Phoebe had tossed on dozen's of outfits— thrown them on, yanked them off, finally settled on something cute. Revealing. A little pink cami. Little pink bra, for Jack to unwrap, the bow on the present, the extra challenge before the dessert. And tiny little shorts, pink as well, outrageously short.
She wanted to look good. Needed, actually, to look good. Because she wants Jack to be happy he came over— since the party, since the break-up all Phoebe can think about is Jack. What he's doing. Who he is with. If there's anyway she can keep his attention on her for just a moment longer. She misses his eyes, misses his laugh, misses cuddling up on his chest and losing herself in his strong, steady rhythm of his heart, and she feels so ... fucking lost, without the sound.
She'd wondered if he had thought of her at all since the breakup.
Every part of her craves Jack, and the ache in her chest still really hasn't dissolved. It's hell, not being with him. Actual fucking hell. The only time that ache is soothed is when Jack is over— when he's kissing Phoebe, touching her, when he's between her thighs or on top of her, and then, finally, can she take a deep breathe. Ironically, the only time she can breathe deep is beneath Jack's weight.
But he hadn't showed tonight. Why? Was there other company? Better company? Phoebe had curled up in her bed— tired, and missing him, dream fretfully, wondering what she would need to do to ensure he came over next time.
But then— there's a banging?Kinda loud. Phoebe jerks awake, stumbles to the door with a sleepy, eager expression. Ugh, the wine. She can still feel it tingling, but all she cares about is getting the fucking door.
"—Jack?" she murmurs, sleepy and excited, tumbling past her shoulders, curls wild as she opens the door. Was her eye makeup still okay? She'd gotten a new shimmery pink for him— lovestruck.
