You awake to the room awash in sunset and the last heat of the day. Orlando is stretched out on his back-hogging the bed-with the covers thrown off his body. You raise yourself up on one elbow to caress him with your eyes. His skin glows in the warm light. His natural tan is intensified, making him look as if dipped in bronze and copper. His lips are parted slightly, the tip of his tongue just peeking out to touch his teeth, and you suppress a giggle as the softest snore escapes from him. You drink in the sight of him, catching your breath. He's just so...utterly...pretty.

You lay your hand gently on his chest to feel the steady beat of his heart, slide down to the relaxed muscles of his stomach, where the pulse of his blood is stronger, nearer the surface. The tangle of his dark hair below lures you, and you brush your knuckles there, entranced. His cock twitches, swells, half erect now. You love the look of it: heavy, soft, blushed darker than the rest of his skin; tempting. He sighs, and you dart your eyes to his face. His lids are cracked open, and he gives you a sleepy smile. Smiling back, you shift down and take him in your mouth, closing your eyes to savor the texture and weight of him before he grows too large to fit. You breathe in the musky scent, swirl your tongue over the silky surface as his length increases and nudges the back of your throat. Looking up again, you see that his eyes are closed, lids fluttering and brows drawing together in the slightest of frowns. You curl your fingers around his hardening base and hold him upright, pulling with your mouth to increase suction on his glanz. You find the tiny opening at its tip and dip your tongue in, tasting the salty fluid there, then whip underneath to where you know he is most sensitive, flicking back and forth. He makes an unintelligible noise, and one of his hands finds your hip, massaging restlessly. You slide him out of your mouth, rest your lips on his tip. His skin is still baby soft, over a column of rigid steel, and you linger, brushing your lips over the length of him while your fingers grip and release, feeling his strength. Tilting your head, you try to take in his girth, grazing him with your teeth in the action. He breathes in sharply, reaches blind hands for you. You let him pull you up, stretch out over his body, your knees to each side at his guidance. His fingers dig into your waist, lift you up, and he angles his hips back. You cautiously lower yourself onto him, easing downwards, settling into his embrace when you are filled.

He begins to rock with you, using pressure instead of friction, and you rhythmically squeeze with your inner muscles. It's a gentle action, intimate and unhurried, and your heart pounds slowly, your blood thick as if you're still asleep. His hands run up and down your sides, your back and thighs, coaxing and soothing. You touch his lips with your own, joining your mouths in a mimicking action, tongues sliding and twisting. He climaxes with a guttural sigh, expanding within you to press against your hypersensitive flesh, and you sink into it, sharing the throbbing vibration. You roll off of him, and he stretches.

"That was a nice way to wake up," he remarks contentedly.

"Mmm, I thought so." His stomach rumbles, and you both laugh. "Hungry?"

"Always." You roll your eyes. He isn't exaggerating.

Dinner is ordered in, and you curl up on the sofa to watch an old movie on the television. When the food is reduced to half empty containers and soiled napkins, he cuddles you to his side, and you are reminded of the night before. You secretly hug yourself, snuggle closer, and remember the panic and drowsy heat of that first kiss.

Contemplating the change in your relationship with Orlando is difficult. You feel elation at finally having the physical contact, but wonder how much farther it will go. You know his history when it comes to women. He is a thrill seeker, as obvious in his daring athleticism as in matters of the heart, and he seems unaware that relationships can move on beyond infatuation and lust. He's like a teenager when it comes to relationships. More than a couple months is an eternity, and he hasn't the patience for it. His romances are passionate, intense pursuits, and die young as he quickly loses interest. You've witnessed countless leading ladies from his drama crowd flit in and out of his life, never brought into the inner circle of his friendships.

And there's the contradicting part. As a friend, he is undyingly loyal, never losing interest, always the brightness to anyone's day. Derrick, you know, was a childhood companion from school, and they have never lost the closeness they shared as youngsters, though they have been in separate spheres for nearly a decade now. You've seen him use his considerable charm to boost Liz's fragile ego after a particularly painful breakup, seeming strangely protective of her around other men even now, a year later. As for you, well, he has been a playmate of sorts, as well as a neighbor, always the cheerful equilibrium to your darker nature, reminding you to enjoy the simpler things of life. If you hadn't gone and developed the monstrous crush on him, you suppose that he would remain thus indefinitely, comfortingly, dependably.

And now? You sigh, lean your head on his shoulder as he watches the movie, oblivious to your inner debate. Which way will this turn? How many outcomes are possible? Will this passion plateau, will he lose interest? Will you remain friends if he does? Is it possible, your heart pleads, that you will be the exception? That your preexisting bond will take Orlando into a new realm of connection? Your mind whirls with the what ifs and the maybes. You long for the answers and dread them simultaneously, confusing and exhausting yourself. The television drones on, the movie coming to an end, and Orlando leads you to bed, tucking you close to his warm body. In the end, you sleep, resigning your need for stability to the knowledge that this is one thing over which you have no control. You will simply have to wait it out.