Page 103 of Steamy Ever After

I wonder if Joe’s brought home a date and tentatively walk toward the living room, spotting him on the couch. He’s alone and I breathe out a soft sigh of relief.

His leg droops over the armrest, his arm hangs off the edge. He’s shirtless, too, a bowl of popcorn carefully balanced on his bare belly. I watch it rise and fall with his breath before moving it to the table, then take the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over him.

He looks so peaceful and handsome; I take a minute to appreciate the way his eyelids flutter and I smile, tucking the blanket up to his chin.

Joe stirs and slowly opens his eyes. “Honey… you’re home,” he says, his voice groggy and entirely too adorable.

“Yes, I’m home. Go back to sleep.” I turn away, but he reaches out and takes my hand. I give it an affectionate tap, but he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t want to sleep.” He tugs on my arm gently. “Sit, talk to me.”

With a sigh, I agree and sit down, sinking into the dip of his waist.

“How was the date?”

I doubt he really wants to know, but I answer anyway. “It was good. He’s nice. Funny.”

“And will there be a second date?”

I shrug, noticing how he traces the curve of my palm with his thumb. “I think so.”

He presses his lips together and drops my hand. “I can’t do this.”

Hurt that he can’t even show me affection, my stomach cramps. I lower my head, tucking my abandoned hand into my lap.

“I understand. You don’t need to pretend.”

“Pretend?” He sits up and frames my face with his hands, searching my eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I meant I can’t stand us not being together.”

The intensity of his gaze knocks the wind out of me. “But we agreed this was platonic.”

“I know what we agreed, but I can’t lie. All day I’ve been obsessing over you being out with that guy. And it bugs me so much because I don’t want to share you. With anyone. I don’t want us to make rules.”

“Joe, we’re roommates. We can’t?—”

His mouth crashes against mine, cutting me off, and his tongue slides over my lips without waiting for permission. But I give it all too willingly. I taste the tang of tonic, the botanical sweetness of gin.

He slides a hand behind my neck, pulling me closer, until I’m pressed against his warm, smooth, naked chest. I know I should fight him off and stop this from heading where it’s heading, especially when I’m pretty sure he’s not even sober. And yet, I have no control over my hands as they slide up his solid arms, feeling the strength of his strong biceps, the way his muscles cord beneath my touch.

With a deep, surrendering exhale, I push him until he’s lying back and I straddle his hips. His hands slide under my skirt where he palms my ass, squeezing with a moan as he kneads my flesh. I lower to kiss him, my lips traveling from his mouth over the sharp edge of his jaw and down his thick neck.

Beneath me, he grows hard, and I rock my hips, watching his eyes squeeze shut.

“Maybe you should go to sleep after all,” I tease, whispering into his ear.

“I’m not tired.”

“But maybe a little drunk?”

His eyes snap open, locking with mine. “I’m not drunk.” His grip shifts to my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin, pressing me down. It doesn’t hurt, but I sense his urgency, his need to have me close. “I want this. Don’t you?”

JOE

The pressure of her sitting on my lap, of my hips clutched between her thighs, lulls me into a state of deep relaxation.

“But maybe a little drunk?” she asks, and I realize my eyes are closed.

I throw them open. “I’m not drunk.”

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