Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

Nico shakes his head with a hungry smile, the kind you might see on a cartoon wolf. “No, baby, let it grow a little. It’s sexy.”

  He slips his finger inside me, then another, curving the ends to massage the bundle of nerves inside my darkest place. My hips jerk and grind involuntarily. He leans over my body, taking my earlobe into his mouth so that I can feel the heat of his body hovering over me while he fucks me with his hand.

  “God, Layla,” he growls into my ear. “You are so fucking hot, you know that? So wet and willing.”

  “Ah!” I cry out, no longer able to form coherent words in response to the building tension. He’s coiling me up like a spring, and I’m about ready to burst.

  “You want to come, baby?” he asks, slipping a third finger in to join the other two’s internal massage.

  “Ummmm,” I moan, pressing my chest upward so that the sensitive ends of my nipples rub against the smooth lines of his chest. He increases his fingers’ tempo, and I feel my muscles start to tighten.

  “Bear down, baby,” he orders me. “Do it. Now.”

  So I do, almost as if I’m trying to pee, and almost immediately my entire body is wracked with the unbelievable spasms of my release as I come hard onto his hand. “AaaaaaAAAAH, NICO!”

  “That’s it, Layla,” he growls, rubbing out the rest of my release as I claw the couch cushions under my head. “Just let it go.”

  Finally, he withdraws and shucks his underwear.

  “Come here,” he orders, pulling my legs forward and flipping me over so I’m on my knees, my chest resting on the couch with him behind me.

  He loves this position, where he can see his favorite part of my body and take me with the kind of ferocity he almost never lets loose anywhere else. I can’t argue—the angle he finds, combined with his touch on my clit, makes me come again and again and again. It’s hard to argue with that.

  I’m so wet that he doesn’t even have to push when he slides into me. His hands find my ass and knead it hard. I tighten around him, relishing the sumptuous friction of our bodies, pushing and pulling together. From this angle, I feel the whole of him as he seeks my limits, over and over again.

  “Fuck, baby,” Nico groans over my shoulder. He starts to move faster, no longer concerned with the evenness of his rhythm, but obviously overcome himself. I slip my hand under my legs, reaching below to where I can cup his balls in my fingers, squeezing them just enough to push him over the edge.

  “Shit! Layla!” he cries, and emits a long, deep groan as he comes, jerking in my hand and then collapsing over my body as he pumps out the last of his release. I don’t come with him, which is unusual. It’s also unnecessary, considering the body-melting orgasm I experienced just moments before. I honestly don’t think I could have handled another one anyway.

  We lie together, him piled on top of me, for a moment as we catch our breaths. Nico presses a soft kiss between my shoulder blades, and I sigh, sated.

  “You’re incredible,” he whispers into my back.

  “So are you, Mr. Soltero,” I murmur back. I awkwardly readjust my bra so it’s back on normally. He likes the trussed-turkey look, but once my euphoria dies down, I don’t love the way the underwire digs into my skin.

  Nico gently pulls out and pads to the bathroom to dispose of the condom I didn’t even realize we used. Huh. It’s not good that I get so lost with this man, I can’t even keep track of our protection.

  He returns with a damp cloth, which I accept to clean myself off while he gathers up our clothes. He’s completely unabashed by his nakedness, moving easily around the room, checking to make sure we haven’t left any telltale items of clothing for my roommates to find and tease us about. Two weeks ago, Jamie found his underwear shoved under a couch cushion (we looked and looked, but couldn’t find it). Nico had to suffer the girls’ merciless taunting about the bright orange color for at least a week every time he called.

  He catches me watching and rewards me with a grin that erases the slight sadness on his face.

  “Like what you see, baby?” he asks as he stands up. The spring light shines through the windows, casting deep shadows over his muscles.

  I bite my lip, trying unsuccessfully to kill my blush. I nod. “I might.”

  I stand up and help him straighten up the room so that we can move to my bed. It’s not that my roommates would necessarily be put off by the fact that we just had sex on the living room couch. But it’s still better not to confront them with two naked people lying in the middle of the common area where we sit on a regular basis.

  Nico follows me into my bedroom, where we toss our clothes onto my desk chair and crawl into my tiny bed together, my makeshift curtain closing us in a blue cocoon. I snuggle up against his warm chest and he folds me close, using one hand to cradle my head and run his fingers through my loose curls. It’s a gesture he does a lot, one that makes me feel so loved and cherished. One that makes my heart open to the love I feel too.

  My eyes blink open when the thought hits me, just like it does every time. I don’t just like this man. I am completely in love with this man. I love every single thing about him—his dark, expressive eyes, his gorgeous smile, his casual, “I just want to have fun” demeanor, and the obvious compassion it masks. I love him. So much. Sometimes so much it hurts.

  I had an inkling of it before, but once I knew that things were free to progress naturally, I’ve been content to leave that possibility aside as our relationship grew naturally. But now it doesn’t feel like something I can ignore anymore. Right here in his arms, this is where I definitely belong.

  “Music?” he mumbles through the silence that’s descended.

  I push myself off his chest. “What do you feel like listening to?”

  He shrugs. “What do you have?”

  I twist around and pull my case of CDs from underneath my bed, and then toss it at him with a thumb. He sits up and starts paging through my collection, which isn’t bad for a nineteen-year-old. Most of my extra money in high school went to record stores.

  “You have very eclectic tastes,” Nico remarks as he thumbs through. “Who’s Aimee Mann?”

  “Portland singer,” I say. “Sort of like Joni Mitchell.”

  Nico makes a face. “Pass.” He keeps looking. “You’re such a Seattleite. Look at all this grunge.”

  “Hey, it’s my hometown,” I joke. “If I didn’t own any Nirvana and Pearl Jam records, they wouldn’t let me on the plane home.”

  He pauses. “Who’s Timbalada?”

  I glance. “Oh, that’s a samba band. Loud. Carnaval-kind of stuff.”

  Nico looks over the album cover curiously. “I’ll have to check them out. But not right now.” He flips again and pulls out another CD. “Maná? I wouldn’t have expected you to know them.”

  I nudge him in the shoulder. “Come on. They’re internationally known.”

  “It’s a Mexican rock band, NYU. And you’re—”

  “A sheltered white girl?”

  Nico doesn’t answer, but I know he’s thinking it. And, well, he’s not wrong, at least partly.

  I shrug. “I had a Spanish au pair when I was a kid. She really liked Maná.”

  “Put it on.”

  I turn around and slip the disc into the small stereo on the edge of my desk. Almost immediately, the room fills with the sounds of a live audience clapping, followed by the soft guitar tones of the unplugged album. I don’t understand Spanish, and I don’t really care for most of this band’s other stuff I've heard, but this album is one of my favorites. Fher Olvera, the singer, has a soft, melodic voice that’s soothing, especially when he’s backed up with only acoustic guitars and light percussion.

  We lie back in the pillows for a bit, letting the gentle sounds wash over us. Beside me, Nico murmurs the lyrics, obviously familiar with the music.

  I turn over to lie on his chest, and his arm wraps around my waist.

  “Tell me what it means?” I ask.

  He gives me a sad smile, then looks past
me with a sort of far-away expression. “Okay.”

  Another song starts up. It’s my favorite on the album—melancholy and sweet. Nico starts to translate over Olvera’s rueful voice.

  “So, he’s saying how he wishes he could live without water. How nice it would be to live without air. How I wish I could love you a little less. How I wish I could live without you.”

  The percussion picks up a little, and the sad strums of the guitar fill the air.

  “That’s so sad,” I murmur against Nico’s warm chest.

  “It is,” he agrees. “But it’s beautiful. It’s like...he’s really just saying the truth. That when you love someone, really love them and need them, to live without them is to live without water or air. Because to need someone that much...hurts a little, you know? The fear that you’ll lose them is always there. And so maybe there’s a part of you that wishes you didn’t need them so badly.”

  He drifts off, and his arms tighten around me. My hand presses just a little harder into his chest. A finger reaches under my chin and tips my head up to look at him.

  Nico’s eyes, so dark they’re almost black, are fathomless. I could fall into them, and I want to. But though they glisten a little with such clear adoration that tugs at my heart—that bittersweet pain the song talks about—there’s still that edge, that worry, that pain that never quite leaves them. That expression that shows just how much of the world Nico has to carry on his broad shoulders.

  He kisses me and tastes like chocolate—the bitter kind that’s not quite sweet. Our tongues tangle, but it’s not a kiss built in a frenzy of desire. It’s adrift in something much more potent. Something sweet. Something painful. Love.

  Nico’s phone buzzes on the desk on the other side of the curtain, and he groans as he stretches up to grab it.

  “Shit, it’s my mom,” he mutters, and swings his legs off the bed to get up while he answers the call. “She wanted me to go to Mass with her tonight since I skipped this morning. Hold on, baby.”

  Watching him babble in quick-tongued Spanish, I’m struck again by just how dedicated he is to his family, and how much they appear to take advantage of that. I’ve only barely met Gabe, but even he seemed to take for granted his brother’s continued generosity. Paying his sister’s rent and his brother’s tuition, doing his mother’s errands and taking her to church. Why does Nico have to shoulder all of these burdens? When does he get to follow his own dreams?

  I suddenly feel guilty for coming down so hard on him last night; it’s clear they all take up more of his time than they should.

  That’s when my second epiphany of the day hits me. I love this man. And because I love him, I know that he deserves more than just me.

  Nico says goodbye to his mother and sets his phone down on my desk. He turns around to find me watching him. Damn. Damn, oh damn me and my mother’s giant eyes that show everything I’m thinking.

  “What’s with the glum face, sweetie?” Nico asks.

  He tugs the curtain back in place and slides back under the comforter to cover me with his body. He’s still warm, and oh, his skin feels so good on mine. For a second I’m tempted to slip my hands farther down his body and start an encore round of what we just did on the couch. From the look in his eyes, I’d guess he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Let’s turn that frown upside down,” he rumbles, and starts nibbling on my earlobe in that way he knows drives me crazy. So when I don’t respond, he pulls his head up, his eyes wide and perplexed. “Hey. What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  His lips are so close, and all I want is to pull them back down to me, to make him kiss me everywhere, devour me in that way only he can do that makes us both stop thinking. Damn, this is going to be hard.

  “You…you should go to LA,” I say, my voice small and uncertain. As soon as it’s out, I hate it, but I know it’s the right thing.

  Nico’s eyebrows furrow, and he purses his lips. This is definitely not what he was expecting. “What?”

  “You—” I stop to clear my throat, which has suddenly become inexplicably clogged. “You should go to LA,” I repeat.

  He rolls off to one side so his back is against the wall, keeping one arm draped over my stomach. With his fingers, he toys with my navel and traces the lines of my hipbones. We lie here for a moment in silence, digesting the words I’ve just thrown out there.

  “Why?”

  I take a deep breath. I have to get through this without crying. I know I can do it. Because I love him.

  “Because. I see what you mean now, about how your family depends on you, too much, really. You deserve a chance to try on your own, just like I have. You deserve a chance to start fresh and figure out what you really want in life.”

  “Yeah, but I already told you, Layla. I want you.”

  It’s an offering, not so much a defense, an argument he seems to be making as much to himself as he is to me. As if I’m supposed to feel better about it, or maybe he’s looking for me to insist on him staying again. Moving across the country alone is definitely daunting—I know, having done it. But I just give him a weak smile and trace a finger down his nose.

  “I know you do,” I say quietly. “But we’ve only been dating, what, a few months? I hate to say it, but it’s not enough to keep you here. I l—”

  I cut myself off before those three dangerous words slip out of my mouth, words certain to put my heart out there to be trampled. Words that, more importantly, might make him feel like he has to stay. Think, Layla!

  “I just know you need to do this,” I say instead. “I can see it.”

  “And…what about us, though?”

  A crease forms in between his eyebrows, and I feel his grip on my waist tighten a little. I shake my head and push a hand into my hair meditatively. We both know the answer to that.

  I started school with a “boyfriend” back home with whom I actually tried to make something work from thousands of miles away. It was a naïve fairy tale, one that only fifteen-year-olds believe in. I went into it thinking it might work out—after all, we promised to email every day, call, all of that. But after a month or so, it petered out—we lost interest, or someone “accidentally” hooked up with someone new. I honestly don’t remember. There was a little heartache, but nothing to what I’d feel if I ever found out Nico did something like that.

  No, if there is one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that long distance relationships never work.

  “We’ll just enjoy the next few weeks together,” I say much more optimistically than I feel. I have to, since I’m sure my despair is completely obvious. “Do you think you can wait until I go home for the summer too? Then, you know, it will feel like we’re both leaving, and not just you.”

  Nico worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a second. “Are you sure about this, Layla? Because I meant it. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

  I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to say, “Never mind.” But what do they say? If you love something, set it free? In my heart, I know this is right, even if it means I’m going to lose him in a few more weeks. I love him, and I can’t be the reason he holds himself back.

  “I’m sure.” My voice creaks. “I’m sure.”

  Nico presses his forehead against mine, pulling me close to him so that our bodies line up together. I can feel him twitching against my thigh, already gearing up for round two. But his eyes are solemn.

  “You really are amazing.”

  I close my eyes because I know if they’re open, he’ll see the way his words just completely broke my heart. He wants to go; deep down, he’s wanted it this entire time.

  I pull him in for a kiss so he can’t see the pain that I know writes itself clearly across my face. His kiss can erase everything, and I feel the unspoken love there as my mouth opens to his. I welcome him as he rolls me over onto my back, pushing my legs open to him. He’ll be ready again soon, but for now I’m content to bask in the sweet attention of his lips, keeping him close so he can’t see the few
errant tears slip down my cheeks. I want him to make slow love to me until I can’t feel anything else but his touch, so that I can forget, if just for a few minutes, that I’ve just told the man whom I am increasingly learning to need like air and water that he should leave me. I’ll take every single moment with him I can get, because soon, I’m going to lose him for good.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Nico

  “I like this one. It looks like something Batman would drive.”

  Gabe stands next to a shiny sports car, a Mitsubishi Eclipse. I scowl.

  “Maybe if Batman were a fourteen-year-old girl,” I say. “I just need something that’s going to get me around. Small. Easy to park. Cheap and won’t break.”

  “You sound like a soccer mom, Nico,” my little brother says as he wistfully draws a hand over the top of the black sports car.

  It’s such a weird thing to be doing, shopping for a car. I’m a New Yorker, born and bred. I only got my license when I decided to apply to FedEx. I’m the only one in my family who even has one. There’s no point to it in a city like this.

  But now, things are different. Three weeks ago, Layla told me to go to LA, and even though I could tell it killed her to say it, at the same time, that metal band that had been slowly tightening around my chest disappeared. It’s not like I won’t carry the same burdens. I’ll still pay for the apartment for Maggie and Allie, still keep up with Ma’s rent. I’ll still be calling back to make sure Gabe is helping Ma around the house. But for the first time in my life, I’m going to be something else than what this city and everyone in it expects of me. I’ll be free.

  And it’s a great feeling, so long as I don’t think too hard about the one person I wish I could take with me. Layla hasn’t said a word about it since that night. We’ve gone on like we always do. Dates on Fridays, maybe sneaking dinner or lunch during the week, seeing each other at work for a few minutes everyday until yesterday, when we both served our last days on the job—Layla only while she takes the summer off, but me for good. Her semester’s done, and I turned in my uniform to FedEx last night. Layla’s flying home tonight. I’ve got one last shift at AJ’s, and then I’ll be driving out to California tomorrow.