by Meghan Quinn
I’ve also realized something important. I look forward to that smile, to the lightness in her eyes, to her gentle touches. I look forward to her quirky comments, the sound of her heavy books hitting the counter, and to sharing a morning coffee with her when her hair is in disarray and her matching PJs are askew.
And what’s really weird is that on a daily basis I want to please her. I want to win her laughter. I want to cook with her, watch TV with her, relax with her. I want to engage her, keep her connected to me . . . to my house. My home. But the icing on top of this fucked-up friendship is that I can’t stop touching her.
Even worse? Every fucking day, I think about what she would look like beneath me, naked, those steel-blue eyes staring at me, her innocence and yearning seeking me. Me. The last time I felt anything remotely close to that was when I was with Sadie, which scares the fuck out of me, but also intrigues me.
Hell, she’s my roommate, not a potential girlfriend. She’s my friend. Get a fucking grip on your life, Jameson.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Emma says, sitting up, pulling me out of my reverie. She places her hand on my thigh and squeezes tightly. Shit, that feels good. “Let’s get in our PJs, grab a deck of cards, and play War. Break in the new couch, what do you say?”
How can I say no when she’s practically jumping up and down on the couch in excitement? I’m learning that it’s almost impossible to say no to this girl.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Yay.” She leans over and wraps me up into a hug before quickly pulling away and skipping off to her room while calling out, “We shall reconvene in five minutes. Get your butt ready, Jameson. Your ass is mine.”
If only she knew what I was just thinking about regarding her ass.
***
“If I have to tell you to stop looking at your card before you flip it one more time this game is over, got it?”
“Who made you the War police?” Emma grumbles.
“It’s not fair,” I counter. “We should both see the cards for the first time together.”
“Are you going to cry about it a little bit more? I don’t think you’ve shed enough tears on your new couch.”
Sassy little mouth.
“You know, I have a perfectly good book waiting on my nightstand for me, I don’t mind tossing my cards in the air and leaving you to play by yourself.”
Emma sits back. Her legs are crossed on the couch and she eyes me up and down. “Oh, I get what’s happening here.”
“What’s happening?”
“Mm-hmm, act all innocent in your thin plaid pants and stupid tight-fitting shirt. I’m onto you, Jameson.”
“Yeah? What are you onto?”
She waves her finger up and down my body. “You’re causing a scene.”
“I’m not causing a scene, I just want the card flipping to be fair.”
“Oh, you’re causing a scene. Classic Tucker Jameson game technique; cause a scene and storm off so no definitive winner can be named.”
“What? Are you drunk?”
Leaning forward over the playing area, she points her finger at me and asks, “Are you drunk? Is that part of your scene technique? What’s going to happen next, you shuck your pants, pee in the corner, and then start running around the house, your hands cupping your dong while you do sumo squats up the stairs?”
“I would never pee in the corner.” I shake my head. “If I were to shuck my pants and pee somewhere, it would be in your dresser drawers, just to fuck with you.”
“You wouldn’t,” she playfully seethes.
“Oh, I fucking would. I would pee so hard in your drawers.”
“You can’t make yourself pee hard, only girls can.”
“Untrue.” I’m trying very hard not to laugh from this ridiculous conversation. “I just push harder, therefore I pee harder.”
“Yeah, more like dribble like a leaky faucet.”
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to question my stream. You have some late nights in the library, you don’t want to come home to wet sheets one night, now do you?”
“Are you trying to tell me you want to pee in my bed?” She sets her cards down now and crosses her arms over her purple-pajama-clad chest.
“It’s not like it wouldn’t already be used to being peed on.”
Sitting up on her knees now, looking ready to pounce, she asks, “Are you, Tucker Jameson, calling me a bed wetter?”
I set my cards down as well, preparing myself for whatever wryly move she’s going to make. “I might be; what are you going to do about it?”
Just when I think she’s about to answer, she hops off the couch and runs up the stairs to my bedroom. What the fuck? Is she going to go pee on my bed to prove a point? And is she going to pee hard? Oh, Jesus.
Stumbling for a second, I gain my balance and charge up the stairs. I turn the corner to my bedroom when—
“Grrrrrrawwwwwllll!” Emma pops out from a closet with her claws out and a snarly look on her face. Not expecting her to go all psycho bobcat on me, I jump about a foot in the air and let out a less-than manly version of a yip, causing Emma to buckle over in laughter. “Oh my God, the look on your face.” She tries to impersonate me, her face contorting, making an enormous amount of double chins, hands shaking in the air, and a girly scream coming out of her mouth. When she’s done, she laughs some more.
Not amused, I say, “I did not look like that.”
“Oh my God, you so did.”
Her laughter carries through the small space of my room, the sound a melodic harmony in my ears. And before I can stop myself, I charge toward her, grab her by the waist, and toss her on my bed where I quickly climb on top of her and pin her to the mattress with her hands above her head.
Her laughter fades. Her face grows serious, and I can see the questions running through her eyes. I’m welcomed by one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen: Emma under me, her chestnut hair fanned out along the comforter, her brilliant eyes searching mine, and her pajama shirt is open at the top, a peek of the swell of her breasts as well.
Her breath starts to pick up as she waits for my next move, a move I’m entirely unsure of as well. The only thing I know right now is how good she feels in my arms, how mesmerizing she smells, a combo of honey and mint, and the way her legs are slowly rubbing together, as if she’s a cat purring in need.
The air around us becomes thick as I lean my head closer to hers, the tension in the room growing with each passing breath. Bodies pressed together, thoughts of every move I could make with Emma beneath me passes through my mind as I try to gain control of my raging emotions. I fucking want this woman. I want her for her innocence, for her purity, for her friendship, for her kind and caring hands. I want her for human contact, for healing, for the power to forget. The power to heal?
I want her for all the wrong reasons, and yet, I can’t help but think how right she feels.
When I lean closer, I start to run the tip of my nose up the column of her neck, taking in her scent, and loving the way I can feel her swallow hard. With nerves? Still, almost lifeless, Emma lies beneath me, not making a sound or move. Her breathing is slow yet erratic, waiting, just waiting to see what I’ll do next.
When my nose reaches her jaw, I move it toward her ear where my lips barely caress her lobe before I pull away. Her mouth is open, her skin starting to coat in a sheen of sweat. She’s so fucking edible, I want to take a bite. I want to nip up and down her body, taste her, see what it’s like to not just be friends with this woman, but to cross the line, to find out what it’s like to be inside her.
I move my nose to the other side of her face when her breath catches in her throat and she says, her voice shaking with each word, “Uh, if you find that my lymph nodes are swollen in your exploration, please let me know.” For some reason, her request doesn’t surprise me all too much.
Stopping my pursuit, I lift up just enough to see her eyes. “You want me to check your lymph nodes?”
S
he swallows hard. “Only if you’re into that kind of thing. I mean, not that you would really feel them since they’re only about half an inch across and you’re not a trained professional, but if it seems to be lumpy around there, just give me the old heads-up.”
“Uh, do you feel like they’re swollen?” She’s so fucking nervous, she’s shaking like a leaf beneath me, which explains the whole rambling conversation about the lymph nodes. Maybe I’ve read her wrong this entire time. The glances, the touches, the snuggling, maybe they were all just her way of being friendly.
“Not necessarily, but it’s always good to be aware of symptoms before they occur. Staying on top of things is how we stay healthy. You know, catch it before it happens.” She sighs and bites on her bottom lip.
Fuck, that’s sexy.
“Yeah, I get that.” This moment turned awkward and quickly.
Looking unsure, she pauses for a second and then asks, “Do you want me to check your lymph nodes?”
Not really, but at this moment, we need a smooth transition from the intimate moment we were just experiencing, to the awkward one we’re experiencing now. So, I shrug my shoulders and say, “Why not?”
Reluctantly, I stand from her body and sit down on my bed where I lean my back against the headboard and pat my lap. She eyes me, unsure if she should take the invitation or not.
“I don’t bite, babe. If you’re going to check out my lymph nodes then you should get a front-row seat, don’t you think?”
Christ. I’m flirting with her . . . about checking my lymph nodes. Has it really been that long since I’ve flirted? And should I really be flirting with Emma? Touching her, imagining her lips on mine, wondering what that damn seductive mouth of hers tastes like? She didn’t come to live with me so she can fuck one of her childhood friends; she came here so she had a place to live while she finished up her last year in college. And yet, I want to make it the best semester of her life and if that means I spend my nights deep inside her, making her call my name while that goddamn sweet face looks up at me, then so be it.
Emma shifts in front of me, still unsure until she finally looks in my eyes and says, “Well, if it’s for examination purposes, I don’t see the harm in it.” Carefully she climbs onto my lap, her legs parting and falling on either side of my thighs. She scoots up and settles directly on top of my dick.
Fuck me, control it, dude. Do not poke her with your dick. Yeah, it’s been so damn long, but stay down and don’t get excited.
“Okay, I’m going to touch your neck if that’s okay?”
“Sure, nurse. Feel me up.” I wink at her, unable to control myself.
Her fingers dance along my skin while she looks me in the eyes. “How come you’ve never grown a full beard? Like mountain-man style?”
“Not sure I could pull it off, plus those things are high-maintenance. Pretty sure you have to condition it. I barely want to take a five-minute shower these days, let alone stand under the water and let the conditioner in my beard soak in. No fucking thank you.”
“Might be worth it, you know.”
“Why do you say that?”
She continues to stroke my neck and I’m not sure if she’s just touching me to touch me or if she’s actually feeling for swollen nodes. Either way, her soft hands feel so fucking incredible. “Well, if you were interested in dating someone ever again,” she pauses and holds up her hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to break rule number six, but if you were into dating someone again, the dating pool is a tough one now.”
“Is that why you don’t have a boyfriend? Tough field out there?” Has Emma ever really had a boyfriend? I can’t imagine adorable little Emma not having a boyfriend. She’s a fucking catch for any lucky bastard.
She shrugs and drops her hands to my chest where she casually plays with my shirt. “No, just haven’t found anyone worthy enough of the position.” She sighs and continues, “But for you, if you grow a burly beard, your dating chances would grow exponentially.”
“Beards on high demand?” Is she part of some secret society for beards? Is that why she’s harping on it so much, or is she still in ramble mode?
“I’m not quite sure, but I do know about this dating website that is for women searching for bearded men. My friend Adalyn joined it a little while back. She didn’t mesh well with anyone but she did mention the hot, bearded guys being on high demand in that dating circuit. There are so many dating services now, it’s nice to be able to narrow it down to a few specific people, you know?”
“So that’s why I should grow a beard, to narrow down my dating circuit?”
She cutely nods. “The dating world is a scary one, the more help you can get, the better.”
“Is that right? You think I need help when it comes to dating? I thought I was, according to your words, the hometown heartbreaker. Doesn’t that give me any kind of fodder?”
“In your hometown, not in the real world. You’re just a fish in the river.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that so? Just a plain-old fish in the water? Nothing special about me at all? Nothing I can offer anyone?” There is a teasing tone to my voice.
She takes her time, giving me a once-over, her hands still clasped onto my shirt. Although every now and then, I feel her fingers exploring my chest. Fucking hell, that feels so good. I wish she’d take the damn shirt off. We’re in a very intimate position, something friends usually don’t do, but for some reason, both of us are okay with it. “There is one thing you can offer.”
“Just one? All right, lay it on me, babe. What is the one attribute I have to offer the dating world?”
She straightens up and pats my chest, as if to say, “You’re a good boy.”
“You know how to make some killer eggs. It’s a great skill to have especially if you date someone who isn’t a morning person like myself. Those eggs are a real eye-opener; they get you going in the morning.”
I pause for a second, reading her facial expression, the way she playfully speaks to me. It’s so fucking . . . adorable. That’s the perfect way to describe Emma, adorable.
“Eggs, that’s what I have to offer. Eggs. Not a killer ass, or sexy set of abs, or a dick so huge that it will tickle your stomach while impaling you?”
Her laugh hits me straight in the gut, and then her smile, tag-teaming a wave of awakening in my body I’m not ready for. “Sorry to say, but I know nothing about your Happy Harry Hard-on, so I can’t have an opinion about that. Your ass, eh, it’s okay, and your abs, well, those are nice.”
“Hold up.” I grip her hips tightly in place. “You think my ass is, eh?”
Smirking evilly, she says, “I mean, have you been missing leg day at the gym?”
My mouth splits open for a second from her joking insult before I scoop her up and start carrying her down the stairs with her over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“This evening is over. You can stare at my inadequate ass as I bring you to your room. Maybe you will learn a lesson. Skipping leg day. You’ve lost your fucking mind, girl.”
When I reach her bedroom, I toss her on her bed and watch her laugh as she bounces a few times on the mattress from my toss. Pointing at her, a fake sense of seriousness coming from me, I say, “Now, you sit there and think about what you said. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about insulting my ass.”
“Don’t be a little bitch, Tucker.” The elation in her face from the insult is overwhelming. Like a fucking punch to the stomach, it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. She’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Playing along, I say, “And for that, no eggs for you tomorrow morning. Looks like you’ll be reunited with your old friend, the Chewy Bar.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“It’s already done, babe.” I give her a wink and say, “See you in the morning.”
When I retreat to my room, I wonder if I should go take a cold shower. A long, cold shower. So fucking turned on. Even when she’s
sassy and faking impertinence, she’s sexy. That can’t be legal. I can’t help but think about the separation between us and how I desperately wish she’d come back to my room. If anything, just for the physical contact. The night we spooned was one of the best nights I’ve had in a very long time. Now I crave the gentle touch of her hands, the feel of her body tucked against mine, and fuck if I won’t be thinking about it all night long.
***
CRASH
From a dead sleep, I spring up in my bed and look around, blurry eyed, trying to decipher if what I heard was from a dream or if it was in real life. With my heart beating at a rapid pace, I hold my breath and listen closely for any other semblance of a possible break-in. And then it hits me, if someone is breaking in, Emma is on the first floor. “Shit.”
I throw the blankets off, grab my baseball bat from next to my bedside table, and take off down stairs. When I hit the hardwood floors, I quickly look toward Emma’s room. The door is open and from my view, she’s not in her bed.
What the fuck?
Next option is the bathroom, but when I see the light is off and the door is wide open, I start to panic. With the bat raised, I flip on the dining room light . . .
“Ahhh!” Emma screams when the light switches on, one of her hands going up to block her eyes. My own pupils curse me out at the moment. “What the hell are you doing?” She’s rolling on the ground clutching her foot a look of pain crossing her features.
“What am I doing? What the hell are you doing?”
When she is finally able to look at me, her eyes do a quick scan of my body before answering and that’s when I realize I’m wearing nothing but my Calvin Klein, hip-hugging briefs.
Looking away, she answers, “I left my phone on the couch. I woke up wondering what time it was and realized I left it out here. I didn’t want to wake you, so I tried to make my way through the house with no lights thinking it couldn’t be that hard given the two pieces of furniture we have. I guess not. I flipped over the folding chair.”