Friends Without Benefits

I hoped it would be enough.

“But the thing is, Nico . . . I need you. I can’t do this unless I know it’s going to be forever. I’m not going to do this half-assed. I can’t try this out or try this on like it’s a pair of shoes I might want to buy. If we’re going to do this, you have to be all in, because I’m not willing to settle for anything less than all of you for as long as we can, for as long as we have. You, us, we’re worth the risk. . . I need you.”

I tried in vain to wipe the sweaty hand not holding the microphone on my bare thigh. “And, therefore and in summary,” I said, my voice shaking as I got down on one knee, thankful I’d chosen boyshorts as my underwear selection for the day. I was vaguely aware that people around me gasped. “Nico Mang-gan-aniello.” I winced a little as I butchered his last name. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my hus—”

“Yes!” He yelled his response before I could finish, and his microphone carried the answer like a gunshot. “Yes, Elizabeth Finney I will marry you.”

I exhaled and immediately closed my eyes, overwhelmed by relief, ready to collapse with it. A smile I was powerless against and tears of joy—the traitors!—brutally ransacked my face. My hands were shaking and so were my knees. At first I was only dimly aware of the deafening cheer that had erupted from the audience; but soon it crashed over me like a wave, engulfed me like an undertow.

I was lifted off my feet by hands, and my eyes opened to find that Nico had jumped off his stage, run through the seated audience, jumped the railing into the crowd then climbed onto my stage. He wrapped me in his arms and held me tight, so tight I thought I might break. But I didn’t care.

I didn’t care if I broke because I had a forever with Nico to mend, and forever started now.

Chapter 29

The first thing Nico did after our embrace was cover me with his suit shirt. The second thing he did was pick me up and carry me off the stage.

The crowd continued to applaud, hoot, and holler like moonshine drunk corn farmers. He ignored the thunder of their approval and, instead, kissed me as he carried me. I didn’t notice much; all I wanted to see was him. I was still crying a bit, but the tears were caused by laughter and relief, good tears.

Less than a minute later we were in his dressing room, and he kicked the door shut with his foot. He turned, set me down and pressed me against the door. His hands lifted to my face, and the pads of his thumbs wiped away the watery tracks.

“Where did you come from? How did you get up on the stage?”

I opened my mouth to respond; however, before I could, he kissed me. Nico pulled me against him, his large hands moved into the suit shirt and gripped my bare waist. Abruptly, he retreated, his eyes flashing like fireworks. “Why? Why did you do that?”

Then, once more leaving me no time to respond, he kissed me again. His tongue swept into my mouth, covetous and demanding. Nico greedily pressed his hard lines against my soft curves, pushed me against the door. His roughness was inexorably overpowering; my limbs and brain became useless against the ravenous assault.

Thankfully, he held me in place with his body, his knee between my legs; otherwise I might have dissolved into a puddle of wanton woman on the floor.

“Why didn’t you just . . .” kiss “. . . have them . . .” kiss “. . . tell me . . .” kiss “. . . that you were here?” kiss.

Interrogating me and kissing me in intervals, I had difficulty comprehending or following his questions. His hands were everywhere, as though checking to confirm I was real. My hands were also everywhere because, damnit, he felt good.

“The guy . . .” kiss “. . . with the headphones . . .” kiss “. . . said that he had no way . . .” kiss “. . . to let you know . . .” kiss “. . . that we were here.”

Nico lifted his head, his eyes hazy even as they searched mine. His hand was under the shirt, absentmindedly caressing me through the lace of my bra. I moaned.

“What guy with headphones?”

My response was breathless. “We saw him outside the studio. Long brown hair, in his forties maybe—”

“Was he wearing a flannel shirt?”

“Yeah. That’s him.” I arched against him, pressed myself into his palm.

“That son of a bitch.” Nico paired his language choice with an acrid smile.

“What?”

“That’s my producer, Larry. I—” He hesitated, stole another kiss. “First of all, we moved up the taping schedule today because I was going to fly back to Chicago tonight.” Nico paused, his eyes examining my face. “I had to see you. You need to know, you must know, as long as you’ll have me I’m yours. God, Elizabeth—” he grimaced as though in pain and his hands tightened on my body, “—I’ve been going crazy, every day, you’re all I think about. When I close my eyes you’re all I see. I need you—” he brushed a soft, lingering kiss against my mouth, “—I love you.”

“Oh.” My face crumpled a little, and my heart expanded until my chest felt full. “Nico . . .”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“And I’m sorry I was so awful to you. I’m sorry for everything.”

His eyes were twinkling and dreamy. I lost myself for a moment in their depths then realized he was speaking again.

“Wait, what?”

His eyes narrowed teasingly. “I said, Larry could’ve easily told me you were here. I wear an earpiece while on stage. He must’ve seen an opportunity for a ratings stunt.”

“He also said you wouldn’t be off stage for another ninety minutes, but it’s only been thirty or so.”

“I’m going to kill him. What a bastard.”

“Let’s plot his death later. I have to leave in seven minutes if I’m going to make it back to Chicago in time.”

Nico blinked at me. My words had an immediate sobering effect. “You have to go back? Tonight?”

I nodded. “I have to get back for the infusion, and I have and late-night shift.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, no, no—why are you going to work? Shouldn’t you be taking time off?”

I stroked his back, loved that I could touch him. I never wanted to take that for granted. “It’s okay. I’m really fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His brow pulled into a deep V. “Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

“I have a plan.”

His frown intensified. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“I’m going to—” I cleared my throat, firmed my voice. “I’m going to see someone, a psychiatrist, a friend of Sandra’s. And I’m going to cut back on double shifts.”

“For how long?”

“The next two weeks.”

Nico considered me, mulled over this information. “I’m glad you’re going to see someone. That’s really good. But, you just went through something extremely stressful. Don’t you think you need some time off?” He didn’t look convinced.

“Well,” I continued, brought the back of my hand to his stomach, brushed my knuckles against his bare skin. “I’m going to ask for a few days off.”

Finally his eyes brightened. “Okay. Good. That’s good.”

“I’m glad you approve.” I cupped his cheeks, brought his face to mine a placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I have six minutes left.”

“I can’t leave till after the next taping.” His eyes moved between mine. After a moment his forehead fell to my shoulder. “Damn. This sucks.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“I thought . . .” His voice was muffled by my neck. He placed a wet kiss just under my ear, making me shiver. “I wanted to explain, about Friday. I thought I’d scared you, Friday morning, when I told you what I wanted, when I told you I wanted to marry you. I pushed you into this, I know that, but I shouldn’t have left angry. I should have waited until we had time to talk, come to an agreement.”

“You overreacted.”

He nodded. “I did.”

“It’s okay.” I waited until he met my gaze before continuing, “In case you haven’t noticed, I am an expert on overreacting. You’re forgiven as long as you forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For the multitude of mistakes I’ve made as well as the ones I haven’t made yet. There will be many. It’s my talent, making mistakes. My expertise is overreacting and my talent is making mistakes.”

“Well, then, we have that in common.” His mouth tilted in a sheepish smirk.

I glanced at the ceiling; our nookie window was closed. But, that was okay. There were nights and nights and days and nights of nookie ahead of us. I threaded my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Do you—” I cleared my throat. “Do you still want to marry me?”

“Oh god, yes.” He kissed me again, unhurried, measured, for a full minute. Upon separating we both sighed.

“You need to know, about that morning when you asked me to marry you, I wasn’t scared so much as surprised. I—” I held him tighter, spoke to his lips. “I haven’t thought about getting married, spending my life with someone, not since I was fifteen.”