Anything You Can Do

by R.S. Grey

  “Oh shit. Daisy, sorry.”

  “Yup. No problem. No, I’m fine. No thanks, not hungry.”

  He throws the bag of frozen peas back in the freezer when I refuse it.

  “I was kidding about you staying on the welcome mat.”

  “You just left.”

  “That was 40 minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, well. I was about to move. I just didn’t know where I wanted to go yet.”

  He walks over and takes me by the shoulders, physically forcing me to step off the mat. I expect the floor to be lava.

  “It smells like you,” I announce, “but you just moved in. Do you just spray the entire place when you put your cologne on or something?”

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He laughs and turns to face me. “I’m going to make dinner. Do you want to sit at the bar or on the couch?”

  He has to ask because if he lets go, I will stay right there in the entryway. Frozen.

  “Couch, I guess.”

  He guides me there and sits me down right in the middle.

  “I thought about taking the batteries out of your smoke detectors,” I admit, looking up at him as he props a pillow behind my back. He’s my caretaker—my caretaker who smells like he just finished working out. I should hate it, but I don’t.

  He laughs under his breath. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  He starts to straighten, but I grab ahold of his t-shirt and give life to an intrusive thought. “Let’s get freaky.”

  I hold him steady, bent over me and crowding my space.

  He smiles. “I was about to make dinner.”

  “Dinner can wait. I can’t.”

  He doesn’t pull away. “Haven’t you ever heard that anticipation is the greater part of pleasure?”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “I bet you’d be the kid in the experiment that eats the one marshmallow instead of waiting for two.”

  “Maybe,” I say, letting go of his shirt. “But we’re adults. We can eat the whole bag if we wanted to.”

  He leaves me so he can walk back toward the kitchen and start to prepare chicken.

  He’s making chicken?! Who can eat poultry at a time like this?

  “Daisy, you’re starting to scare me.”

  I suppose I do look off, sitting there on the couch with my back straight and my hands flat on my thighs. I’ve been staring straight ahead, but now I make a conscious effort to lean back and cross my legs. There. I am now a casual houseguest.

  “So I know the marshmallows were metaphors for sex, but do you actually have any? For an appetizer?”

  “Tell me about your day,” he says, ignoring me.

  “Good. Fine. I went to work. I’m a doctor, did you know?”

  “No.” He plays along. “What’s that like?”

  “I work with this guy. He’s hard to like. Everyone in the office thinks so.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s just the worst.”

  “How do you manage?”

  I turn and we lock eyes over the kitchen island. He’s busy sautéing and I’m busy imagining what it would be like if he bent me over that island and pulled up my dress.

  “I just sexually assault him and that usually shuts him up.”

  “Do you want green beans or asparagus?”

  “Which cooks faster?”

  “Green beans.”

  “Then that’s what I want.”

  A few minutes later, dinner is ready. It’s record timing—so quick, in fact, I’m not surprised that when I cut into my chicken, it’s pink in the center.

  “Lucas,” I say, turning my plate to show him. “It’s not cooked all the way through.”

  He looks up, half in a daze. “I guess I was in a bit of a hurry.”

  My smile is hidden away as he stands to retrieve my plate along with his. He deposits them both on the kitchen counter, props his hands beside them, and shakes his head. He doesn’t move for a good few seconds before I interrupt.

  “So dinner was great,” I tease.

  My eyes light up as he stands and starts to tug off his t-shirt.

  “But now I guess it’s time for dessert? Yup. I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Not so fast. I still have to shower.”

  “Why? Because you just worked out? Because you’re still a little hot and sweaty, and you have this masculine musk going on?”

  He knows nothing. He is Jon Snow.

  “Lucas,” I say, releasing a deep breath and circling the kitchen island toward him. “I’ve asked you politely to have sex with me. Now I only think it’s fair that you fulfill that request.”

  He smirks. “Turn around.”

  I do as I’m told and warm hands hit my neck. He holds them there, teasing me with a gentle kiss beneath my hair. I think he’s about to unzip my dress and get this party going, but then he speaks up.

  “Actually, I enjoy making you wait. Let’s go to dinner first.”

  Then his hands slip away.

  I laugh, exasperated, and then twist around to face him. “Lucas, come on! All of a sudden you’re some kind of gentleman? You want to take me on a date?”

  “Sure. Call it whatever you want.”

  I have half a mind to strip out of my dress and force the issue, but even I have my limits.

  “Fine. Luckily for you, I’m a cheap date. Just order a pizza. Meanwhile, I’m going to go shower.”

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting with Lucas on his couch with wet hair, sporting a matching pajama set. It’s the most modest thing my mother has packed for me to sleep in and even then, it’s not much. The shorts are skimpy and the tank top offers little in the way of boob coverage. Lucas showered too and now he’s wearing nothing but flannel pants. The show we have on is boring, some cooking contest on PBS. Neither one of us makes a move to change the channel. I chance a quick glance over and his gaze is on me, burning across my skin. I think my outfit is getting to him, but what does it matter? The moment feels like it’s passed, because everything he’s done tonight seems to signal one thing: we aren’t having sex.

  The doorbell rings.

  “That’s the pizza,” I say, hopping up to answer the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Lucas insists, grabbing for his wallet on the kitchen counter.

  I choose to ignore him and when we open the door, Micky Childress is standing on Lucas’ doorstep holding one large pizza. When he sees me tucked behind Lucas in my glorified lingerie, his eyes go round as the pizza he’s toting.

  “Daisy Bell?! Lucas Thatcher?!”

  Micky is the younger brother of Bobby Childress, a classmate of ours back at Hamilton High. I haven’t seen either of them in years, but Micky clearly remembers us.

  “Is he holding you prisoner here?” Micky asks, half-kidding as he hands Lucas the pizza. “I can call the police if you need me to.”

  Lucas shoves a twenty against Micky’s chest and pushes him out of the doorway. “Thanks Mick. That’ll be all.”

  “Just blink twice, Daisy! I’ll send the SWAT team!”

  Lucas shuts the door in his face.

  “Nice kid,” I say, yanking the pizza box out of Lucas’ hands and carrying it over to the island.

  “He only wanted to rescue you because you’re wearing that.”

  “They’re called pajamas.”

  “That’s a pretty liberal way to describe clothes that could fit on my mom’s toy poodle.”

  The box is opened and suddenly, everything is right in the world. The pizza is still warm from the oven. We each extract a piece and don’t bother with plates. Instead, we face each other, leaning against the counter, and dig in.

  “So anyway, you were saying you’re sexually attracted to poodles?”

  Lucas shakes his head, concealing his small smile.

  “Or was it that you’re attracted to me?”

  “Eat your pizza.”

  I laugh and Lucas is fed up. He takes the s
lice out of my hand and holds it up to my mouth. He’s feeding me to shut me up and I’m 100% okay with that. I bite off a big chunk and chew with a confident smirk.

  Then I let my gaze fall below his neck, which is a critical mistake in the quest to retain the upper hand. Lucas is shirtless, and whatever exercises he did at the gym must’ve worked. Really well. He’s in great shape with that sort of broad-shouldered, tapered-waist combo that completely kills the female brain. I’ve never cared about abs until I look down and see the set Lucas has—abs that lead down to flannel pants that have settled low on his hips.

  “This counts as dinner, right?”

  The look he finally gives me with those dark eyes is the only answer I need.

  Holy shit.

  In a matter of seconds, there is chaos in his kitchen. Our pizza slices are tossed, forgotten. The box is pushed aside and tips off the island, but we don’t care. Lucas picks me up and drops me on the cold granite. It bites the backs of my thighs and I hiss just before his mouth comes down on mine.

  My hand wraps around his bare shoulder and tugs him closer, between my spreading thighs. His hands slip up beneath my silky shorts, sliding past my ass and gripping my waist, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter. I’d fall forward if he wasn’t holding me up and suddenly we’re right back where we were this morning, only now Lucas is yanking my tank top over my head and dropping his mouth to my bare breast. All of it is happening so fast, as if he’s choreographed his movements for weeks. I try to play catch-up, slipping my good hand past the waistband of his flannel pants and wrapping around his length.

  Beds and candles and stripteases are for people with time and boredom. What we have is hunger. We’re frantic, and it shows.

  I work him with my hand, pumping up and down as he takes one of my nipples between his lips. I cry out and he gently bites. I retaliate by tightening my grip around him.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Hey Lucas! I had to go to the car to get your cha—”

  Micky Childress is back and Lucas politely tells him to fuck off and keep the change.

  “Hey! Thanks!”

  I laugh and Lucas takes the opportunity to wrestle my shorts and panties off of me. He tugs and there’s a slight rip; I don’t know if it’s the material or my sanity. For a few seconds, I’m naked on that cold granite, bared entirely for Lucas. He assesses me from top to bottom, taking his time consuming the sight of me. My skin prickles under his appraisal then I reach out for him and he obliges, wrapping me up in his warmth.

  He asks if we should move somewhere else—the couch, the bed, the floor?—but it’s clear that the island is the perfect height. It comes right up to Lucas’ hips and when I spread my legs and let them fall open, he gets his answer. Here. Right now. Pony up, big boy.

  I expect him to get naked, to match me in my au naturale state, but he only tugs his flannel pants down enough so that my hand is exposed, still wrapped around his length. My eyes widen. I mean, I’ve seen him before—I tasted him—but from this angle, it feels all too real.

  “You realize what we’re about to do right?” I ask.

  “I have a pretty good guess.”

  “My chest is tight. I feel woozy.”

  “I should have had you sign a consent form.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. Can I borrow a pen?”

  “Daisy.”

  “Oh god. This is so strange! Lucas Thatcher is about to have sex with me.”

  “Yes he is.” Lucas laughs, tugging me against his chest. It’s an intimate little hug, a reassuring, I’ve got you.

  “We can’t do this,” I say, even as I pull him closer.

  “If you want to wait, we—”

  “NO! GOD, HAVEN’T YOU BEEN LISTENING AT ALL?!”

  At that, I slam my mouth down on his and kiss the ever-loving life out of him. He groans and reciprocates, tugging me forward until my hips are barely resting on the island. We’re aligned perfectly, hip to hip, just like I planned. He makes first contact and my heart races as tingles drift up my spine. I want him to get on with it, but he teases me with his touch.

  His palm lies flat against my stomach, and goosebumps spread as his thumb brushes down over the heart of my senses. The feather-light swirls might as well be a drumroll, building the intensity until the moment he pulls back and looks between us. I squeeze my eyes closed and curl my toes as he sinks in the first inch. My mouth falls open. Another inch. A tiny squeak escapes me. Another firm thrust and Lucas uses all those hard-earned ab muscles to bury himself inside me to the hilt. I am stretched to oblivion and I tell Lucas.

  “Don’t move or I’ll shatter.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll kill me.”

  He pulls out gently and I feel him shiver. Of all the symptoms I’ve ever witnessed, Lucas overcome with pleasure from being inside me is the most compelling.

  “Do that again,” I plead.

  He does, driving back into me and dragging out nice and slow. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my naked chest against his. Hard pectorals complement my feminine curves. Warmth explodes through me, the first sensation that warns of what’s to come. He grips my thighs and thrusts faster. If I could talk, my words would come out disjointed from the bouncing, from the power, from the YES RIGHT THERE, LUCAS, YOU GOD.

  His hand once again finds its way between my thighs and he adds teasing little circles to the repertoire. The pad of his finger is rough but I like it.

  “I’m so close,” I tell him, and he continues those sensational circles. He keeps them going at just the right pace, just the right pressure, so every time he glides over that bundle of nerves, pleasure detonates through me. I’m picked up off the counter and shoved up against the pantry door. Lucas uses the angle to leverage himself deeper inside me. He hits a whole new level and I haven’t taken a breath in minutes. There’s no way to tell if I’ve died or not, because surely this is exactly what heaven must be like.

  For too long, every sensation bombards me and I nearly tap out. It feels like too much. I’m burning up from within and then his thumb swipes once more and I finally flame out. Lucas follows and together, we hold each other up, gasping and quivering and carrying each other to the highest of highs. We don’t move from the pantry door. At this point, it’s holding me up more than Lucas is. I’ve got one leg wrapped around his waist and the other just sort of dangling, too weak to hold itself up.

  So many words flood the tip of my tongue. Apologies, congratulations. A part of me nearly confesses undying love. For what? I don’t know. But then Lucas sets me back on my feet and we lock eyes. It’s the first time we’ve looked at each other in a while and a short burst of laughter spills out of me. I think it’s residual pleasure still rippling through me. Lucas smiles too. It’s lazy and satisfied.

  My stomach hurts while I brush my teeth later. I recognize the feeling: the subtle dread associated with change, mixed with a nice dose of anxiety. It’s how I felt this morning before Lucas tricked me into a kitchen make-out session.

  I look at myself in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. I wipe away the smudges on the glass, and now I do. She is me, sated after having sex with her lifelong rival.

  I spit. Continue to brush. Anything to delay the next few minutes from taking place.

  I suspect my freak out has something to do with my current living situation as well. In normal circumstances, I would run. I would retreat back to my house and hide beneath my childhood comforter. But I’m stuck. In Lucas’ apartment. In his bathroom, using his soft hand towel.

  He comes in and catches my eyes in the mirror. The feeling in my stomach swells to dangerous territory. I might throw up.

  “Where should I put your bag?”

  His question is only six words, but there are volumes of subtext between them.

  “Guest room?” I shrug. “Is that where you think it should go?”

  “Yeah, that’s probably…yeah,” he says,
hoisting it onto his shoulder.

  “Unless you think—”

  “No—I mean, you’ve been through a lot.” He nods and walks out. “There’s an extra pillow in the hall closet if you need it.”

  “Thanks,” I say, mouth full of toothpaste.

  We are two ballerinas tiptoeing around one another.

  Even worse, when I slip into the guest room, making less noise than a mouse, I spot the glass of water and book he’s left on my nightstand and I sigh. While I was working out a way to shimmy through the bathroom window and escape into the night, Lucas was worried about my hydration and—dammit, the book is a psychological thriller, my favorite genre.

  Lucas, you manipulative, adorable asshole.

  Chapter Twenty-THREE

  The next day, Lucas and I are actors, doing our best impressions of adults cohabitating. He’s flipping pancakes when I walk out of the guest room. I take in the glorious, bare-chested sight of him pouring more batter into the skillet. It’s a materialization of a dream every woman has had at least once.

  We arrive to work early and divvy up the patients without any arguments. Dr. McCormick is impressed and he says so. Of course, he doesn’t know I’m currently shacked up with Lucas, but I don’t really see the utility in telling him so.

  After work, we leave the practice and stroll across the street to Lucas’ apartment while discussing dinner possibilities. I’m hoping for pasta and Lucas was planning on grilled salmon, but he’s willing to oblige me. We trot upstairs and he unlocks the door to his loft.

  After I’ve changed out of my work clothes, we uncork a reasonably priced bottle of wine, put the spaghetti on to boil, and take seats on opposite ends of the couch to flip through the month’s medical journals. Lucas subscribes to all the best ones and I tell him so.

  “You really can’t put a price on continuing education,” he replies.

  “Indubitably.”

  “Besides, the subscriptions are tax-deductible.”

  Look at us discussing taxes and not having wild bouts of hate sex.

  “What a savvy businessman you are.” I’m not even being sarcastic. “Could you pass the wine?”

  Instead of passing me the bottle, he tops off my glass and then his own. The bottle is empty and we are still adults cohabitating.