Je t'aime, tu sais?

Jamie eased the door to Patrice's apartment open, slipping inside and pressing it closed behind her.
She took a deep breath.
It still smelt like his.
It still felt like his.
He just wasn't here.
Tomorrow... She thought to herself. Maybe he'll come home tomorrow...
There was a rustle on the couch, followed by the tiniest little noise of becoming awake, and Jamie breathed a sigh of relief, happy she wasn't alone.
"Sidney?" She whispered.
"Here," he grunted, his heavy fingers thudding against the couch as he rustled from his position, fumbling for the end table and eventually the light.
He flicked it on.
"What are you doing out here?" Jamie asked, de-shouldering the tote Emily had packed for her and gladly left with her. Her sister had had a feeling that she may want to spend the night at Patrice's, so she had packed her an extra set of undergarments and a new shirt and sweater combo.
After Gerard and Guill had arrived and talked at length with the doctors, the two newcomers relieved Emily, Andrew, and Brad of their duties as best friends and told them to take Jamie home. They wouldn't be allowed to see Patrice until the morning, anyway, and Gerard and Guill would wait up just in case, promising to contact her if anything changed.
It was three forty five in the morning.
Nothing had changed.
Sid threw his legs over the side of the couch, a blanket piled on top of his torso that wasn't doing a whole lot for his legs or feet. His socks had been taken off and stood in a tiny heap at the foot of the sofa. His back was massive and so were his arms, trimmest underneath his rounded shoulders before his tricep connected to the back meat of his bicep.
He had been sleeping.
"How's Patrice?" He asked, bending forward to collect his footies and slipping them over his toes, pale and hard-cornered. He stood and rubbed some sleep out of his eyes. She had never seen him without a baseball cap on. His hair was soft and slightly curvy. He looked so much younger with his deep chocolate eyes, plush lips and boyish hair.
"Sid, it's three am, why aren't you in bed?"
"I remade the bed; new sheets and all. His family's coming in to be with him, right?" He reasoned, bringing the blanket up to his chin and tucking it between his jaw and his chest. He folded it, or tried his best to. "He'll need both rooms. How is he?"
"Sid, where will you go?" She asked ignoring his question. Even if Patrice was unconscious somewhere in Mass General, he'd be displeased to know he was putting his guest out; Jamie helped him, several miles away, in anyway she could. Her hands found the back of an arm chair as she faced Sid.
"I have a room at the Fairmont booked no problem," he said, arranging his folded blanket, extremely lopsided on the back of the couch to the best of his ability. "I was only staying here in case they had discharged him and you needed help getting him into the house."
Then, it occurred to her.
Patrice, whether he knew it or not, was living his worst nightmare.
What had happened to Sid a few months ago had just happened to him.
He said he had to learn to walk again... his mom had to move in with him to help him get through the day... I don't want to be like that Jamie, I don't want that to happen to me... she remembered Patrice had told her less than a week ago, cuddled into her side, his face hidden, pressed half into a pillow, his one eye that was exposed unable to look at her.
She had consoled him and run her fingers through his hair repetitiously.
Her stomach seized in fear.
Sid knew the protocol for a brain scrambling concussion. Why hadn't Jamie thought to contact him earlier for peace of mind?
She sighed, frustrated with herself as the man in front of her played with a spot on his shirt, rubbing it with the nail of his pointer finger, his chin pushed down into his chest. Suddenly, he looked even younger and eager to help, eager to please.
"When does he come home? Have you seen him yet?" His gaze returned to the blanket he had attempted to fold, giving it an unimpressed look. He tried to readjust it a few more times.
"Sid..." she said, stepping around the arm chair and moving toward him. She wasn't sure what she was doing anymore. She was tired, stressed, and quite frankly, a bit lost. She grabbed his hands before she could think of anything else to do.
"Sid, you didn't have to do that. You don't have to do this," she said, gesturing to the door behind her, telling him he didn't have to go. She wasn't sure where he'd stay because surely Gerard and Guill would need to be here, with Patrice, but, he couldn't go.
Wait... She asked herself. What about me? ...Where will I go?
"Jamie," he said softly, smiling warmly. Jamie jumped, shaken from her private thoughts. Cautiously, Sid dropped her hands and asked with his eyes if he could move closer to her. She sighed, biting her lip, willing herself not to cry. She raised a palm to her forehead and propped herself up, shaking her head.
Sid moved his arms to hold her shoulders. His big hands helped her feel stronger. "Are his parents here? Someone from his family?"
"His dad and Guill, his brother," she answered, her head falling forward, resting on one of his enormous pecks. He was warm and calm. She welcomed the sensation.
"And he'll come home soon, right?"
"...I'm not sure, I don't know, Sid..." she whispered, her voice cracking and her hands rising to hide her face.
"Okay, okay, okay," Sid quickly said, slinging an arm around her shoulder, cautiously. "It's okay," he said softly, leading her towards Patrice's room.
He turned so their calves hit his soft navy blue comforter and they sat down together.
He gave her a minute to collect herself, and then gently rubbed up and down her bicep, his arm cradling her back; his fingers were so long they curved all the way around the side of her arm.
"Do you mind?" He asked, gesturing to where they were sitting with his free hand.
"About?" She sniffed, looking up at him. Since she started crying she had pulled a wad of paper towels from her white jeans pocket. Sid knew this wasn't the first set of tissues she had victimized tonight. He knew the feeling all too well.
"That I'm in here?" He clarified.
"No," she laughed, sniffing some more. "In fact I'm glad," she admitted, wrapping an arm around him, feeling safe for the first time all night.

All she knew was that she was tingling with a cold sensation.
She opened the door firmly and at the sight of him, left it agape.
"Oh Patrice!" She sobbed, dropping her things and bringing both of her hands to cover her mouth.
Gerard sat next to his bed, a chair pulled up close, bent forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands holding one another, suspended between them.
Guill immediately stood from his chair on the other side of Patrice, moving it away from the bed and rushing toward her.
She was crying so hard she couldn't move.
Guill urged her with his big hands, each on one of her arms, gently guiding her to his bedside.
Patrice sat reclined in his bed, a soft foam neck brace propping his head up, fat underneath his lean chin. He looked uncomfortable, not being able to move his head with his eyes, but his eyes were only half open, rimmed in deep purple circles.
His nose was swollen and he had clear tubes running along his cheeks depositing oxygen over his upper lip to aid in his labored breathing through his battered nose. A slice looked agitated, pulled together by bright green medical lace in little small "x"s, probably from where his visor had cut into the flesh on the bridge of his nose.
His arms hung loosely by his sides, his hands defeatedly piled in his lap.
His gown was the most putrid excuse for sky blue she had ever seen, and the thin, cheap hospital blankets molded to the shape of his bare legs beneath.
"He's fine, he's fine sweetheart," Guill cooed to her as they approached his bed. He was speaking in French, hoping she would pick up the hint.
English was hard for him right now.
"Oh Patrice," she whispered, barely audible as she reached his side, her fingers shaking as she touched his bicep and smoothed his forearm with her cold, worried hands. "Oh Patrice!" She cried, still hardly making any noise.
His eye lids quivered as they tried to look up and find her.
She felt so far away.
He ached.
They made eye contact and he closed them, painfully, and took a deep, unsteady breath.
"Here, sit Jamie," Guill said, easing a chair behind her.
Her mind flooded with things she wanted to say to him. About how she couldn't live without him, about how she couldn't sleep without him, about how she had forgotten to breathe when he hit the ice unconscious, about how so-goddamn-certain she was that he was the man for her, the man of her dreams, her man. And oh god did she want to be his. His everything, his anything, she didn't care. She just wanted to be his, forever.
She just loved him.
Undeniably and uncontrollably.
She loved kissing the back of his neck, she loved gripping the thick strands of his hair on either side of his head as she moved on top of him, she loved how perfectly he filled her and how she knew he loved it to by the way he sighed, she loved his skinny little legs in his silver suit, she loved his incredibly expensive black leather Nike Airforces and his Barbour jacket, she loved the white shag carpet in his living room and his mother's homemade salad dressing. She loved the small curve of his back where her arms rested so easily when she wrapped herself around him; her heels even fit perfectly there when she wrapped her legs around him in their most intimate of moments.
She loved his musk and the way his heat smelt from underneath his hockey pads. She loved that smirk he pulls to the left side of his lips before he says "I don't knoow aboot that," around the guys, his Canadian accent thick, his blush barely noticeable to anyone but her. She loved wrapping her fingers in the collars of whatever he was wearing and yanking him down for a surprise kiss, tongue included.
"Dad, come on," Guill said, nodding toward the door. He nudged Gerard's chair, insisting on giving Jamie the time and space to say whatever it is she had bottled up inside of her.
As the door shut behind them, Jamie was filled with that cold tingling again.
Patrice began to cry.
At first she didn't notice, but then she saw his lips press tightly together, fighting a frown, and then his nose scrunched up and he sharply inhaled with pain and then he softly choked out a sob and the tears streamed down his battered cheeks.
"Mon amour..." Jamie whispered, bringing her knees up underneath her on the chair, making her taller. She leaned her elbows on the side of his bed, holding his hand in both of hers.
"Oh mon amour, don't cry," she said, between her own tears. "Don't cry, baby," she whispered, shoulders shaking, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles repeatedly.
His tears were quiet, it was mostly his jerky breathing that gave him away, his eyes clamped shut and brimmed in wet.
"Patrice," she whispered, standing and gently sitting on the edge of his bed. His hand immediately traveled up her leg, holding onto her thigh, covered in black spandex.
Oh how she wanted to touch his face. She wanted to take him by the ears and press him to her breast. She wanted to tell him to cry until he had nothing left, like there was nothing to be ashamed of. She wanted him to cry unabashedly, to promise him she would tell no one; that he was safe with her. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her and shake all he needed, to tell her all of his secrets and fears.
He took a few gulps of air and attempted to settle himself.
He kept his eyes low, refusing to make eye contact with her.
Ashamed of himself.
She redirected his attention. "Does this hurt?" She asked, brushing the left side of his temple with her fingertips.
He nodded as best he could in the neck brace.
She quickly retracted her hand, apologizing in her whispered French, her fingertips moving to touch his chin, bristled with a day's worth of beard.
"Not you," he mumbled, his jaw movement restricted. "Always," he said, expending a massive amount of energy to lift her hand to his chest, closer to him.
"Patrice," she whispered, leaning forward and giving him both her hands. She grabbed his other one and held them to his chest, tracing along his collar bone and smoothing his gown over his peck adoringly. The physical closeness seemed to help him, so she gently placed his hands back in his lap and held them with one of hers, rubbing along his torso and chest with her others until his breathing settled and his tears slipped down his cheeks less frequently.
"Where you there?" He croaked after a few minutes, opening his eyes to finally look at her.
A quick memory flashed through her head: her and Patrice standing outside of his Audi, him with his hands in the air asking "When did we get to make out?!", their kiss goodbye (tongue included), dinner with the girls, the American national anthem, him winning puck drop, Randy Jones...
He didn't remember any of it.
"Yes, mon amour," she said, nodding. His eyes were red and tired, his pupils dilated with drugs and an earth shaking concussion. "Yes I was, I saw it happen, Love," she told him, honestly. She'd have to answer these difficult questions for him. It'd be part of her job.
He closed his eyes and tears squeezed through their cracks once again. He bared his teeth in frustration, sucking air through them in pain as he tried to bow his head but couldn't.
"Mon amour," she purred, pulling a small travel package of Kleenex out of her pocket. She fumbled with the wrapper and pulled one out. She dabbed his bruised cheeks, carefully bending over him to kiss above his ear, far away from the site of impact and any of his bruising and stitches.
His concussion had been sustained in the front part of his head.
According to doctors he'd experience memory loss and a great range of emotion.
She didn't care, as long as he was awake.
"Don't talk Patrice, shh honey," she said, still crying as she dabbed at his face and he pawed at her elbows with his hands, almost lifelessly, as if a child seeking comfort.
"Ok, ok," she whispered, dropping the tissue and finding his hands with hers. She held them tightly and he pulled her toward him as best he could. She eagerly bent forward, her face close to his. He tilted his head towards her and she bit her lip to keep from crying out loud when she discovered he wanted a kiss but didn't possess the strength to pucker or ask for one.
"Oh mon amour," she breathed through her tears, gently pressing her lips to his, careful to avoid bumping noses, her hands gently pressed to his chest.
He groaned through their wet kiss.
"I'm so tired..." he whispered onto her lips, salty with their tears.
"I know babe, I know baby," she whispered back.
"So tired..."
"I know Love, I know," she assured him, sinking back into her sitting position next to him on the bed. She cupped his cheek and traced a tear away from his face as he closed his eyes, still in pain.
"Sleep my prince, sleep..."

Jamie stirred the spoonful of peanut butter into the plain oatmeal, her frustration grinding somewhere deep in the rotation of her shoulder and her death grip on the spoon.
Somewhere behind her, a nurse's call for someone fell on deaf ears on the silence of Patrice's floor in the trauma unit.
A dinner cart with a squeaky wheel lulled by.
"Okay," she breathed, mostly to herself. She pocketed her jar of Jiff in her trusty hospital tote, swearing to never tell Patrice he had ingested some of the most sugary peanut butter on the planet, and collecting the cardboard bowl of warm oatmeal in her hands, stepping away from the hot water and coffee maker in the waiting room, headed back to room 36C.
Stepping sideways through the open door, she entered his room.
Guill stood with his back to them, a poised hand in his pocket, looking out the window and speaking in French with Sylvie in a hushed voice.
Patrice sat in bed in the same position she had left him in a few moments before to make him some dinner.
Jamie had spent all day at the hospital after Guill had risen her at seven this morning saying Patrice was awake. She was very emotional when she first saw him, but had since disallowed herself such a luxury unless alone in the bathroom. Gerard had returned to Patrice's apartment to get some rest, and Guill was running off of zero sleep.
"Here we go, mon amour," Jamie said softly, making to sit on the edge of Patrice's bed like she had this morning, facing him. She had spent all day with him, her and Guill cuddled up on those uncomfortable armchairs the hospital provides that kick out into almost-dorm-sized beds. Patrice had slept four hours in the morning, woken up to be sick at lunch, and had just risen in time for dinner, which Jamie had a sinking feeling he wouldn't want.
"Jamie... I don't want..." he moaned, making a face and closing his eyes.
"No, baby?" She asked gently, placing the spoon back in the makeshift dish and leaning forward to kiss the side of his chin.
"Nooo," he moaned, frustratedly. "Please," he begged, looking at her with tired eyes as she sat back and made for the spoon again. "Don't make me."
She didn't have anything to say in rebuttal, so she finagled her fingers through the opening in the back of his gown that she had pulled towards his hip and gently traced her fingers along the warmth of his stomach.
His eyes lazily shut with a sigh.
"I feel hungover," he groaned.
Jamie giggled.
"That's nice," he softly said.
"What's nice?" She asked. "This?" She rounded her palm, now warm with his body heat, around his hip, further away from him again as she had done before. She rubbed his chest and stomach whenever she could, just to constantly remind him she was there and he was being well taken care of, but she couldn't help but notice just how soft his skin was, how smooth it rose and fell over his lean musculature and bones. Now she wondered if she did it just to reassure herself.
"No... your laugh," he said, lifting his hand, connected to an IV to keep him hydrated, blindly looking to smooth the pad of his index finger over her lips.
She smiled uncontrollably, leaning forward to meet his hand and kissing his fingers.
She held his hand, letting his oatmeal rest in his lap, warming him. She kissed his knuckles and fingertips.
"I love you, Patrice. So much," she smiled, still pressing her lips to his hand. He groped for her fingers, holding her tight, his eyes still too tired to reopen.
"I love you," he whispered back, holding her thumb for support. "Just don't make me eat anything."

Emily huffed, her mug of tea hitting the granite countertop with a little more force than originally intended as her deep breathing exercises were cut short by a curt knock at the door.
"Coming," she groaned, trotting the short expanse around the pillar that held the breakfast bar which separated the kitchen from the small dining room, making her way toward the front door of her and Jamie's.
The door swung open to reveal sea glass colored eyes and a timid looking Gregory Campbell.
His pupils focused, as if he hadn't been expecting to be so close to her so soon. He was relieved she had opened the door and at the very same time wished he could take back the knock, stuff his hand back in his down vest pocket, ride the elevator back below to the ground floor, throw the hot, half sheet of lasagna in the trash can outside their apartment complex and stalk back home, but instead, he said: "Hey."
"Hi," she breathed, her frustration flooding away through her nostrils. Was she happy to see him, or...? She couldn't tell. She wasn't annoyed though, like she had been less than a second ago. "Uh, what are you doing here?"
"Oh, uh, sorry. I uh, I brought you this," he said, handing her the lasagna, big enough to feed her and Jamie for a week, small enough to tide someone like him over until second helpings were dished out.
Emily reached to take the silver foil tray, looking at him with an eyebrow raised.
"You know, I didn't really know the situation--with Patrice--and even if he's not here, with Jamie or you guys, I figured she wouldn't have a lot of time to cook, and, I dunno, it might be nice to have something ready for a quick meal..."
Emily's face fell, her defenses down momentarily.
"Thanks Greg," she said, sincerely. She guessed she wasn't that upset to see him. That was really sweet, right?
Was she sweating?
Yikes, she thought to herself.
She needed to gain control of the situation again.
"Yeah, I... I dunno," he said, shrugging, lifting his hands at his wrists to stuff them back in his pockets. "I just--"
"Do you want to come in?" She offered, standing back from the door frame and pointing her thumb over her shoulder.
"I... uh..." He thought aloud, his hand reaching to pinch the skin at the back of his neck. "Yeah, would you mind?" He had come all this way with something on his mind, so, coming in made sense.
"I invited you, Greg," she laughed, giving his vest a tug as his body seemed to wake from its dream as he slipped inside of the apartment. Within a few seconds he stepped out of his L.L. Bean duck boots, the leather red to match his black and red flannel/black down vest combo, and scanned the familiar entrance, the open living room to the left with the skyline of Boston, and the kitchen/dinning room combo to the right. His eyes fell to rest on the hallway she had pinned him up against the back wall of, shoving her tongue down his throat to keep exactly what he had planned on saying today deep down inside of him merely two days ago. He couldn't help it, her body was so small and fit him in all the right places and he was so lonely and she was so willing and hungry... he had given in when she allowed him to move his hands over her spandex clad ass and had encouraged him to pick her up by hooking her knee over his hip. He did so, groaning as her body slid up along the crotch of his pants and she told him which direction her room was in and between all the moaning and panting he never got to tell her what exactly the reason was for his visit in the first place.
That's most of the reason why he was here today. The lasagna was a nice gesture, and he had been worried about Patrice, but it was mostly a decoy. He had to talk to her.
He gulped.
That hallway, though.
And that ass.
"Greg?"
"Sorry," he breathed, lifting a hand to his forehead and blushing madly. He stood across the breakfast bar from her so she couldn't work her magic on him. A certain brush of her hair, a trace of her finger along the camel color of his pants... he wouldn't be able to hold back again.
"I said 'thank you' again," she laughed, looking mischievously over the mug of her tea at him.
"Oh," he cast his eyes down. "Uh, do you know how Bergy's doing?"
"He's been awake off and on today. Took him a while to get back to speaking English."
"Fuck, really?" He asked, eyes wide. People got creamed all the time in the NHL, but most guys tended to ignore the repercussions, letting their imaginations dream up how bad it really was so they wouldn't have to face the harsh reality of really knowing. Ignorance was bliss, right?
Just don't get boarded.
Emily loved it when he swore, mostly because she had only heard the curse muttered under his breath in bed either when he would first push into her or as he came, his teeth unable to hang onto his bottom lip anymore. She purposefully burnt the roof of her mouth with her tea to keep her mind from straying too dirty.
The truth was, she was incredibly attracted to him and knew she could overpower him. Was she taking advantage of him? Maybe. But she felt safe knowing he could and would never take advantage of her.
She apologized in her mind to the rest of the male species.
Marc had really fucked things up for them.
"Yeah... he's bouncing back though. I haven't seen him but I heard he looks like shit. His nose is bashed in and he has black eyes."
"Fuck..."
"You gotta stop saying that," Emily instructed him, setting her mug of tea down and giving him a warning look. Before she could stop herself she was already doing it, already courting him.
It was like a nasty habit she couldn't kick.
That and she knew he wanted to talk to her about something. Greg was the kind of guy to ask to define the relationship. Couldn't they just fuck?
"Oh, sorry," he said, confusedly, albeit visibly worried.
"It's really hot," she laughed, biting her lip and flirtatiously turning away from him and to the fridge, her loose racerback tank swaying, wrapping itself around her thin frame and then loosening right after, just giving him a tease of a peak.
It certainly piqued his interest.
Greg took a moment to brace himself, leaning forward with his palms flat on the cold granite. He hung his head and relaxed his jaw, moving the lower half side to side. He didn't come here to get laid... he came here to ask her what they were doing.
But, if she told him what they were doing... maybe they could wind up in bed, yeah? That's all he wanted, right? Was to make sure they were both on the same page, and he didn't even really care which one, as long as they were both aware of it...
She turned around with a carton of milk and he straightened up immediately.
"Sorry if that was blunt," she said, a little embarrassed, screwing the top off to pour a few drops in her black tea. "I was just being honest."
"Can I be honest for a second?" He asked, before he could stop himself. He had even risen a finger, gesturing as if to bolster his voice. He was fairly certain she had the upper hand, but what he had to say was important. Especially to him.
Then maybe they could fuck.
Because goddamn was she hot and he was so sitting at home an hour ago thinking about Meghan.
"Uhm, sure," she said, giving him her typical skeptical look, an eyebrow raised. She twisted back to the fridge and replaced the carton.
"I uh, I don't really do... this..." he said, waving his hand back and forth between the two of them, separated by the breakfast bar.
"What?" She asked, her eyebrow raised as she took a sip of tea. She was going to make him say it; to make him say whatever was on his mind.
"This... uh, us..." He clarified to no avail.
"What are we?" She asked, smirking, knowing that was indeed his question and beating him to it.
"Yes, yes, what are we?" He said, a bit relieved, his hand falling to the granite. He leaned forward on his palms.
His shoulders were wide and inviting. The tension between them rose dramatically as he sucked his lips between his teeth in wait.
"I dunno..." she said, putting her tea down and mimicking his position with the mug between her hands. She gave him a smile, playing demure. "What are we?"
"I dunno!" He said, exasperatedly. "I don't do this kind of thing, I don't sleep around--"
"Oh, so you're sleeping around?" She said, taken aback.
"What--no! Not like that--"
"Then how?"
"Ugh!" He groaned, frustratedly, lifting his hands to cover his face. "I don't, uh, I don't have sex casually--even though I'm only having casual sex with one person," he said, showing her his pointer finger, a single digit in value. "I don't have casual sex," he said, finally finding what he meant.
Emily took a sip of tea, giving him a chance to explain.
"I like... I like being with you," he said with a hand motion, gesticulating he meant intimately, in bed, "but, I feel like I don't know you, and, it feels kind of weird. And, I uh, I dunno. I'm not used to it... I guess... I want to know what we are? Like, what's going on here?"
He was met with silence.
Emily's mug clinked as she sat it back down on the granite and looked at him with bright green eyes.
She shrugged.
"Well, yeah," he mimicked her, a little frustrated now. "What's that mean?" He asked, shrugging back at her again.
"I dunno, Greg!" She laughed, shrugging again. "I didn't know everything had to have a label Can't people just sleep together?!" She barked a laugh. The heat in the apartment was rising.
"Ok so are we just sleeping together?" He clarified, palms raised in question.
"Oh is there something else you want?" She asked, her hands flying through the air.
"No! I never said that!"
"Oh, so you just want to bed me?"
"Wh--that's... that's what you said! I never said that! I was asking what we were doing!"
"Well what do you want to do, then?!"
"I dunno, I dunno, I don't just sleep around!"
"Oh, all the options you must have!" She said, exasperatedly, throwing her arms in the air as if to imagine thousands of women.
"Oh, come on! I came over here to ask you on a date!"
"Oh did you? Did you Campbell?" She asked, putting her hands on her hips in mock disbelief.
"Yeah, I did!" He said, leaning forward, pressing his palms into the granite again. He smirked although the situation was tense, thinking he had regained control.
"Well, I don't want to go on a date with you," she said, taking up her mug of tea and making her way out of the kitchen.
His jaw hit the floor.
"What?" He asked, mirroring her walk toward the pillar.
They met face to face.
"I don't want to go on a date with you," she said, enunciating every word.
Gregory looked at her, dumbfounded.
Was he being manhandled, right now?
Was he being hustled.
"Is that alright with you?" She asked, raising an eyebrow as she took a sip of her tea.
"I, uh... uh... okay," he forced from between his lips.
"I'm not looking for a boyfriend, Greg," she said, flattening her palm against his vest. In one second she collected the material beneath her fingers in passionate grasp, and then she flattened them against the down of his chest. "I'm looking for a fuck buddy," she said seriously, looking into his eyes and giving him a shove.
But he was quick.
He stalled for just a moment in a backwards lunge and then pulled himself forward again, grabbing Emily's hips and adhering them to the front of him as she "oomf"ed, only to immediately turn her chin and unlock her jaw, allowing him to flatten her against the kitchen pillar and infiltrate her mouth with his tongue.
Her hand quickly rounded one of her breasts, his thumb dragging along the top of it, feeling her hard nipple press against the bright pink material of her racerback and she moaned and he laughed into her mouth, satisfaction grumbling up through his torso.
Did he just lose the battle?
He wasn't really sure.
He had wanted to take her on a date, that's for sure, but, it sure was a lot less complicated just to sleep together... Maybe he didn't always have to do everything like a gentleman, especially when he was being presented with the opportunity to--no, ushered into not being a gentleman.
"Get rid of this," she instructed him, shoving her half full mug of tea at him as his lips disconnected from hers and he sunk on his knees a little, attacking her throat.
"Yes ma'am," he said, taking the mug from her and placing it on the bar behind her.
She hooked her knee over his hip and he grumbled excitedly, yet again. He ran a hand down along her ass, clad in trusty spandex, yet again, and held her leg up at the bottom of her thigh.
"My room's to the right," she whispered in his ear, her teeth taking his lobe between them when she'd finished breathing hot onto his neck.