Tessa

Dick’s food barely lands in his bowl before his incessant complaining simmers down into a happy purr, vibrating from him as I slide my hand over his soft coat in an apology for taking so long.

I’m just putting the bag of cat food back into the pantry when I hear the front door open. Several comments about whether or not Lane can smell me from where he’s standing run through my mind, but he’s made his way to the kitchen before I can get any of them out.

“Goddamn,” he hisses under his breath, his eyes piercing mine, turning everything inside me into lost pieces screaming to be put back to where they belong. Him. An eternity of torture passes before he takes two swift strides to get to me. Breath hot and thready, his mouth hovers briefly over mine, then moves in, crushing my lips and sliding his tongue between them to meet mine.

“Should we move this to the bedroom?” I ask, barely catching my breath while his mouth carries on down my neck, sliding over my collar bone, tongue and teeth taking their turn with my skin.

“No time,” he moans, hand slipping into the back of my pajama bottoms, taking them down as he goes. Then his lips are back on mine, fueling the urgency of his hands as they roam over me, removing my clothes and bringing me closer to him, pulling me tighter, until there’s nothing left between us. Until we’re both on the kitchen floor, matching each other move for move, breath for breath, need for need.

I find myself climbing recklessly, ever higher, ever freer, all of my inhibitions falling away under him, until there’s nowhere left to go, but to shatter beautifully in his arms.

Slowly, reality works its way back in. The cold tile floor against my bare skin. The feel of his hand still resting on my thigh. The sound of his breath, fast and shallow, right beside me.

“What. The hell. Was. That?” I’m not complaining. On the contrary. I’d like to know how to recreate the event in the future.

He chuckles softly, his fingers pressing gently into my leg. “Proof you should never walk into my classroom before class ever again.” He rolls onto his side, arm grazing my skin as he moves his hand from my thigh up to my stomach, reaching around my waist, fingertips tracing circles up and down the side of my ribcage. I watch as eyes follow their motion. “You’re incredible, you know that? Every inch of you, just another spectacular detail coming together in a masterpiece I want to be a part of every time I lay my eyes on it,” he says in his husky growl, a tone I’ve come to call his post-sex voice, which usually leads to also being his pre-sex voice. It’s a vicious cycle neither of us seems to have a hold on yet.

“I think you’re a little weird,” I whisper.

He lifts his head to face me, frowning. “Why?”

“Because,” I laugh uncomfortably, “you make me sound like I’m this irresistible sex goddess or something. And we both know that’s not true.” When he walked in, I was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt for crying out loud. And even now, my hair is still wet from the shower, sticking to my face in some places and hanging limp in others. Not exactly sex goddess material here.

Lane doesn’t say anything for what seems like forever. Just stares at me, studying me the way he has from day one, making me feel crazy, and insecure and also, oddly flattered. I’m on the verge of carrying on my previous ramble just to break the awkward silence, when his hand glides up my side, over my shoulder and along my neck until it comes to rest along my jaw, gently holding my chin between his thumb and index finger. “No other woman has ever made me lose control the way you do, Tess. Whatever you think you see when you look in the mirror, I guarantee you, it doesn’t come close to the woman who’s really standing there. Fucking. Irresistible. Sex. Goddess. And then some.”

I respond by attempting to stand up, only his arm is in my way and he’s quick to apply pressure to hold me down and thwart me in my efforts to escape all of this complimentary chitchat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he murmurs, moving in closer.

“I’m not...I can’t,” I fumble with the words. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. What can’t I? Accept that someone like him could really see me the way he claims to? Or am I the one who really can’t see myself?

“I’ll stop,” he rumbles, his mouth taking the place of his finger along my jaw, “I won’t tell you anymore. But you can’t stop me from showing you. Can’t stop me from making you feel it. And I’m not going to quit until you believe it for yourself.”

I want to ask him why he cares. Why it matters what I believe. And why it suddenly feels as if his every touch is different from before, more intimate. More intentional. More emotional.

But it’s too late. I’m wrapped up in him, my body folded into his, no end or beginning in sight and it all feels too damn good to question any of it.

Somewhere along the way, we make it to his bedroom and by the time we come up for air, we need more than just oxygen to sustain us.

“Pasta,” I mumble, rolling off the mattress to my feet. “I’ll make some.”

“Carbs would be good,” he muses, watching me from the bed while I search through the current collection of clothes he has draped over his desk chair. I decide on a t-shirt and head for the door, still pulling it over my head as I go. “You’re killin’ me, Tess,” he groans from behind me and a giddy swirl of delight unfurls in the pit of my stomach.

Maybe I don’t need to think about it all so much. Maybe it’s okay to just be in the moment and enjoy how it feels for however long it feels this way.

Then the front door opens, Drea gasps, and thinking is back in full force.

“Time to bring back the sock,” Scott announces following close behind her and clearly entertained by the scene before him, which I realize a little too late includes a naked Lane who made it halfway to the kitchen before they walked in and caught us. Me in his shirt and him in, well, nothing.

“I’m not hanging a stupid sock on the door handle,” I grumble, tugging the hem of my shirt down as far as it will possibly go, while Lane scrambles to get back into the bedroom.

“I second that,” Drea agrees with me, “we’re not living in some dorm. There are other, more grown up ways to keep from walking in on one another.”

“Yeah, like knocking!” Lane calls out from behind the closed door.

Her hands fly to her waist, forming fists as they land there. “I am not knocking! It goes against our open-door policy and requires waiting for an invitation, which let’s be real, some days, I won’t get!”

“Or,” I calmly intervene, “maybe you could just announce yourself before you come in.”

“And maybe count to ten after you do,” Lane adds, joining us in the living room, this time wearing some pants.

“Like, out loud?” Drea’s not following.

“He’s saying we may require a buffer once we know you’re coming,” I explain.

“Oh, God. Is this really happening all the time now?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember ever inquiring about the frequency of your sex life,” I point out, in lieu of being able to tell Drea she’s being ridiculous. And she’s stone cold sober today.

“That’s different,” she huffs.

I move in to meet her in the middle of the room, leaving both guys out of our circle completely. “Why?”

“Because you like Scott.”

“Not enough to want to see his naked ass!” I counter.

“That was one time!” she screeches.

“One too many!” I holler back. It’s surreal really. This whole argument. The screaming. Are we really fighting over who’s more entitled to have uninterrupted sex in their own apartment?

“Can I just say, that it’s hurting my feelings you find my ass so offensive,” Scott chimes in, mocking us both.

“Yeah, I’m a little insulted myself. I’ve made you breakfast. Crunchy bagel and all. How do you not like me?” Lane adds, crossing his arms over his spectacular chest, momentarily causing me to forget what we’re all doing here.

“I don’t like that you made Tessa cry. That trumps a damn bagel every day of the week. Crunchy or not,” she huffs.

Meanwhile, Lane’s amused expression falters and he looks genuinely concerned. “When did I make her cry?” He turns toward me. “When did I make you cry?”

I could punch her for this. “You didn’t. I made myself cry. It was after the whole Jules mess, before I knew what really happened.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Drea insists. “Tears are tears and there were a crapload. I had to give a pep speech and everything. Do you know how bad I am at those?!”

“I’m getting a pretty good idea,” he says, brow furrowed, torn between engaging with her and addressing the issue between us, which was no issue at all until Drea made it one.

“Oh, my God, Drea! Stop. I was coming off of several shit days, I thought I’d slept with a guy who had slept with my friend and was dreading the shitstorm that was bound to follow. You can’t pin my meltdown on Lane. It had nothing to do with him.”

But Drea isn’t interested in reason, she never is. “Swear,” she demands, stepping between us with all the ferociousness of a proper mama bear and facing Lane full on. “Swear that you’ll never make her cry like that again. That you’re not playing any games here. Swear that your intentions are good. That my Tessa is safe with you.”

“Babe, they’ve been dating for like two seconds,” Scott intervenes quietly, “you don’t think this is getting kinda heavy for a two second relationship?”

She barely even acknowledges him. Just stares straight ahead at Lane, who remains silent because there’s nothing he can say to her that will satisfy her without lying.

“We’re not dating.”

Drea spins back around to look at me. “What?”

“I said, we’re not dating. There are no games being played. No intentions to do anything but what we’re doing. No expectations. No need to worry about anyone getting hurt,” I finish slowly. “Got it?”

“You’re just...screwing?” she asks, still struggling to grasp the concept.

“Yep.”

She turns toward Lane again, almost as though she’s hoping he’ll contradict what I’ve just said. When he doesn’t, she shakes her head. “This is all wrong.”

“Why?” I love her, but she’s giving me freaking mental whiplash. One minute she wants me to relax more, to go out and get laid and then when I do, it’s all wrong.

She ignores me this time. Her attention is exclusively reserved for Lane.

“Swear,” she insists. I can’t see her face, but judging by the tone, she’s shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

Lane’s face softens, tentatively shaking his head up and down. “I swear.”

I stare at Scott, wondering if he’s as confused as I am, but he’s not. Now I really feel like I missed something.

Drea sighs. “I’ll take it.”

Scott shakes his head, hurrying to drape his arm around her waist to lead her out of here. “Holy shit, you two are so fucking weird sometimes,” he mutters, ushering her across the landing back to their place.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it,” she points out, willingly letting him guide her away.

“I’m like grandfathered into this shit. We all know, I’m never getting out. But this dude,” his voice gets softer as they move through their own front door, “he has no logical reason for staying. Unless he’s serious about her.”

“Yeah, serious about getting in her pants,” Drea mumbles as she glances back one more time to give Lane a final glare of warning.

“You don’t know guys, baby. No dude is going to put up with you, just to get a piece of ass. I promise.”

Then the door closes. All the crazy disappears. Well, at least all the Drea crazy. All of mine is still sitting here. Or standing rather.

I’d look at Lane if I had even a single syllable to utter to him. I’ve got nothing.

“Wondering if he’s right?” he whispers.

“No,” I answer too fast to be believable. “Just thinking how our simple arrangement is a lot less complicated when it’s just us.”

He reaches for my elbow and tugs me to him. “Well, I think we can forget all about simple now that Drea knows.”

“You have no idea.” I roll my head back, whining loudly. “Things are about to be exhausting.”

Lane

I underestimated Drea. After our little showdown in the living room the other night, I thought we’d reached an understanding, a common ground we were both satisfied with. Clearly, I was wrong.

“Tell me again why you’re going out with half the firehouse instead of staying here and getting naked with me?”

She slides her foot into one of the sexiest stiletto heels I’ve ever seen and glances up at me. “I’m not going out with half the firehouse. I’m attending their annual firefighter’s ball, for charity by the way, not fun. And, because I was invited.”

“Yeah. By Bart.” I almost call him Barf, but there’s nothing worse than a grown man pouting except maybe a grown man pouting who sounds like he’s twelve.

“Are you seriously upset about this?” she asks, standing up straight now that she has both her shoes on. “Because that’s not very roomie-like of you.” Then she has the audacity to smirk. Like this is funny.

“Am I upset that you’re standing there looking hot as hell in a dress that could have been painted on you, but I can’t have the pleasure of peeling off of you because you have a date with Bart? Yeah. A little.” What would be the point in lying, really!?

She steps in close, torturing me mercilessly. “You’ll be more than welcome to peel it off when I get home.”

It physically hurts when she pulls away. “I’ll be here. Standing at the door. Waiting.”

She laughs. I’m only partly kidding. I may make it to the couch. I’ll probably flip on the TV. But my eyes will be glued to that damn door until she walks back through it.