Page 5 of The Couch Where It Happens

They were bending forward now, Hank closer to her, and the couch digging into her pelvis where she was thrusting on it, or he was thrusting her onto it, she didn’t know exactly, but it was hot and fast and kind of noisy, all creaking furniture and floorboards under their feet, punctuated by her moans and his panting. If she wiggled herself backward, maybe she could hitch herself up his leg, get his knee between her thighs, but he kept thwarting her. His hand rubbing her lower back forced her away, when she really needed him to slide that hand around to her hip and hold her so she could ride his thigh.

In the darkness behind her closed eyelids, a whole fucking movie wrote itself. In her mind, he would slide that hand over her hip and down to her mound and let her feel those fingers where she really needed them. He would also put a hand under her shirt and unhook her bra and palm her breasts and his mouth would be on her neck and then his other hand, because in her dream he had many, many hands, would—

His foot slid farther between hers at the same moment she pushed back toward him, and their bodies converged fully.

Holy shit.Hank had an erection. Firm and confirmed, no doubt about it.

Behind her, he froze.

She didn’t move either. The pressure nuzzling between her buttocks didn’t hint at a twitchy half-mast autopilot thing, but a full-on blazing erection that was trying to raise her to her tiptoes all by itself. A fucking old-growth cedar had sprouted behind her, and she was totally ready to nest on that.

The moment had to change; of course, it had to, even if she didn’t want either of them to move until she’d had more time nearly suspended on his beam.

He dropped his arm and retreated, leaving her with her hands in the air and teetering enough that she had to once again grab the back of the couch.

Shit.She’d ruined their friendship and was here with her butt poking out into the empty space behind her. She was so fucking stupid.

“Better?” Inconceivably, his voice wavered while he crouched to scoop up her empty bottle and his can.

Worse.

Because she didn’t trust her voice, she nodded. She wasn’t sure her mouth was fully closed, wasn’t sure she could breathe through her nose or even move her legs, so she nodded again, but he remained huddled near the floor and probably couldn’t see her agreement.

She could have reached out to stroke his hair. It looked so velvety. She wanted to run her open hand over it and change the direction and see if the ends tickled her palm. She wanted to feel that hair on her skin, specifically on her inner thighs. There was so much of Hank she wanted to touch and feel.

He straightened and was heading for the stairs before she managed to croak out a question. “Umm, you want the usual tonight?” Her voice cracked because she sure as hell could think of a few things she wanted tonight that weren’t the onion-peppers-sausage combo and Caesar salad.

He kept walking. “Have to go.”

This was her fault that he was embarrassed, all her fault.

“Sure.” She followed him. “Another time, then.” She felt even stupider about what had happened a few minutes ago and knew her shoulders were inching back toward her ears, and she couldn’t seem to stand straight.

He looked over his shoulder from the landing. “I’m modeling.”

“Oh, right.” Not a date, just taking everything off and standing still to let a dozen people study him and draw pictures of naked Hank. “You’re doing that again?”

He shrugged and disappeared around the corner. “It’s like yoga, at least for me.”

“Naked yoga.” She said it quietly, so hopefully, he hadn’t heard.

By the time she made it down, he’d disappeared into the kitchen with the empties, so she lingered by the front door until he came back. She was in danger of looking like the dejected puppy she felt like if she didn’t get herself together.

He returned with his backpack over one shoulder. “So.”

“Yeah.” She dropped her gaze from his face to where he tugged at the neckband of his shirt. His neck was like a tree trunk. Kind of like his cock, but she really couldn’t–shouldn’t–wouldn’t think about that. For a moment, she imagined a tree that looked like Hank planted in her garden, towering over the rhododendrons and lace-leaved Japanese maples, giving her shade and sheltering adorable squirrels and birds, nurturing her home exactly the way he always came over to lend her a hand. She wanted to draw him. It had been years since she’d picked upher charcoals or even a dark 6B drawing pencil. Her art practice had been one of many losses.

“I used to enjoy sketching. Maybe when the bed and breakfast is running smoothly, I’ll take the class you model for.”

“No!” There was no way to misinterpret his raised eyebrows and darting gaze. Panic, pure panic, flared off big old cinnamon roll Hank. “Don’t—I mean, I don’t think—I don’t think you’d enjoy—”

She forced out a noise that at least sounded like a laugh in her imagination. Half the middle-aged white-lady hobby artists in this city must have seen him pose, seen those thighs and arms, and Hank was happy to do it for them, but apparently, not for her. Never for her. So be it.

She wiped her hands on her shorts. “I’m sorry, by the way. I shouldn’t have…”Shit.

There was no way she could really say what she was sorry for out loud, but she had to try. “It was an accident, the touching. I didn’t mean to…”

Liar.She was such a fucking liar, and he must know it too. She’d wanted to plaster herself all over him. Even if he might not have realized, she couldn’t forget that she’d lost herself enough to try tugging his arm toward her breasts.

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