Friends Without Benefits

“Nico . . .” His words sliced at me; I gripped the wall at my back. “No you didn’t.”

He ignored me and continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “I felt relief—for Garrett—because he wasn’t in pain any more. I saw it every day of that year, but he hid it from you. He thought it would make things easier.” Nico chewed on his bottom lip, studying me. “You were in denial the whole time. At his funeral you looked so shocked, like you couldn’t believe he was dead.”

“You’re right.”

“About which part?” His gaze was belligerent, almost feral.

“I was shocked. I didn’t expect—” I took a deep breath; “I wasn’t expecting it.”

Nico nodded twice; “I grieved for Garrett the year before he died.” He focused his gaze on the red velvet behind me. “I said goodbye to him a month before the funeral. And the hardest thing for me after,” Nico paused then met my gaze, his voice softening. His eyes lost focus even as they moved over my face. It was as though he was seeing a memory of me then, rather than seeing me now. He looked at me like he’d done under the bleachers at the reunion; “The hardest part was watching you trying to deal with it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but didn’t know what to say.

He was still scrutinizing me, though his expression gave away nothing tangible of his own feelings; “The irony is, I could have saved myself a world of hurt if I’d just walked away from you after the funeral, like you did to me at the end of the summer.”

I flinched, and my mouth snapped shut.

He took a step back, no longer crowding me, no longer pressing me against the wall. “But I’ve finally learned my lesson.” His eyes fell gradually away, and when he spoke next he addressed his words to panel of buttons; he released the emergency stop, and the elevator began to descend.

“Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

“Goodbye . . .” I stared at him; the elevator jostled. “Goodbye?”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were affixed to the numbers counting down to the lobby.

I rushed for the panel again, pressed the Emergency button. The same shrill alarm started; we both covered our ears. But this time he released a string of expletives which—though I couldn’t actually hear—I was fairly certain I could discern based on the movement of his mouth.

“What the hell?” He growled at me after the alarm stopped, tried to reach around me to release the button. I took the opportunity to grab the front of his jacket.

“No—you need to listen to me now. You’ve had your say. It’s my turn.” I pushed him against the wall, my hands still fisted in his jacket. “You know what I felt at Garrett’s funeral? I felt despair. I felt despair because I loved him, I loved everything about him, and my fifteen-year-old heart couldn’t fathom feeling that way about anyone else ever again. And then you started coming through my window.”

I shook him when he tried to slide his eyes to the side, forced him to meet my gaze; “You came to me and held me. You brought me through the numbness, you saved my life. Did you know that?”

His eyes were glassy as they searched mine. He swallowed.

“You did. And then four months went by, the summer was coming to an end, my father was taking me away, and my heart started feeling something again and this time it was for you.”

The words hung between us. His expression wavered between frustration and elation.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t. I was afraid.”

“So you let me make love to you? Why did you do that? Why did you come to me that night?”

“Because I wanted my first time to be with someone—someone I had feelings for.” I released his jacket. “I used you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I made a decision. I didn’t ask you, that night, I just knew what I wanted and I didn’t even give you a chance to. . . I’m so sorry.”

He rocked backward on his heels, the information were a blow to him. “Then why did you leave?”

“Because I didn’t want your pity and I didn’t think you would ever return my feelings.”

Nico’s mouth fell open, and he blinked, seemingly disoriented. He needed a full minute to recover from my truth. “Why would you think that?” The words were tortured because he already knew the answer. His face twisted with heartbreak, the kind associated with regret.

I sucked in an unsteady breath. “God, Nico.” I gained a step backward. “I spent my teen years thinking you hated me. Then, when Garrett was sick, you tolerated me. Over that summer I assumed that you pitied me. You’ve just always been so untouchable. So beyond me, beyond my reach . . . You make me a coward.”

He studied me, his eyes intent. “You’re not a coward, Elizabeth.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, I am. With you, I am. When we’re together—not all the time, but in flashes—I feel fourteen again, and you’re knocking the books out of my hands or pushing me into the boy’s bathroom, or—” I closed my eyes, unable to continue.

“I’m so sorry. God, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“I know.” I opened my eyes; I sniffed, shrugged, pushed the unpleasant memories from my mind. “You were right about Dr. Ken Miles. When you showed up here, in Chicago, I was making plans to use him because I don’t like him. And tonight, what you saw, was me telling him I couldn’t go through with it—because I don’t like him.”

Nico considered me; he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his unzipped jacket. “You haven’t slept with him?”

I shook my head. “No. I haven’t. I can’t do it. Just the thought of it makes me gag.”

His mouth hooked to the side, and he glanced at his boots. “Me too.”

I laughed involuntarily, backed up to the panel, let my head fall against it. “I don’t know what to do.”

I felt his gaze sweep over my ridiculous outfit, his intentions shift. I braced myself against a sure onslaught of his charming, eye-twinkling brilliance. His voice sent shivers tumbling down my spine.

“You were wrong. I was never out of reach. I’m right here and I’m completely yours.” His hands found and held mine; he pressed them to his chest.

My chin wobbled, and I rushed to blink my eyes against an ambush of stinging moisture. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes. It really is.” Nico tugged me forward, away from the safety of the wall, and fit my cheek in his palm. He forced me to meet his stare. “Unless you don’t want to be with me.”

“I’m in love with you, you idiot!” My words tumbled out of my mouth, and fat tears fell from my eyes.

Nico half-laughed and released a breath; it sounded like he’d been holding it within him for years. He brought my forehead to his, his big hands slipped around my waist, and he pulled me against him.

“Thank god.” He whispered just before he unrepentantly claimed my mouth. I moaned, clinging to him; my nails dug into his jacket then, frantically, slipped under his shirt. His kiss was hot, demanding, urgent. There was no exploration, only desperate conquering, and the situation escalated quickly.

I wanted to feel him, every inch of his skin. My fingers were greedy, caressing the firm ridges of his stomach, the warm, smooth skin of his back. My body arched against him, craving connection, his heat, his touch. He yanked off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. His shirt followed next.

Large hands gripped my sweater, tugged as his mouth moved desperately over mine. I knew his urgency was fueled by years of restrained desire. I felt my need echoed in him.

His movements became somewhat jerky and frustrated, and he abruptly pulled away from me. I felt the loss of his body acutely.

“What are you wearing? How am I supposed to get you out of this?” He was breathing heavy, half-growling, surveying my sweater like it was a Rubik’s cube.

I searched his eyes, his words cutting through the dense fog of need, the blood rushing between my ears, the galloping pace of my heart. “What?”

He tugged roughly at my sweater. “This. How does it come off? It’s like a straightjacket . . . Are those ties and buttons?”

I groaned, closed my eyes, and pressed my head to the bare skin of his shoulder. “I need to change my clothes.”

“You don’t need to change them, you just need to take them off.” His hands attempted to reach under the contraption, but it was no use; there was no way for him to access my skin. Giving up he tried cupping me over my thick clothes. His face scrunched in an aggravated scowl. “How many layers are you wearing?”

“A lot.” I laughed, kissed his chest, my hands moved to his pants, enjoyed the way his stomach tightened in response to my light touch. I gripped his waistband, my fingers dipping into the elastic of his boxer briefs. He sucked in a breath.

I couldn’t stop feeling him—the hardness, the smooth softness of his olive skin. I wanted to bite every inch of him then lick him from collar bone to co—

“Oh no, not fair. You can’t touch me until I can touch you.” His hands grabbed mine, and he stilled their downward trajectory.