Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (38 page)

The first thing Nico did after our embrace was cover me with his suit shirt. The second thing he did was pick me up and carry me off the stage.

The crowd
continued to applaud, hoot, and holler like moonshine drunk corn farmers. He ignored the thunder of their approval and, instead, kissed me as he carried me. I didn’t notice much; all I wanted to see was him. I was still crying a bit, but the tears were caused by laughter and relief, good tears.

Less than a minute later we were in his dressing room
, and he kicked the door shut with his foot. He turned, set me down and pressed me against the door. His hands lifted to my face, and the pads of his thumbs wiped away the watery tracks.

“
Where did you come from? How did you get up on the stage?”

I opened my mouth to respond; however, before I could, he kissed me.
Nico pulled me against him, his large hands moved into the suit shirt and gripped my bare waist. Abruptly, he retreated, his eyes flashing like fireworks. “Why? Why did you do that?”

Then,
once more leaving me no time to respond, he kissed me again. His tongue swept into my mouth, covetous and demanding. Nico greedily pressed his hard lines against my soft curves, pushed me against the door. His roughness was inexorably overpowering; my limbs and brain became useless against the ravenous assault.

Thankfully,
he held me in place with his body, his knee between my legs; otherwise I might have dissolved into a puddle of wanton woman on the floor.

“Why didn’t you just
 . . .”
kiss
“. . . have them . . .”
kiss
“. . . tell me . . .”
kiss
“. . . that you were here?”
kiss
.

Interrogating
me and kissing me in intervals, I had difficulty comprehending or following his questions. His hands were everywhere, as though checking to confirm I was real. My hands were also everywhere because, damnit, he felt good.

“The guy
 . . .”
kiss
“. . . with the headphones . . .”
kiss
“. . . said that he had no way . . .”
kiss
“. . . to let you know . . .”
kiss
“. . . that we were here.”

Nico lifted his head, his eyes hazy even as they searched mine. His hand was under
the shirt, absentmindedly caressing me through the lace of my bra. I moaned.

“What guy with headphones?”

My response was breathless. “We saw him outside the studio. Long brown hair, in his forties maybe—”

“Was he wearing a flannel shirt?”

“Yeah. That’s him.” I arched against him, pressed myself into his palm.

“That son
of a bitch.” Nico paired his language choice with an acrid smile.

“What?”

“That’s my producer, Larry. I—” He hesitated, stole another kiss. “First of all, we moved up the taping schedule today because I was going to fly back to Chicago tonight.” Nico paused, his eyes examining my face. “I had to see you. You need to know, you must know, as long as you’ll have me I’m yours. God, Elizabeth—” he grimaced as though in pain and his hands tightened on my body, “—I’ve been going crazy, every day, you’re all I think about. When I close my eyes you’re all I see. I need you—” he brushed a soft, lingering kiss against my mouth, “—I love you.”

“Oh.” My face crumpled a little
, and my heart expanded until my chest felt full. “Nico . . .”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there
.”

“And I’m sorry I was so awful to you. I’m sorry for everything.”

His eyes were twinkling and dreamy. I lost myself for a moment in their depths then realized he was speaking again.

“Wait, what?”

His eyes narrowed teasingly. “I said, Larry could’ve easily told me you were here. I wear an earpiece while on stage. He must’ve seen an opportunity for a ratings stunt.”

“He also said you wouldn’t be off stage for another ninety minutes
, but it’s only been thirty or so.”

“I’m going to kill him. What a bastard.”

“Let’s plot his death later. I have to leave in seven minutes if I’m going to make it back to Chicago in time.”

Nico blinked at me. M
y words had an immediate sobering effect. “You have to go back? Tonight?”

I nodded. “I have to get back for the infusion
, and I have and late-night shift.”

“No
.” He shook his head. “No, no, no—why are you going to work? Shouldn’t you be taking time off?”

I stroked his back
, loved that I could touch him. I never wanted to take that for granted. “It’s okay. I’m really fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His brow
pulled into a deep V. “Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

“
I have a plan.”

His frown intensified. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“I’m going to—” I cleared my throat, firmed my voice. “I’m going to see someone, a psychiatrist, a friend of Sandra’s. And I’m going to cut back on double shifts.”

“For how long?”

“The next two weeks.”

Nico
considered me, mulled over this information. “I’m glad you’re going to see someone. That’s really good. But, you just went through something extremely stressful. Don’t you think you need some time off?” He didn’t look convinced.

“Well,” I continued, brought the back of my hand to his stomach, brushed my knuckles against his
bare skin. “I’m going to ask for a few days off.”

Finally his eyes brightened. “Ok
ay. Good. That’s good.”

“I’m glad you approve.”
I cupped his cheeks, brought his face to mine a placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I have six minutes left.”

“I can’t leave till after the next taping.”
His eyes moved between mine. After a moment his forehead fell to my shoulder. “Damn. This sucks.”

“Yes
, I agree.”

“I thought
 . . .” His voice was muffled by my neck. He placed a wet kiss just under my ear, making me shiver. “I wanted to explain, about Friday. I thought I’d scared you, Friday morning, when I told you what I wanted, when I told you I wanted to marry you. I pushed you into this, I know that, but I shouldn’t have left angry. I should have waited until we had time to talk, come to an agreement.”

“You over
reacted.”

He nodded. “I did.”

“It’s okay.” I waited until he met my gaze before continuing, “In case you haven’t noticed, I am an expert on overreacting. You’re forgiven as long as you forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For the multitude of mistakes I’ve made as well as the ones I haven’t made yet. There will be many. It’s my talent, making mistakes. My expertise is overreacting and my talent is making mistakes.”

“Well, then, we have that in common.”
His mouth tilted in a sheepish smirk.

I glanced at the ceiling; our nookie window was c
losed. But, that was okay. There were nights and nights and days and nights of nookie ahead of us. I threaded my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Do you
—” I cleared my throat. “Do you still want to marry me?”

“Oh god, yes.” He kissed me again,
unhurried, measured, for a full minute. Upon separating we both sighed.

“
You need to know, about that morning when you asked me to marry you, I wasn’t scared so much as surprised. I—” I held him tighter, spoke to his lips. “I haven’t thought about getting married, spending my life with someone, not since I was fifteen.”

He nuzzled my neck. “Like having kids?”

“Like having kids.”

Haltingly,
he pulled away—but not completely; Nico wrapped a possessive arm around my waist and led me to the couch. He sat first then pulled me to his lap; my knees were on either side of him, my arms draped over his shoulders. A twinkly, content gaze caressed my face.

He looked happy
, and I realized that I was also happy. I smiled. It was a stupid, blissful smile. I was in goofy-love.

“So
 . . . what now?” I nipped his juicy bottom lip.

“Now?”
Nico tugged me closer until our chests were flush; he brushed his lips against mine. “Now we have a lot to discuss.”

“Discuss?”

“Yes. Lots of discussions.”

“And touching? Lots of touching too?”

“Yes. Lots of that. Discussions and touching.”

“And stroking?”

He grinned, his eyes now smoldering lethally. “Rest assured, there will be touching of all kinds. A virtual cornucopia of touching. A touching feast.”

“
Good. Then what?”

“T
hen we get married, then a lot more touching and maybe less discussions for a while.”

“I have
four-and-a-half minutes left before I have to leave. Do you want to start now?”

“
Yes. First, you need to learn how to pronounce my last name—”

“Ok
ay. That seems fair.”

“—since it’ll be your last name soon.”

“What? No. I’m not changing my last name. Not going to happen.”

“Ne parleremo più tardi
[35]
.”

A
aand my honorary Italian lady parts stood at attention.

“Ah! Nico!
” I sucked in a sharp breath, “You’re not allowed—”

“Ok
ay, okay. No more Italian.” He petted me, his hands under the suit shirt. His movements were deliberate, a fondling stroke from my back to my bottom; then he squeezed. “For now.”

I glowered at him, attempted to
repress my rioting lady parts. “So what’s the next item on the list?”

“We need to discuss our arrangement.”

“We have an arrangement?”

“Yes. We have an arrangement. Our
Friends Without Benefits arrangement.”

“Oook
ay. I thought that we were—I thought—I mean we’ve—”

“We haven’t officially ended the arrangement.”

“But we
are
getting married.”

“Yes. We are.
Therefore, I think we should officially end our Friends Without Benefits arrangement and replace it with a new Friends With Benefits arrangement.”

“A Friends
With
Benefits arrangement?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm . . .” I eyeballed him. “What kind of benefits?”

“All benefits. A full, from A to Z, benefits arrangement. In sickness and in health. Nothing held back.”
As though to emphasize his point he kissed my chest.

“So
 . . . you’ll let me borrow your T-shirts?”

“Yeah
, sure.”

“And you’ll make me more mixtapes about us?”

He lifted a single brow; eye-twinkle-twinkle-little-star alert. “You finally caught on to that, did you? You wicked creature . . .”

I couldn’t suppress my grin
, but continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “And I’ll knit you scarves.”

“Ok
ay. I like scarves. Can you make me one with Space Invaders?”

“
Of course. I’m a really good knitter.”

“
I know.”

“And you’ll learn how to crochet?”

He nodded once. “I’m already learning.”

“And how to knit?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Apple
fritters?”

He wagged his eyebrows
; his eyes dancing beneath. “Definitely.”

“And we’ll take trips together, and visit your family—”

“We’ll visit your family.”

I
rolled my lips between my teeth, paused. Before I could respond I had to gather a deep breath. “Yeah . . .”

“We’ll visit your dad and go to his wedding.”

I nodded, cleared my throat. “Yes. We’ll go to his wedding and we’ll be happy for him, for them.” And I meant it.

“And we’ll be happy.”

I tightened my arms around his neck. “Always.”

“Well
 . . .” He lifted his chin, his mouth curved into a devastating, charismatic, sex on an Italian stick smile. “Almost always.”

Part 1: Meet seventeen year-old Nico

Soft skin. Shaking hands. Hot breath.

She swallowed. I felt the movement of her throat under my mouth. She was nervous. So was I. My hands were also shaking.
Shit
. This was crazy.

But, just because it was crazy didn’t mean I was going to stop.
Stopping hadn’t even crossed my mind. What did cross my mind?
More.

M
y insanity was fueled by fifteen years of wanting to touch her and six years of watching someone else do it. I was seventeen, but jealousy and envy burned long and cut deep.

I knew I wanted to be with her since before I knew how to eat with a fork. The wanting to touch her part started when I was four and sh
e was three. Obviously it wasn’t sexual, that came later accompanied by the resentment of rejection. It was about being close to her, kissing her big cheeks, petting her soft skin, sharing her warmth.  My earliest memory was thinking that I wanted her to stay with me always. My mother liked to remind me that I used to ask if we could keep her.

My present reality
—her naked, yielding breast beneath my hand, her hips straddling mine, her underwear and my jeans separating us—was its own kind of torture. She didn’t respond like the other girls. She wasn’t waiting for me to undress her.

She was tearing at my clothes, pressing her breast into my palm, and rocking against me. I wasn’t waiting for her. She was waiting for me.

This was crazy.

I should have questioned it. I should have stopped her. But when the girl of your dreams climbs in your bedroom window and starts taking off her clothes, thinking has very little to do with what happens next.

I only knew I wanted her. I wanted her loyalty, I wanted her acceptance, I wanted her admiration; I wanted all the things she gave to others without thought, but had withheld from me for years.

She reached between us and
beneath my pants, lifting on her knees and slipping her hand inside my boxers. The sheets rustled. She stroked. I shuddered. I was already painfully hard and I wondered if she knew the difference. Probably not. Her blue eyes, naïve and unsure, were assessing. She stroked again.

“
Stop—don’t.” I grabbed her wrist to still her exploration, gritted my teeth. “What are you doing?”

“
Am I doing it wrong?” She whispered; her eyes were narrowed, as though she were calculating a solution to a problem.

“No.” I breathed out. Definitely not.

“Good.” She licked her lips and I was mute.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t have a chance. Her mouth crashed to mine—all
slippery lips, teeth, and tongue. It was untutored, sloppy, insistent. I withdrew her fingers from my pants and placed them on my shoulder. My hands lifted to the hot, tortuously silken skin of her back and brought her completely against me, her naked chest meeting mine. I groaned.

I was aching.

I was in pain.

She rocked her hips against
me again—a jerky, instinctual, unpracticed movement—and I couldn’t breathe. She broke the kiss, roughly tugged off my pants and shorts, discarded the last of her clothes, then pulled me on top of her. The bed squeaked.

I came to her willingly. Her legs were open. I wanted to feel her everywhere. My hands were greedy as they stroked, touched, grabbed every inch I’d been denied. Her eyes were fixed on mine.

“Let’s do this.” She nodded, her nails dug into my back as though anchoring me to her.

“What are we doing?” I didn’t know who I was asking
—me or her.

When I hesitated she lifted her hips to mine. “Nico. . .” Elizabeth placed a tiny kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Please. Please do this for me.”
She was looking at me with trust, like she needed me; that look annihilated any remaining capacity for thought.

If I’d been thinking I would have done something to prepare her. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking about anything except
her softness, the wet warmth between her legs, and the painful stiffness between mine.

She gasped as I entered her. Her gaze moved to a place over my shoulder and tears gathered in her eyes. She gritted her teeth. She was tense everywhere.

She was holding her breath and the only sound in the room was my labored breathing. I told myself to go slow. Her leg brushed against mine, the inside of her thigh against my hip. I wanted to touch her so I did. I skimmed my fingertips up the back of her leg, from her bottom to her knee, as I moved inside her.

She closed her eyes, released a breath, but was still frozen beneath me.

I’d been with virgins before. But—virgin or not—this was the first time that I’d cared so much about whether the girl enjoyed it. I made myself stop while still buried inside her and bit her neck. I tasted the skin beneath her jaw then dipped my tongue in her earlobe. I slid my hand from her leg, along her side, and pinched the puckered skin of her breast.

Please.

I needed her to relax. She moaned. I moved.

Please.

I needed her to enjoy this. Her breath hitched.

Please.

I
needed
her to let me touch her again when this was over.