by Roxy Reid
“I’ll buy you a new bed,” Wade says, and thrusts hard at the same time as he scrapes his thumb over my clit, and I seize and shake as wave after wave of pleasure hits me and Wade coaxes and rocks me through it all, pushing me harder and deeper than I think I can go, until I wash up on the shore trembling and sensitive and gasping for breath.
When my breathing slows down enough for me to take stock of the world around me, I notice the bed is still standing.
“Hey,” I say, pleasantly surprised. “My bed’s not broken.”
“Oh, honey,” Wade says, and his voice is thick with pleasure and promise as he shifts, and I remember I might have come, but he’s still big and hard inside of me, and that combined with the look he’s giving me …
“We’re not done yet,” Wade says, and I give a little whimper of anticipation as he starts to move again.
We do end up breaking my bed, but since it’s accompanied by Wade collapsing stone dead on top of me, and saying in a stunned voice that that was the best orgasm he’s ever had, I forgive him.
When he regains the use of his limbs, he carefully helps me off the bed, and we move the mattress to the center of my empty apartment. When he goes to the bathroom to take care of the condom, I hesitate.
I want him to stay. Somehow, that’s become very important to me. If he stays, if we’re comfortable enough with each other to do that, then this is a friends with benefits thing, and we’ll still be able to be normal on Monday.
Or as normal as we can be, when I know what Wade sounds like when I’m trailing my hand over his dick.
And that’s nothing compared to the sounds he dragged out of me.
But if Wade leaves now, before we’ve managed to ease ourselves back to whatever normal is…
Then this is just another one-night stand. And the idea of him avoiding eye contact on Monday, like we’ve done something wrong and shameful, feels like a sharp, thin knife to the stomach.
But I can’t just ask him to stay. That feels too vulnerable.
I hear the bathroom door start to open, so I panic, throw his shirt on me, and hide under the covers like the mature woman I am.
I’m facing away, but I can feel the mattress shift as Wade crawls in.
He reaches over, and runs a tentative hand down my back.
I hold my breath, waiting for the part where he makes his excuses.
“You put clothes on,” he says, surprised, and maybe a little disappointed.
“Sort of,” I say.
His hand finishes it’s trail down my back. “You put my clothes on.”
“You weren’t using them,” I say. “And I can’t sleep in my suit.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You’re sleeping in my shirt,” he says, and he sounds almost … delighted.
Wade fits his chest to my back, draping a hand possessively over my stomach.
“You’re sleeping in it all night long,” he says.
“That’s generally how long people sleep,” I say, trying to sound irritated, but I know I don’t succeed.
He tucks me under his chin. “You’re sleeping in my shirt, which I can’t leave without.”
Busted. Wade sees through me all right.
I nestle back against his heat. “Don’t overthink it,” I say to a man whose overthinking founded a billion-dollar company.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wade says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I fall asleep holding that smile to my heart.
8
Wade
I wake up with a sore back and a happy dick. It is hard to express how deeply shitty Stella’s mattress is. Maybe when I’m replacing the bed she’ll let me replace the mattress, too.
Not that she’s given me any reason to expect I’ll be back.
Still. A man can hope. I kiss her shoulder, and she nestles closer to me in her sleep.
It is even harder to express how deeply right it feels to wake up with Stella in my arms. In the early morning light her makeup is smudged, her hair’s a mess, and her lips are still a little swollen with my kisses.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
I glance over at the old pastel-painted-Jesus clock I’m assuming a prior tenant left on the wall.
And then I swear. I’ve got a conference call I’m supposed to be on in fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure my phone is dead.
Shit.
“Honey,” I say softly. “Stella, honey, I need you to wake up.”
The most beautiful woman in the world gives me the middle finger.
“Stella, I need my shirt,” I say, but she just buries her head under the pillow.
Ok. Not a morning person, my Stella.
Not that she’s mine.
I get dressed, hoping she’ll wake up, but by the time I’m dressed (minus my tie and suit jacket, because I feel too much like a stripper putting those on without a shirt), Stella is snoring softly into the pillow.
I look down at her and feel a helpless swell of tenderness. I feel like I’m being held hostage by the cutest pink-haired demon this side of the Mississippi.
Or more precisely, my shirt is being held hostage.
Ok. Plan B.
There’s a man’s large black t-shirt spilling out of her suitcase, printed with a random band name I don’t know, and a picture of the band underneath. There are tour dates and cities listed on the back of the shirt.
I look at the picture of the band more closely. A grin splits my entire face when I recognize Stella on the drums.
The shirt fits me like a glove, which means Stella must be swimming in it. But when I add my suit jacket, I manage not to look like I’m wearing a muscle tee.
If anything, I think I look a little … punk.
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes till the conference call. I need to leave now.
But I don’t want her to wake up and think I left.
I mean, I am leaving. But not thanks-for-the-one-night-stand leaving.
I pull out my business card and a pen, and start to leave a note saying I’ll call her, but I don’t actually have Stella’s number.
I could get it from H.R., but that seems like a violation of privacy.
What if she wants this to be a one-night-stand, shirt thievery notwithstanding?
So instead, I write down my personal number on my business card.
Then I add, I stole your shirt. Don’t overthink it.
I place the card carefully in her hand, kiss her cheek, and head out to the most inconveniently scheduled conference call in the history of humanity.
Three hours later, I’m pacing around my mansion of a house, conference call completed, tossing my phone from hand to hand, waiting for Stella to call.
Face it. She’s not going to call, I tell myself.
I glance at my laptop. I should really do some work this weekend. At the very least I could see how that Joshua King movie ends.
A half hour later I’m yelling at the screen to just to tell her how you feel, man, when my phone buzzes.
“Hello,” I answer, distracted.
“Hello, shirt thief,” Stella says, and I nearly fall off the couch. I pause the movie hastily.
“Stella. Hi! Hey.” I run a hand up the back of my hair, wishing I could see her face. How am I supposed to know if I should play it cool, or be a man and put myself out there, if I can’t see her face?
I settle on treading water. “How are you?”
“Short one shirt, since I saw you last,” she says, wryly.
“What a coincidence,” I say. “If only there was some way for us to remedy the situation.”
“I suppose I could drop it off,” Stella says, faux-casually. “I’m in the area.”
What a little liar. She doesn’t even know where I live.
I grin and settle into the couch. Stella Harrington is lying so she can have an excuse to visit me. This is the best Saturday morning I’ve had in a long, long time.
Which doe
sn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on her.
God knows she hasn’t made it easy on me.
“In the area, you say. What a coincidence.” I put my feet up on the coffee table. “And what area would that be again?”
“Oh … you know … the area that you live in,” Stella bluffs.
“Which is where?” I prompt.
“Within driving distance of the office. Obviously.”
I laugh. God, it’s fun to play with this woman. But it would be more fun to play in person.
“I’ll text you the address,” I say. Then I lower my voice menacingly. “Come alone. Or you’ll never see your shirt again.”
“Oh no! I’ll come alone, I promise!” she says, in a breathy, film-noir voice. “You can do anything you want to me. Just don’t hurt my clothes, you monster.”
I know she’s just kidding, but Stella Harrington saying in a breathy voice that I can do anything I want to her is doing things to me, and I shift uncomfortably on the couch.
“Oh my God,” she laughs knowingly into my ear, and I feel my ears turn red. “You are so easy to mess with. Text me your address nerd.”
“If you wish it, Marigold,” I say, and hang up on her laughter.
A whole thirty-nine minutes later my doorbell rings, because Stella likes torturing men. I’ve started in on the next Home Sweet Home movie on my list which is, if possible, even cheesier than the Joshua King one.
I gratefully turn off the T.V.—it turns out some movies are actually worse in high definition—and go to open the door.
Stella’s wearing ripped jeans, strappy black heeled sandals, and this soft white shirt with a lot of ties that should probably feel modest, since it’s loose and drapey, but it somehow gives the impression it would fall right off if confronted with a strong wind or a well-placed kiss.
I lean on the doorframe. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to finally show up.”
Stella looks me over from head to toe, then blinks. “You’re not in a suit.”
“Well no. It’s a Saturday.”
“You’re in sweats. And you look all … like that.” Stella motions with her hand to indicate what I apparently look like.
I glance down at myself, looking for a coffee stain or something, but I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Um… like what?” I ask.
“Freshly showered. And lazy and … are you even wearing underwear with those sweats?”
“Stella!” I yelp. Because no, technically, I’m not, and the way she’s looking at me, that may become a problem real soon.
I clear my throat. “Do you want to come in?”
Some of the teasing leaves her face, and for the first time she looks uncertain. “Are you sure? I kind of invited myself over, and I don’t want to ruin your Saturday …”
I lean down and kiss her. It’s the kind of kiss that needs no discussion.
When I break the kiss her cheeks are flushed pinker than her hair. Good. Just so she knows where we stand.
Stella still looks uncertain. But now she looks turned on and certain, which is a step in the right direction as far as I’m concerned.
I stand back and hold the door open. “I’m sure. I’ve very, very sure.”
The uncertainty on her face blooms into a smile that takes my breath away.
It’s possible I grip the edge of the door harder than necessary. How can someone just walk around, looking like that?
Stella steps into my house gingerly, like Alice stepping into wonderland. She wanders in the living room, eyes wide.
“Wow. You live here?”
“Yep,” I say, a little smugly. I know it’s an undeserved fluke of capitalism that I can afford a mansion while Stella is in a studio, but if it impresses her, I’m not arguing.
It is a nice house. The rooms are bright and open, and the back windows open up onto a yard that would be perfect for lazy summer evenings.
Granted, I don’t use it on lazy summer evenings. Or ever, really. I pretty much just sit on the couch and work.
But still. It’s a great house. It just needs more people in it.
“Did you just move?” Stella asks as she wanders into the kitchen, and starts opening cabinets.
Stella, it turns out, is a horrible snoop.
“No,” I answer. “I’ve been here for a year.”
“A YEAR?” Stella asks, and for some reason it comes out accusatory.
“Yes,” I say. I shift from foot to foot. “Why?”
“Because there’s nothing in it! You’ve got a couch, and a tv, and a coffee table that was probably old and scuffed in the eighties. And that’s it! No art. Nothing.”
I think that’s a little unfair. I have some very attractive wedding invitations on the fridge.
Stella waves her arms like a very sexy windmill. “You’ve got this amazing house and there’s nothing in it.”
“Look who’s talking,” I say.
“That’s different! I’m saving up for a drum set! You’re not saving up for anything. There is literally no reason for this house not to be gorgeously furnished.”
“Sure there’s a reason,” I say.
“And it is…?” She asks, eyebrow raised, hands on her hips.
“I don’t like shopping,” I admit.
Stella puts a hand to her chest like she’s having a heart attack.
“Oh come on, Duke says you don’t like shopping either,” I say, and then wish I hadn’t, because I don’t want to think about Duke today.
But the Duke mention doesn’t throw Stella at all.
“I don’t like shopping with my mother. There’s a difference. And I will admit, it’s not much fun when you’re broke either. But this …” Stella rubs her hands and looks around my house with a look that would alarm any southern man with survival instincts. “This will be fun.”
“What do you mean ‘this’?” I ask, trapping Stella against the counter in what I already know is a futile effort to distract her.
Still, a man’s got to try.
I lift her hair, and kiss that spot on her neck she likes, and when she gives a little gasp, I nudge her legs further apart with my knee.
“Wade, that’s not going to work—”
I cup her breast, scraping my thumbnail across her nipple, and she sucks in her stomach.
I bend down and take her mouth like it’s mine to take. She whimpers, and for a minute there I think I’ve won.
Then she leans back into the counter, breaking the kiss. I try to follow, but she places a finger over my lips.
“Wade St. George,” she says, and her scolding is breathy enough I feel it in my dick. “I do not care how hot you are, or how well you kiss. You need furniture. Plus, you owe me a bed, so we can kill two birds with one stone …”
Her words trail off as I gently bite her finger.
“You know, you were right,” I say. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
Her mouth parts and her eyes darken.
Huh. I thought the no underwear thing was only hot on women.
There is no end to the amount of things I’m learning from Stella. I dip my head to her wonderful, needy breasts, but Stella places a palm on my forehead and gives me a gentle shove back.
“No. Furniture shopping. Now,” she says, sternly. And—as I’m sure have many men before me—I concede that Stella Harrington has won.
“Fine,” I grumble, heading toward the stairs. “Let me put some real clothes on. Then we can go furniture shopping.”
“It’s for your own good!” she calls, and I make a yeah, yeah, yeah gesture with my hand.
“And, Wade?” Stella asks when I’m at the base of the stairs. I look over my shoulder, half expecting her to be holding up a shopping list already.
“Don’t bother with underwear.” Her smile is wicked, and half the blood in my brain relocates.
Something tells me furniture shopping with Stella is going to be a vast improvement over every prior shopping experience I’ve had
.
“Oh. This is the one,” Stella says, flopping down in a giant wing-backed leather armchair. She hits the arm of the chair for emphasis. “This. Is. The. One.”
Normally I avoid antique stores like the plague—even less efficient than normal shopping, plus all the furniture is for people way smaller than me—but Stella dragged me to High Point, which is apparently known for its antique shops.
So many antique shops.
But according to Stella, if I buy all my furniture at once in one place, I will look like “one of those douchebags who thinks a catalogue is a home.”
The obvious solution, to not buy a house worth of furniture in one day, does not seem to have occurred to her.
The chair swallows Stella up, so who knows, I might actually fit in it.
I scoop Stella up, and settle us both back into the chair in one fluid movement, with her on my lap.
She laughs and slaps my chest, but she makes no real effort to escape my arms.
“This is an antique! We’ll break the chair!”
“If it can’t hold us both, I don’t want it,” I say nobly, and she gives me a playful shove again. I capture her hands and kiss each wrist, and she softens sweetly in my lap.
I love the way I can make her soften. I love the way I can make her laugh. I don’t know if it’s knowing her for years, or sharing a hometown, or working side by side for weeks, or if it’s just her, just Stella, but it’s never been this easy with a woman.
It’s like I’m in one of those montages from those Home Sweet Home romantic comedies, and everything is suspiciously perfect, until the other shoe drops.
I shake the thought out of my head. There is no other shoe to drop. Stella really is this perfect. This fun.
And that’s all this is. We’re having fun. Discreet fun, so I don’t lose my best friend, and neither of us loses our professional reputations.
And hell, if at the end of it all I’ve got real furniture, and she’s got her dream job and higher standards for the next man she dates, then so much the better.
Of course, the thought of her dating someone else after me makes me want to hit something, but I shove the instinct away.
