by Sara Ney
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hands are covering his on my hips, smoothing over them, feeling how strong they are as they grip me through my leggings. My backside is still pressed into him, my neck still angled so he can nuzzle it—despite my internal protests, it’s good.
This is good.
It feels like we’re dancing.
“Do you want anything to eat?” I gulp, unsure of what to do or say in the moment, feeling a bit awkward and needing to fill the silence.
“I’m not hungry for food,” he replies with a chuckle so loud it echoes in my cerebellum and travels down my spine.
Delicious.
I’m feeling slightly wanton, and outside it looks like rain, the perfect weather to be inside. Seems he narrowly escaped having to play a match in a downpour.
Unwilling to resist this attraction—at least for now—I slowly turn my body to face him, glancing up into his eyes. I am inches from his mouth, his lips parting slightly as he gazes down at me, questioning look on his face.
He’s waiting for my consent.
Patiently standing there, waiting for me to make a move.
On him.
Not the other way around.
Okay fine. You can do this, Eliza. Don’t chicken out.
One last hurrah before you pull the plug on all our physical fun.
Do it. Go up on your tippy toes and kiss him on the mouth. It’s not like you haven’t kissed him before.
Don’t rush me! I need time!
Okay, but this is moving at a glacial pace…
“You’re not hungry for food?” I repeat. “That is the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
I’m teasing him, hoping he’ll cut to the chase and put his lips on mine.
“Wow. You want to be a smart arse now, eh?”
“Eh.”
And then he kisses me. Dips his head until our lips touch; his are soft and full and patient.
His pelvis presses into mine. Well…it would press into mine if we were the same height. Instead, it’s pressing into my stomach, his hardening erection pressing in there, too, just above my belly button as I rise onto tiptoe so my mouth can reach his.
It’s not easy being short and kissing someone this tall.
I should get a step stool.
No you should not—you will not be repeating this!
Oh my god, Eliza, stop with the internal dialogue—you’re in the middle of kissing someone for crying out loud, you freak!
I decide my favorite part of Jack’s mouth is his bottom lip; it’s poutier and fuller than it looks, and super soft, too. Like he spends all his time smothering it in ChapStick to make it pliable.
We spend a few moments simply pressing our lips together, in no hurry.
My hands roam to his shoulders, then his neck, my fingers trailing their way through his hair so my nails can gently rake at his skin.
Jack moans.
Parts his lips, tongue waiting for an invitation to touch mine.
He tastes delicious.
Like the tea he drank earlier, and honey and lemon.
I want to eat him up.
We are in no rush to move from this spot, my back against the counter, Jack’s large hands circling my waist.
Suddenly, he lifts me, plopping me on the countertop then dragging me forward so my legs spread, one on either side of him. He pushes forward, settling between my thighs.
It’s comfortable.
Nice.
Sexy.
Our lips never part.
I never want to leave this counter.
His hands don’t stray from my waist, but I want them to. Mine certainly don’t stay in his hair, wandering south to his broad shoulders and exploring, my palms against his firm biceps.
Remarkably fit for a guy who hardly works out and hates the collegiate sport he plays.
His pec muscles are solid, too.
He flexes slightly when my fingers graze them, more so from reflex than posturing, and I feel his hard nipples through the thin fabric of his T-shirt.
Nice…
I wonder if he has hair on his chest.
I wonder if he trims it. Or shaves his body hair. Or manscapes his junk.
I wonder if he has a happy trail below his belly button.
Or if he has abs.
My hands want to know if he’s good in bed. If he’s selfish, if he’s rough or gentle. They ask him by fluttering over his T-shirt, slowly pressing into his flesh, searching to learn the body they want to know intimately.
We kiss like this until my lips feel raw. Chapped, for certain.
I want to take his clothes off, and I want him to carry me upstairs, or go down on his knees in front of me at the counter…
Naughty, naughty, Eliza.
You want what you cannot have.
Why can’t I have it?
Because he is your roommate and this isn’t about sex.
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around Jack and hug him, our fronts pressed together tightly when he hugs me back.
Oddly, it feels like a goodbye.
Seventeen
Jack
“That can’t happen again, Jack. We should probably have some rules now that we’re living together. It was one thing when I wasn’t living here. Don’t you think we should act more…” She waves a hand around aimlessly. “Professional?”
“What can’t happen again?”
I know she’s talking about the snog, but we’re not in agreement on that point. Why shouldn’t we be able to snog and cuddle when the mood strikes us?
“The kiss. It’s unprofessional.”
“Unprofessional? This isn’t an office space, Eliza.”
“I know that, Jack.” She rolls her eyes at me, and it’s quite adorable. “My point is, now is a good time to lay down some guidelines, don’t you think?”
No.
I don’t think now is a good time to keep my lips to myself or my dick in my pants, but that’s not up to me, now is it?
“If that’s what you want then that is what we’ll do.” If rules are what it takes to make her comfortable, she can have whatever rules she wants. “No snogging, no shagging—not until you ask me, ha!”
“Ask you?” She scoffs as if the idea is preposterous. “That’s not going to happen.”
She’s acting like our kiss wasn’t incredible—I know my lips and cock were tingling; no way her body wasn’t.
“Wanna bet?”
Eliza clears her throat in an effort to be serious. “So. About these rules.”
Wordlessly, I wait for her to elaborate. “Yes, what about these rules? Are they forthcoming?”
“We have to create them.” She goes to the counter and retrieves a notebook I hadn’t noticed, a pink pad with gold stars and spiral. Pen. Eliza opens it and plops back down at the kitchen counter. “Rule one. No, um…intimacy.”
“Define intimacy.”
“Kissing, sex. Full-frontal contact.” She laughs—as if there’s anything to laugh about—and jots the words down on her notebook paper.
“No full-frontal contact. Are you talking about hugs?”
“Sure.”
“What if you’re crying? What if you get a failing grade on an exam and you come home crying—I’m not allowed to embrace you?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You wouldn’t be trying to get into my pants for a shag.”
“What if you’re wearing a skirt and need a hug?”
Her expression tells me she doesn’t think I’m funny. “Jack, be serious.”
“I am bloody serious! This is nothing to joke about!” I sigh insolently. “What else?”
Eliza thinks, tapping the end of her pen on the tip of her chin. “We have to knock when entering each other’s bedrooms or bathrooms. Or any closed door.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to see my birthday suit?”
“Yes, it means I don’t want to accidentally walk in on you while
you’re wearing your birthday suit. Or doing anything to it.”
“Doing anything to it?”
“You know.”
What is she talking about? “No idea what you’re implying.”
“You know. Jerking off.”
Oh, that!
Fair enough, makes sense.
I nod. “Okay.”
My eyes trail to her little pad, to her list.
1. No physical contact of a sexual nature, including but not limited to: kissing, sex, fooling around.
I frown. Why must we be so formal with each other and create rules? I like Eliza a lot.
No. I’m incredibly attracted to her; we have loads in common and I want to be her friend—wanted to date her before I foolishly opened my gob and invited her to live with me.
My eyes scan the paper.
2. Knock when entering, even with an open door.
She is quite pleased with herself.
3. Clean up after ourselves, do not leave it for the other person.
4. No loud noise, keep volumes to a regular decibel, especially after 9 PM.
It certainly looks as if she’s thought this whole roommate thing through more so than I have, but what do I know about living with a female? I never even lived with Caroline, and she rarely spent the night—not until I leased my swanky London flat and she could brag to her friends about it.
5. Take turns taking the garbage out.
6. Ask before having people over (Eliza).
7. Do not bring strange guys to the house unannounced (Eliza)—Jack is entitled to bring anyone to the house, since it is his house.
“Do you plan on bringing strange guys to the house?” I can’t help but ask, can’t help being curious.
“No.”
“Then why do you have it on the list?”
“Just in case.”
“In case you go partying and want to shag someone random at the house?”
“Sure. Or maybe I meet someone out and about.”
“Out and about?” I shoot her a look. “Where?”
The coffee shop? The library?
The sofa?
The last time she was at a party, she was with me.
In the bathroom, whispering about being locked in with me and worried about the people waiting in line. Worried her roommate would discover us there.
We were cockblocked before we had any chance of discovering what this relationship could potentially be. I have no idea why this makes me sad or why I’m dwelling on it, but the truth is she is the first person I’ve connected with in the longest time, and I feel the loss. Feel it with each and every numeric point on her little list of rules.
Obviously I want Eliza to be happy. That was the whole purpose of me inviting her to live in this house to begin with—making her life easier and giving her a bed to sleep in because the thought of her miserable and grasping for a new situation sickens me.
She’s my mate, too.
I don’t just want to shag her.
I mean, I do—but not if all she wants is to be roommates.
Lies we tell ourselves…
“Do you have anything you want to add to this list?”
I consider this. “Rule eight: half-naked Thursday.”
This rule pleases me—I’m so clever—and I grin.
Which earns me a smack on the arm. “Knock it off.”
“Okay fine, completely naked Thursday. Socks optional.”
I can’t tolerate socks in bed, but I’m willing to make an exception for her on account of she’s so darn cute.
She can’t help smiling back at me this time, hiding the grin in the collar of her sweatshirt, betraying herself.
It’s godawful late when my mobile rings.
So godawful late it can only be one person calling.
Well…technically a bunch of persons could be phoning me, given that my entire family lives half a world away on a completely different continent, but typically it’s one of three people:
Dad.
Mum.
Ashley.
Every once in a great while, Georgia, my sister-in-law, will call, but mostly, she texts instead.
Rolling to the side of my bed, I fumble for my mobile in the dark, palming it from my nightstand and yanking the charger out before automatically answering it.
“Hello?” I pull back to see who it is before greeting her with a “Hey, Mum.”
“Hello, darling,” she drawls in that voice I love so much. “Did I catch you in bed for the evening or were you out?”
I mean, it is one o’clock in the morning, so presumably I am in bed.
I don’t tell her this, of course. Don’t want to come off as cheeky. Plus, it’s not likely she’ll call me at a reasonable time. Mum normally makes an effort to reach out when it’s convenient for her, which is either before her bedtime or first thing in the morning before she leaves the house.
Considering it’s so early back in the United Kingdom, I can only assume she is ready to head to her fitness class and thought she would ring me while she has breakfast.
This is confirmed by the obvious sound of a silver spoon clanging against fine china as she stirs her tea before laying the utensil to rest on the saucer.
Mum sips then swallows. “I wanted to check in on you—it’s been a good few days. How is my baby boy?”
Baby boy.
I both love and loathe that nickname, but I suppose, since I’m the younger of her two sons, it’s accurate enough.
“Everything is brilliant, Mum. Just brilliant.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Just schoolwork, mostly. Rugby.”
She makes a sound in her throat, followed by the sound of a bite of toast. White toast with elderberry jam, always. “That game will be the death of me.”
“Then you’ll be glad to hear I won’t be playing for a while—hurt myself today.”
The other end of the line goes quiet. “Hurt yourself? Do you need me?”
I stretch out on my bed, yawning. Arms above my head, folding them to get more comfortable against my pillow as I lean into the conversation with my mother.
“No, it’s just some minor bruises. Nothing was broken except my pride. Happened right away, I wasn’t in the game very long, and my roommate tidied me up as soon as I got home.”
“Your roommate? When did that happen?”
Blast it.
I forgot to mention Eliza moving in to my parents—I haven’t even mentioned it to my brother. There hasn’t been time. Been so busy with school and getting Eliza moved in that it didn’t occur to me to fill anyone in on the details of my living arrangements.
“Yes, I have a roommate now. Her name is Eliza, and she’s been here about a week.”
“Eliza? That sounds like a female’s name, darling.”
“That’s because it is a female’s name, Mum.”
“Oh lord, here we go again.” I can practically see her exasperation through the mobile.
Here we go again? “What is that supposed to mean?”
A loud sigh comes through the mobile. “Why do you and your brother insist on living with women? We all know how this is going to end.”
“How this is going to end? I’m hardly going to pull an Ashley and marry my roommate, Mother. Besides, we have rules.”
Mum’s trilly little laugh comes through clear as a bell. “Oh Jack, you do make me laugh.”
“What’s so amusing? I’m being serious—Eliza and I are just mates. We have a set of rules to keep things professional.”
Mum takes a bite of toast before saying, “Darling, if you need a set of rules to keep things professional, there must be feelings involved. Otherwise you would hardly need them, would you?”
I can visualize her sitting in the breakfast room back home, sun streaming through the windows as she sits in her dressing gown eating breakfast, legs crossed and curlers in her hair.
“There are no feelings involved.” Because Eliza has decided those don’t matter a
nd we’re to keep our hands to ourselves.
“Okay. Humor me then. What are a few of these rules?”
“I don’t have them sitting in front of me, Mother. I’m not the one who wrote them down.”
“Surely you can remember just one?” She sounds amused, not believing for a second that I don’t remember what these bloody ridiculous rules are.
“Fine. One of them is knock before entering.” There, that should satisfy her curiosity.
“That sounds like common sense,” she mutters. “What else?”
I think. “No inviting random guests back to spend the night without telling the other person first.”
Mum makes a humming sound. “Go on.”
“No, um…” I hesitate, the words on my tongue suddenly making me bashful.
“Yes?” She coaxes the words out of me. “No, um…what.”
“No touching.”
“No touching?” Her voice rises. “What does that mean?” She sounds entirely too entertained, amusement lacing her words. I imagine her perfectly manicured brows have risen to her hairline and her mouth is gaping open.
I shrug, even though she can’t see it. “It means no touching.”
“None?” She sips at her tea. “At all? What happens if you’re both in the kitchen and you brush against her while you’re at the sink and she’s at the stove?”
I sigh, frustrated. “Not that kind of touching, Mum.”
A chuckle. “I know that, darling. I do have two children.”
Great, she’s humoring me. “Snogging and stuff.”
“Why on earth would you want to snog your roommate? You just told me you’re best mates.”
“Not best mates.” I feel the need to clarify. “The regular kind.” My tone is sulky, even to my own ears. “She wanted to add that rule—not me.”
“Why would she want to do that, dear?”
Goddammit—leave it to my mother to insist on knowing every laborious detail. She wants the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God, even if it’s humiliating.
“I may have snogged her at a house party at one point…and once in the kitchen.”
“And she doesn’t want it to happen again?”
“No. She wants to keep things on the up and up.”