“Did too.”
“I’m concerned about you. Is that a crime?”
She plants her hands on her hips, which has the bonus effect of thrusting her breasts forward. “I already have a big brother. I don’t need another one.”
Is it wrong that we’re in the middle of an argument and I want to strip her clothes off and screw her senseless? I swear, she’s even hotter when she’s pissed off. There’s an almost primal sexuality about her.
“My feelings for you are anything but brotherly.”
“You know what I mean.”
“All I’m saying is that there’s no rush for you to leave. Take the time to find a place that’s more than just affordable and near a subway line. Preferably one in a better neighborhood. With a roommate who wears bras instead of boxers.”
The last part slips out before I can stop it. And of course, it’s what she latches right onto.
“So is it the location you object to? Or the fact that I’d be living with a guy?”
I try to look sheepish. “Would you be mad at me if I said both?”
“Look who’s jealous now.” Her hands are still on her hips, but her tone is gentler, her eyes softer. “But I can’t mooch off you indefinitely.”
I step in to her, taking her hands from her hips and putting them around my neck. Then I wrap my arms around her waist. “You’re not mooching. You’re an important part of this household.”
Her fingers tunnel in my hair and her lips curve into a sarcastic smile. “Having sex with the master of the house doesn’t count.”
“You did the grocery shopping,” I say. We’re so close my voice is almost a whisper, and I lean in to rest my forehead on hers. “Made lasagna. Rearranged my kitchen cabinets. And that was in your first twenty-four hours here. Do you want me to go on?”
“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” she whispers back.
There’s something in her eyes—a hint of doubt or hesitation—that guts me. “Trust me, that is not going to happen.”
I cover her mouth with mine. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s fast and firm, designed to wipe out any uncertainly about whether and for how long I want her here. I suck her bottom lip between my teeth and tug, making her gasp. That gives me an opening, and I take advantage, snaking my tongue inside to find hers. Tasting. Exploring.
Somehow, we wind up on the couch, her laptop pushed to the floor, her body sprawled across mine. Our sex is like my kiss. Frantic. Furious. Neither one of us wants to take the time to fully undress—it’s a damn miracle I remember I’ve got a condom in my wallet—and I enter her with our shirts on and our pants around our ankles. I come in minutes, something that would normally be embarrassing as hell except that except that she’s right there with me, her heady moans filling the room as she tumbles over the edge.
As great as it is, I know the sex doesn’t solve anything. The question of when—or if—Brie will be packing her bags and hitting the road still looms. But it’s forgotten for now. Obscured in a haze of hormones and sheer physical exhaustion. And I’m scoring that in the win column.
Later, after we shower together to clean up—which of course only gets us dirty again—we order take out from the Thai place around the corner and end up back on the couch for an evening of Netflix and chilling.
I’m struck with the strange thought that, in the eight weeks we lived together, not once did Giselle and I do this. Spend a quiet night at home watching television. We were always either out at some function or another or, when we were home together, working in separate rooms.
Now that I think about it, it says a lot about why our relationship crashed and burned. Neither one of us was willing to make the effort required to have a true partnership. It makes me wonder if I’m more like my father than I want to admit. Incapable of real intimacy.
But then Brie snuggles into me, her head nudging into the crook of my shoulder, her already familiar coconut scent wafting over me—it’s her shampoo, I’ve learned—and I’m flooded with a supreme sense of contentment I never felt with Giselle. Maybe the problem isn’t me. Maybe the problem is that I was with the wrong woman.
“If you’re not going to pick something for us to watch, I am,” Brie says, trying to snag the remote out of my hand.
I hold it out of her reach, point it at my flat screen, and start scrolling through the options. I’m done dwelling on the past. Time to concentrate on the here and now. And the woman next to me instead of the one who walked out without a backward glance. “How about an oldie but goodie? LikeHigh Fidelity. OrThe Princess Bride.”
She stares at me, open-mouthed. “You’d watchThe Princess Bridewith me?”
“Why not? I love that movie.”
“Jake hates it. He says the only good part is the sword fighting.”
“Inconceivable.”
“Wow.” She lets loose with a low, appreciative whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said you love it. But I had something else in mind.”
