“You’re far more likable,” she said, patting my thigh.
“Well that’s good,” I said, a breath rushing out with my words. “Because I doubt you’ll find Zuckerberg wandering the streets of Cambridge these days, and he’s definitely not bringing you Thai food and beer, Sunshine.”
I studied her while she watched the movie, and ran my fingers through her thick, glossy hair. She kept it short, about shoulder-length, and it was a bone-straight curtain of sleek ebony. There was no explaining my attraction to her ear or the tiny constellation of studs trailing up her lobe, but I loved the silky skin just behind it.
I usually waited for a sign from her, some indication that she wanted a bit more than friendly cuddles, but she was busy analyzing the evolution of Justin Timberlake’s music since his boy band days.
I didn’t want to wait for that sign tonight. I wanted to touch her and taste her without invitation, but I’d backed myself into this goddamnfriendscorner with Tiel, and that meant I’d lost my balls and what was left of my mind.
In the process, I’d also lost my taste for slutting it up and hadn’t enjoyed anonymous sex since August. I just couldn’t convince myself to want that anymore, and none of it made sense to me.
My world was gradually shifting and reshaping itself, and all I knew was that I felt different, but different in ways I couldn’t verbalize. There was the obvious—fewer blowjobs, less gin, more underground concerts, many more movie nights—but it was so much more. Part of me wanted to assign a name and some order to all this. A bigger part of me knew I wasn’t rolling around rock bottom anymore, and for that victory alone I should focus on savoring the sweet woman in my arms and the quiet peace we’d found in this absurd friends-but-more-than-friends construct.
To be fair, I might have built the corner I was backed into, but I never stopped asking Tiel whether it was what she wanted.
Wouldfriendsdo that?
Are we still friends?
Just friends, right? That’s what you want?
The door was open for her to say no,hell no.
“Keep doing that,” Tiel murmured, leaning into my hand. “You haven’t said anything nice about my boobs all night. They’re feeling neglected.”
My fingers tangled in her hair, and I brushed my lips over that hidden spot between her hairline and the shell of her ear. It would be the perfect location for a tiny tattoo.
A little something only I knew.
“You’re wearing that pink bra,” I said against her hair. “The comfortable one you claim you’ve had forever. The one you took off through your sleeve a few weeks ago. It makes your tits look so soft and full, and fucking edible.”
Andfuck me,I wanted to tear her clothes off and drag my tongue around the heavy underside of her breasts, sucking and licking and biting until I had to feel with my hands, my cock, my entire being. I wanted to spend hours there, tasting her, mapping her curves, discovering what made her moan and arch.
There was so much to learn, yet buried deep inside that desire was the realization that I wanted somethingdifferentwith Tiel, something too fucking complex to start unless I knew what I was doing. The friendship we’d forged was significant, and I wouldn’t destroy that by running in dick first. Sofa-cuddling and sporadic sexting paled in comparison to the hungry knot of affection that was growing in my chest, doubling and tripling and fucking exploding with every touch, kiss, glance.
And if I didn’t find a path out of the friend corner soon, my balls would be blowing up like the Fourth of July.
DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN.
“It’s all he’ll play,” Beth whispered. “It’s been almost four hours, and he hasn’t stopped.”
Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-da.
She crossed her arms under her breasts, her nails worrying her linen sleeves. Everything about her was tight: her ballerina-rigid posture, the sock bun high on her head, the way her hands gripped her elbows.
She was girding herself for battle.
I didn’t usually see Lucas on Fridays, but when Beth called this morning, I set aside my preparation for the classes I was teaching next week.
Peering around the doorway, I watched Lucas’s narrow shoulders rising and falling as his slim, pale fingers slammed against the piano’s keys. He played with the velocity of a classically trained pianist who knew the notes nearly as well as Beethoven himself.
“He’sinit,” I murmured.
“What does that mean?” she asked, her expression slightly horrified.
I gestured to the piano and the seven-year-old seated at the bench, but knew Beth wouldn’t understand my meaning. “He’s in that headspace where the only thing that makes sense is the music.”
Her frown deepened. “It’s been hours. He’s going to be hungry and tired.”
