“I’m very grateful,” Crosbie replies, straight-faced.
“You should be. Back soon.” Kellan jogs down the stairs and disappears outside. This time we scurry over to the front window and hide behind the curtains as we watch him climb into his car and drive down the block.
“Fuck me,” Crosbie mutters, grabbing me by the waist and backing me into the wall.
“That’s the plan,” I say.
He laughs. “C’mon. I’ll show you how grateful I really am.”
We strip down to our underwear in record time and Crosbie squeezes my ass and boosts me up so I’m pinned between his chest and the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist and feel his cock against the cotton of my panties, grinding into me. I gasp for breath and rotate my hips, desperate for more friction. Just desperate, generally.
“I wish we had more time,” he mutters, tongue trailing over my neck, teeth nipping lightly. “And a door with a lock he didn’t have the keys to.”
“I know. I know.” I can’t think much beyond the hand he’s sliding under my panties, coasting over the skin of my ass and lower, down between my legs, finding the wetness that waits.
“Oh fuck.”
I echo the sentiment when one of his thick fingers pushes inside. It feels like only seconds before I’m clinging to his neck, my short nails digging into the muscles of his back as I switch between begging for more and swearing I can’t wait any longer.
“Nora, I’m gonna—Oh, fuck, Nora, I think—” He lowers me so I’m standing, then hurries to his pants to retrieve a condom. He’s shaking as he rolls it on and I know there’s no way he’s going to be able to hold me up again. Truth be told, as long as he fucks me, I don’t care how he does it.
There’s no time to debate, so I just pull off my panties and bend over the arm of the couch. “Like this,” I tell him.
His brows raise. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Our previous encounters haven’t really given us the opportunity to do much more than face to face, a few hands sliding into pants whenever possible. We’ve never done it from behind or so much as tried oral, and when he eases into me I’m thinking about how much more time we need to do everything we haven’t done. Everything we want to do. Just everything, really.
In record time I’m thrusting back and biting my lip to stifle my cries. His fingers squeeze my hips too hard and my flesh burns, but I don’t try to stop him. Next thing I know I’m coming, fingers clawing the couch, muscles straining, clasping, squeezing. Crosbie’s grunting behind me, powering through my body’s contractions, and soon I hear him come, too, hunching over me, one hand tangled in my hair as though anchoring himself.
“Nora,” he groans on a ragged breath, his hips bumping mine artlessly as he forgets finesse and just gives in to his body’s demands. “Nora, Nora, Nora.”
I reach up weakly and cup the back of his neck, the only thing I have the strength for. “Crosbie.”
chapter sixteen
Two nights later I’m trudging down the sidewalk toward my apartment. It’s quarter to eight and Kellan had texted mid-afternoon to ask if I wouldn’t mind coming home until after seven. I figured he’d put enough time between the gonorrhea news and treatment that he’s ready to get back in the game, and if I’m not mistaken, he’d planned some sort of date night for Marcela. Nate’s still bringing Celestia by the shop and Marcela is still bitter, so even though I can think of a million better things—and people—for them to do, this is their mistake to make. And everybody makes mistakes. I should know.
I squint up at our living room window. There’s a faint glow shining through, as though a light has been left on in one of the bedrooms. I’m really not looking forward to the prospect of walking in on my roommate and my best friend, but I’m cold and I’m hungry and I just spent two hours memorizing irregular French verbs and I want to go home. If need be I’ll creep quietly into my bedroom with my eyes closed and my ears covered, and sleep with headphones.
I make as much noise as I reasonably can as I let myself in, but I’m not greeted by the sight of naked, writhing bodies. Instead I inhale the stomach-pleasing scent of garlic and tomatoes and warm bread. I eagerly tug off my boots and hang my jacket on the rail, then climb the stairs, praying there’s some food left.
On the top step, I come to an abrupt halt.
There’s Kellan. There’s candlelight. There’s a table set for two.
And there’s no Marcela.
My eyes skip around the room, taking in the strangely romantic set up. “Er…what’s going on?”
He’s standing in the kitchen in dark pants and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his strong forearms. His feet are bare and if I’m not mistaken, the apron he’s wearing was “borrowed” from Beans. He’s stirring a pot of what smells like tomato sauce and appears to have been waiting. For me.