A/N: Bits of dialogue from Need to Know in here, maybe paraphrased. This is not a warning, more like a disclaimer, since I didn't actually write those lines. This is a warning: This chapter is pretty smutty; it contains a more unusual sexual situation, just so you know. Read at your own risk.
You sleep late the next morning, spooning Allison's body against your own and sleeping so peacefully you feel you could easily stay that way forever. But then she wakes, and though it's clear she is trying to be still and not disturb you, she wriggles against you just enough to bring certain body parts to life.
"Morning," you murmur, pressing her ass tighter against your groin and grinding into her. Your right hand wanders up to cup her breasts and you begin kissing her neck and nibbling on her ear lobe.
She smiles and pushes back against you, entwining her fingers with yours as you caress her body. Already throbbing with a desperate need to be inside her, you say, "Hold that thought," and roll over to grab a condom, sliding it on as quickly as you can and then rolling back. She pushes off her panties and tosses them to the floor, followed by her shirt, before resuming her previous position, urging you to touch her. You stroke one hand over her abdomen and down between her legs, over the little thatch of nubby curls and then into her, finding her slick and wet. Little huffs of bliss come from her lips as you finger her and press her clit. Stretching her leg backward over your own, she opens herself up to you, and you slip into her as deep as you can go in that position. Moving in and out in shallow thrusts, you're unable to keep your eyes open when she reaches between her legs and begins touching you and then takes your hand and guides it right where she wants it. Together your bodies undulate as one, your joined hands adding to the friction and pleasure until she is crying out unintelligible sounds of ecstasy and pulsing around your cock.
You aren't done yet, need more, so you roll her onto her stomach and nudge your cock between her cheeks, testing her reaction. In answer, she raises her hips and spreads her legs, looking back over her shoulder to give you a little nod. Your heart threatens to thump right out of your chest as you ease yourself into her little by little, well lubricated from her orgasm. Soon you are in as deep as you feel you can go without hurting her, and damn if she isn't deliciously tight. Your hands on her ass, you move gently in and out, knowing only a few strokes will send you over the edge. Closing your eyes, you savor what few women are willing to give, moving slightly faster, and then opening your eyes again to look at her, ass raised in the air like a gift to you, hands fisting into the pillow, head back so that her hair falls down her neck and over one shoulder. Then she begins moving her hips back to meet your thrusts and it's your undoing. With one final stroke, you nearly convulse with your orgasm, gripping her so intently that you leave imprints on her skin.
Pulling out, you collapse on the bed, pure euphoria flowing through your veins. You are aware of her moving beside you, slipping beneath the covers and curling up like a sleepy little kitten. Words like thank you and god you're amazing and holy hell that was the hottest thing ever are swimming around in your addled brain, but all you can do is smile and roll over to wrap her in your arms and place a kiss on the top of her head.
The next thing you know, you are waking to empty arms and an empty bed. You hear the shower running, and glance at the clock to see it is nearly two in the afternoon. After the last few days of stress and physical discomfort, you didn't expect to feel so completely sated and relaxed so soon. She is better than Vicodin and you begin to think of ways you can repay her.
Stepping out of bed, you pull on your boxer briefs and a t-shirt and limp out to the kitchen to grab something to eat. When she joins you, freshly showered and ready for work, you have a sandwich, yogurt, and a cup of soup ready for her.
"Lunch," you say around a mouthful of your own sandwich, nodding toward the food on the butcher block.
"I should get going," she answers, glancing at the clock.
"Eat. I'll give you a ride." You stuff the rest of your sandwich in your mouth and mumble, "Gonna take a quick shower. You've got time."
You are in and out of the shower in less than ten minutes, coming out to find her straightening up the bedroom. The bed is made and she is gathering up all the dirty clothes from the floor and stuffing them into the hamper.
"You eat?" you ask, yanking clean underwear and jeans from the drawer.
"I had half the sandwich and the soup. I'll save the rest for later. I really need to get going."
"Relax. It takes five minutes to drive there. I won't make you late."
With an impatient sigh, she sits beside you on the bed as you tug your socks on. Her sweatshirt is draped over one arm; her hands fidget with the fabric as she waits.
There is a knock on the door, and you both pause and look toward the hallway. One sock is hanging off your foot, you're bare-chested, and your cane is across the room.
"I'll get it," Allison says, springing from the bed and striding toward the door. When she opens it, you are emerging from the bedroom to see who it is, your t-shirt half on and half off. There stands Stacy, looking gobsmacked at the sight in front of her.
"Hi Stacy," Allison says, polite as ever, opening the door wider to let her in.
"Allison... hi." She looks from Allison to you, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in surprise. "I'm sorry... am I interrupting?"
"No. I was just headed to work," Allison replies, pulling her sweatshirt over her head and grabbing her bag.
Those words jerk you out of your stupor and you limp forward, saying, "I told you I'd drive you."
"It's fine," she answers with a smile. "You two should catch up. I'll see you later." And with that she is out the door, leaving you standing there facing Stacy and feeling irrationally angry.
"I probably shouldn't have come," Stacy says, taking a seat in the chair you've begun to think of as Allison's, her actions in direct contrast to her words. "Is she... living here with you?"
"Yes. Does that surprise you?" you mutter, rubbing your hand over your forehead as your previous state of relaxation flees as fast as Allison had left the apartment.
"I guess it shouldn't. I mean, we moved in together after only a week..." She trails off and you can practically hear her thinking, but I thought that was because we had something special.
"What are you doing here?"
"I thought we should talk after what happened in Baltimore." Standing, she moves to you, placing her hand on your chest and then grasping your t-shirt in her fingers. "I just thought we should clear the air, make sure there are no misunderstandings."
You take her hand in yours and hold it, look down into her eyes, and say, "Are you leaving Mark? Because that's the only thing that needs to be cleared up."
"Are you leaving Allison?" she retorts.
"It's not the same thing."
"Oh, and why is that? Because you're not married to her? Because she's just your little plaything?"
"Jealous? There's an easy way to solve that problem. Leave Mark." As those words leave your mouth, you feel stomach acid churning in your gut like liquid fire. You thought all along that was what you wanted, Stacy would leave Mark and come back to you, and you would be happy again. But then why do you suddenly feel like you've been sucker-punched at the mere mention of it.
"It's not that easy," she says. "He's sick. I can't just abandon him."
"Like you did me, you mean?" Suddenly you can't look at her. You release her hand so you can move around her to collapse on the couch. Guilt hangs between you, an almost tangible presence in the room, as she sits beside you and her shoulders sag in defeat.
"I'll leave him," she murmurs. "I'll leave him and I'll be with you."
With those words, you should feel sweet victory and happiness, but instead you let out a cynical chuckle and look at her, really study her for the first time in years. You see the resignation in her eyes, and you know, she'll accept you for a time but then you'll fall into the same old patterns, ignoring her in favor of a case or your music or something else, and she'll stay out of guilt. But she won't be happy, and once you start to miss the physical things you used to do when you were with her, golf and paintball and lacrosse and jogging, you won't be happy either. There's no going back.
"I'm not going to change," you say, watching the play of emotions on her face.
"Who asked you to?"
"You did. Not in so many words, no, but you said with me you were lonely, while Mark makes room for you in his life. If you came back now, nothing would change. You'd still feel lonely and you'd start to resent me."
"No," she protests, grabbing you by the shirt again. "We can make it work this time. I know it." She leans in and kisses you, pressing her lips to yours in a desperate attempt to connect, but you don't, can't, respond.
All you can think about is Allison and it's as if someone has turned a light on in a room you hadn't even known was dark. Allison. You are in love with her. Holy crap, you think, when did that happen?
"Greg, what's wrong?" Stacy asks, leaning her head against your chest.
"It's not going to work, Stacy. Go home to Mark."
"Why, dammit? Give me one good reason."
"I could give you a thousand reasons. In the end it all comes down to one thing. It's just not going to work."