television. I paused in my action of rolling his boxers down around my hips, thinking for a minute.

“No.” I said finally.

“Are you sure?” He’s harmless, but he might try to tease you a bit. Or chat you up. I can’t be sure.”

“I think I can handle it.” I said, smiling at him before pulling the shirt down over my head.

“What a champion.” He said admiringly, coming over to put his hands on my hips. “Bravest girl I know.”

“You don’t know me.” I reminded him.

“Sure, sure. A technicality. Once you get past the whole sex thing, what else is there to know?” He chuckled. “I’m only joking, of course. Let’s go, I’m starving.”

He led me from the bedroom and into the kitchen. Over the half-wall/bar, I saw James sitting sprawled across a leather sectional sofa. He grinned when he saw us. I blushed again but didn’t know why. Oliver pointed to a high-top kitchen table, motioning for me to sit while he collected things from the fridge. I sat, looking at my hands, feeling the urge to say something witty to break the tension, but also knowing full well that anything I could think to say would just come out sounding stupid.

After a minute, when Oliver was too enthralled in concocting grilled cheeses to notice or stop him, James sidled over and sat across from me.

“Sorry my brother was rude and didn’t introduce us earlier.” He said with a grin. “I’m James.” He extended his hand across the table.

“Milo.” I said, taking it.

“Milo.” He repeated skeptically, just the way Oliver had the night before.

“From the ‘States.” Oliver said over his shoulder. “A student over at Bolton, studying sex.”

James cocked his eyebrows at me with a snarky little grin. “I see why you brought her home, then, mate.” Then he winked. “Not that that’s the only reason, of course. You’re very pretty.”

I felt myself blush, both at the compliment and the realization of how terrible my career choice must’ve sounded to other people. If all I was going to get my whole life were eyebrow wags and giggles, I was going to have to change my concentration. I cleared my throat to defend myself.

“Actually, I’m a sex historian.” It still sounded a little bizarre. I winced. Oliver set a slightly burnt grilled cheese sandwich on the table in front of me and then sat down in the chair between James and me. I stuffed an inappropriate portion of it into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to talk anymore, but James wouldn’t let it drop.

“Okay, so what does that entail, exactly?” He said, leaning on his elbows against the tabletop and looking like he was genuinely interested. “Was my brother a field study, or something?” Oliver elbowed him and shook his head.

“Sorry, sorry.” James chuckled. “But, honestly, how does one study sex, exactly?”

I hesitated and then chewed on the massive amount of food in my mouth so that I could answer him. I took the few seconds of silence to look back and forth between Oliver and James. It was obvious that they were twins, I could see how, from far away – or, yanno, on the big screen because they were big-shot film stars – they’d look exactly alike. But from my vantage point, they might as well have not been twins at all. James’ face was rounder, fuller, more boyish and given to grinning whereas Oliver’s was more angular. When Oliver smiled, his eyes got narrow and his cheeks dimpled. My comparison had to stop there – I’d run out of sandwich to chew on and I didn’t know much of either of them aside from the physical comparisons. I swallowed and then prepared to jump into the explanation I’d given everyone who had ever questioned my field of study.

After two cups of coffee and the rest of my sandwich and a lot of discussion about the history of sex, I glanced at my watch and decided I had probably overstayed my welcome, even though I would’ve liked to stay the entire damn day. Oliver and James had proved to be excellent company, and the feeling of Oliver’s hand on my right thigh under the table certainly didn’t hurt. However, as bad as I was at the whole “one night stand” thing, I was determined not to be the one it was impossible to get rid of. I stood up from the table, taking my dish and coffee cup with me over to the kitchen sink.

“Well, I think it’s about that time.” I said.

“Yeah, we’ve got a golf game to get to.” James said jovially, stepping away from the table and coming over to me. He took my hand in his and shook it vigorously. “Milo, it’s been a real pleasure. Feel free to come over and chat about sex anytime.” He said with mock formality.

“Oh, come off it.” Oliver said, appearing at James’ shoulder.

“Sounds like a smashing time.” I said, giggling in spite of myself. James grinned.

“Come on, I’ll help you find your clothes.” Oliver said and took my hand to lead me back toward the bedroom, stopping to pick up the shirt I’d left draped over an armchair in the living room and the jeans that had somehow managed to find their way into the hallway.

We moved around the room together, first making the big bed and then getting my clothes back onto me. He helped me with my shirt, standing close to me and pulling it down over my head with a naughty smile. His hands lingered on my waist for a minute.

“So, about that number…” He said, reaching past me to the nightstand where his phone was laying. The motion brought his face close to mine, and I decided that I could get away with kissing him. I could feel him smile while he kissed me back. He placed the phone in my hand without pulling away, and it was a minute or two before I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.

“I’m just wondering,” I said, pulling away and staring intently at the screen of the phone. I took my time to punch in my name and number so that I wouldn’t have to look directly at him. “Was this just a one-time thing?” I decided not to say anything else and just waited for him to respond.

“I don’t know.” He said after a minute. “I think we had a good time, am I right?”

“Sure.” I said, smiling a little and handing the phone back to him.

“So, yeah, it’d be cool to see you again.” He seemed to think for a minute, then added, “Am I looking for a relationship? No. And, anyway, I guess it’d be stupid to get really involved with a girl who lives five thousand miles away.”

“Agreed. On both accounts.” I said, appreciating his honesty even if it did sting a little. Maybe this would only be a one-time thing – a really goddamn good one-time thing – and maybe we wouldn’t ever talk again. I supposed I was okay with that.

“So, I’ll text you or call you or something.” He said, and I suddenly noticed we were meandering down the hallway toward the front door. “Do you want me to walk you back to the train station?”

“No, of course not. I know how to get back.” I said, taking my jacket from the end table it had ended up on. I shrugged into it and then opened the front door myself. Oliver just looked at me for a minute, and I leaned against the doorway, not knowing if there was something else I should say, and unsure of what the protocol was for leaving your one-night-stand’s flat on the morning after.

“Milo.” He said simply.

“Oliver.” I said back, and he kissed me. I pulled away first and smiled, looking up at him through eyelashes still coated with last night’s mascara. James was looking on from the kitchen, clearly trying to be discreet. I ignored him. Oliver looked like he wanted to say something, but I beat him to the punch.

“Be seeing you.” I said, backing out the door before I could get stuck there, tripping over stupid words and too-long, awkward goodbyes. He bit his lip and looked like he wanted to say something, but instead closed the door slowly behind me.

In hindsight, I hoped he wasn’t still looking through the peep-hole at that point. I may or may not have done a little victory dance.



After a longer train ride than I’d expected and a walk I wished I didn’t have to take, I finally stumbled back into my dormitory at Bolton around three o’clock in the afternoon. Bryony was sitting at our kitchen table with a cup of tea and a textbook, and looked up at me as I entered. I blushed, knowing full well that she knew exactly what I was about in last night’s clothes.

“So.” She said, closing her book and leaning her elbows against the table top. “How’d the shagging go? You did shag him, didn’t you?”

“No, we held hands and played Parcheesi until the wee hours of the morning and then built blanket forts in his living room.” I said sarcastically, struggling to get my keys out of the doorknob and maneuver myself into the living room. “Yes, we shagged. I’m not even in the door, yet. Can I just have a minute to collect myself before the twenty questions begin?”

Bryony shrugged and I went to my room, throwing my bag and jacket onto my bed. By the time I had pulled my hair up and changed into the world’s ugliest ensemble of sweatpants and an old tattoo shop tee-shirt, and reemerged into the kitchen, Bryony had fixed me a cup of black tea and was seated where I’d left her, looking expectant.

“Bless your heart.” I said gratefully, taking the tea and seating myself on the edge of the countertop. I took a long sip, rubbed my eyes, and yawned. Bryony waited patiently.

“Okay,” I said. “Fire away.”

“How was it? Did he take you out? Was anyone else with you? Who is he, anyway? Does he go here? Did you shag? Who am I kidding, of course you shagged. How was it? How was it this morning? Oh, god, was it awkward? I bet it was awkward. You’re not the greatest socialite in the morning, I bet it was terrible.” She screwed up her face in a sympathetic grimace and then sipped her tea, waiting for the answers to come rolling in.

“No, it wasn’t terrible this morning, thankyouverymuch.” I said, rolling my eyes. “His name is Oliver. He was really nice when I fell into him – fuck you, for that, by the way , I –”

“It worked, didn’t it?” She interrupted, looking smug. I ignored her.

“He invited me out to another bar with him, I don’t remember which one. He said he’d have friends there, but it ended up just being the two of us. After that, he walked me to the train station, but instead of getting on my train, I got on his. We shagged on his living room floor.”

“You didn’t!” Bryony gasped, looking absolutely thrilled. “Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

“We shagged on his bed, too,” I said, ignoring the way her eyes widened, but allowing myself a little grin. “And then I slept over. We probably would’ve done it again this morning, but his brother walked in, and –”

“No!”

“Yes. His twin brother walked in and that was embarrassing. But we ended up having grilled cheese and coffee and talking for a while. Then I left.”

“I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. My dearest little wallflower has met a fuck buddy, bless her. Bless him, too. Speaking of which, will you be seeing him again, what’s his name?”

“Oliver. And I don’t know.” I said honestly. “I asked him if this would be a one-time thing, and he said he didn’t know. So I guess we’ll have to see.”

“Usually that means ‘no’.” Bryony said sagely. “Not to worry, once you’ve gotten one, it’s easy to get another. Anyway, congratulations.” She said, standing up from her seat, textbook and tea in hand, and coming over to kiss my cheek lightly. “I’m off to study.”

I shook my head and watched her go, then left the kitchen myself, thinking about the mound of homework I had waiting for me in my bedroom. Once there, I closed the door and rifled through my discarded bag for a pen and my glasses. My hand came across my phone and, out of habit, I took it out to check it. There was a waiting message, and I absent-mindedly opened it, only pausing to think of its significance after I read it.

I’m thinking we should get dinner sometime. You can tell me more about those Roman orgies. Thoughts?

I couldn’t help but let out a giddy little laugh. He wanted to see me again. Oliver Phelps, the Oliver Phelps, who hopefully had no idea I knew he was the Oliver Phelps, wanted to see me, awkward little American Milo, again.

Motherfucking YES.