Page 17 of The Couch Where It Happens

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

To the laundry room, and close the door on that shit, but the detour whittled her preparation time down to about seven more minutes. At least she smelled fucking delicious, vanilla and orange, like one of those drizzled breakfast rolls. She found the good underwear, a sweet pair of pink panties with a little white bow on the front and high-cut legs that fit exactly perfectly over her ass, and a pink bra, one that was lacy enough she never wore it on regular days. Which meant, honestly, she hadn’t worn it in months.

No time left, so she grabbed a light green sundress that had a tight bandeau style top, short puffy sleeves that would cover her bra straps, and a skirt that stopped midthigh.

Done.

Her pulse pounded from picking out clothes. She needed to get herself under control, or Hank would flee the minute he saw her crazy chicken act. Shrek wanted Fiona, remember,Fiona,with her beautiful voice and her smooth hair, not Donkey.

Brushing her hair and trying to time the strokes with her breathing restored a tiny bit of calm.

The brush was still in her hand when she heard the doorbell. Her reaction felt Pavlovian, a full-body alert that made her feel taller, faster, sparklier.

“Coming.” She walked, but did not run, to the door. Maybe a fast walk, but not a trot.

She could glimpse parts of him through the small glass squares vertically inset into one side of the door. Nobody else blotted out as much porch light as he did. Knowing her Sunday cinnamon bun of a guy was there on the other side started the flutters in her chest again.

And then the door was open, and she was staring at him, and he was staring back, and neither of them spoke. He wore game-day khakis and a white polo shirt. His belt—a belt—had a shiny buckle that emphasized how, despite his size, the flat-front khakis were indeed flat across his stomach because this was an impressive man of impressive manly size and performance capability.

“Too much?”

She shook her head. Too many clothes, sure, because she wanted them off, but nottoo much.

Thank the divine goddess of maybe-probably-most-likely-getting-laid, she’d put on the good underwear. “Come in.”

He stepped over the threshold and into the hall, like he had a thousand times before, and closed the door. For the first time, his hands cupped her shoulders and pulled her against his body, and she thought of nothing but Hank. This time, he lowered his face to hers and she had already tilted her head back, already parted her lips, already closed her eyes.

“Emma.” His mouth touched hers. His lips were so soft. So perfect. His scent, like a shower of yummy ocean breeze manliness, filled her when she inhaled, and that breath pushed her chest even closer to him, and she didn’t think she’d ever exhale if it meant falling away from him.

Her hands found his shoulders at the same time his arms surrounded her, cradling her against the brick wall of his chest, and then his mouth worshipped hers, and his lips parted around her upper lip, a perfect pressure to entice her while the tip of his tongue skated across like a butterfly. She felt so tiny with him, and he was so gentle. When he lifted her hair out of the way and touched her neck, the rough pads of his fingers stretched from behind her ear to cover what felt like all the open skin exposed by her square neckline, all the way to the edge of her puffy sleeve. His other hand cradled the back of her head while he kept kissing her, kissing her like she was his very delicate, very perfect, very special world.

This was the best first kiss since the invention of the kiss.

But he must stop being so freaking gentle.

“Hank.” She grabbed the back of his skull. “Your hair feels so good.” That velvet-shorn hair was as soft under her fingers as she had known it would be, and she wanted to rub the fuck out of his head and use this dark velour all over her breasts and thighs like it was a fucking shower sponge. Later, she’d demand to feel this gorgeous soft bristle on her body, but right now, she needed to be crushed.

Her teeth grazed Hank’s plump lower lip, a bit harder than she’d intended, so she wiggled her tongue over the spot, and he got the idea and parted his lips for her. Mint, when she slipped her tongue in to meet his, a minty-mint-mint man, that’s what he was. She was going to get as close to him as was humanly possible with her tongue and with the rest of her as soon as he got a fucking clue and gave her what she wanted. He’d better start thrusting against her and imprinting himself onto her being, because right damn now, she needed to feel all of him. Her nipples were so hard, and they begged to be touched, but his hands were fixed at her head and shoulder, and it wasn’t even close to enough.

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and it was like squeezing a fence post. But he moved when she tugged, and she shifted his palm and fingers to her chest. “More, Hank.”

Then he understood.

He pinned her to the wall and gave her exactly what she wanted: to be crushed by him. Her toes scrabbled to walk up his smooth pants until he had his grip on her butt and lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his hips. Fuck gravity and fuck their height difference and fuckher, he held her in the air with her back against the wall. He never stopped kissing her while she spread her thighs wider, and he angled their bodies to fit. His hands slipped under her dress, and one of them curled around the back of her leg, heating her bare skin, to align her in the perfect position. She could feel everything, from his metal buckle imprinting her thigh to the press of his erection on her opening and every burning finger that marked her skin. Everything.

“Can I stay with you?” He chuckled into her neck. The vibrations from his chest rubbed her nipples and caused her pussy to pulse against him.

“What?” She was too dazed to process his question, so she opened her eyes.

He lifted his head and grinned at her. His eyes sparkled.

“Can I stay with you, please?” He sounded sped up and twangier than usual, and then he dropped his face into her loose hair.

She thought he attempted to snort.

Holy shit, he’s doing Donkey.

“Of course.” Her voice sounded exactly as husky as a woman held up against a wall being dry humped through her clothes should sound.

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