fever dream

1

There's no preamble when he opens the door. No pleasantries to exchange.

Just a messy tangle of arms and legs and clashing teeth mixed with breathless "I missed yous".

"You're late," he groans as my teeth find his jaw. That sharp, could-cut-glass jaw that haunts my dreams.

"You're talking too much," I mumble against his skin, hands everywhere, lips following.

I've had the shittiest of days and this, him, is just what I need to wind down. To forget it all.

He shuts up, sort of, when I trail kisses down his neck to the collar of his shirt. Each button I undo frees up just a little more of the tan skin I crave. He whines under his breath when my knees drop to the carpet, face right in front of his crotch; he's skyscraper tall, so I have to crane my neck, batting my lashes as I peer up the defined ridges and planes of his torso at the lip he's biting, the glimmer of his darkening eyes.

"Fuck." The word is a whisper, a plea, and a warning all rolled into one. It makes me smile against his belly, right over the trail of fine hair that leads to the promised land. His abs clench under my lips and I feel the shiver that ripples down his spine, my hands gripping the waistband of his unfastened pants, belt lying over his thighs like a runway guiding me home.

I tug. "Off."

He looks amazing in his suit. Sharp. Fierce. Sexy as fuck.

But he looks even better out of it.

The layers start to fall away, crisp white shirt crumpling where he tosses it at the foot of the bed. His dress pants fall into a puddle at his feet. Tonight's tie—a red one—hangs loose and crooked around his neck where I left it. He must have beaten me here by a matter of minutes; it's usually the first thing he takes off after his shoes and socks.

Smirking up at him, I draw a line along the band of his briefs with my blood red nail.

"Keep the tie?"

His crooked grin makes the green of his eyes pop, even in the crappy motel lighting. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I breathe, distracted again by the bulge in front of my face. Before I can free it, I'm being pulled up off my knees and his mouth is on mine. I smile against his lips, my dress joining his pants on the floor, heels kicked off. They hit the wall and, the door? maybe, with muted thuds, but I'm more interested in his face when he realizes I ditched my underwear before I even left my car.

Shimmying out of my panties and removing my bra in the parking lot wasn't the easiest, but the look on his face right now...totally worth it.

Before I can say a word, I'm being tossed onto the bed, my squeak drowned out by his growl.

~ fd ~

"Fuck. Me."

"Did that already," I remind him cheekily, propping myself up on my elbows to watch him strut his stuff. Leaning in the bathroom doorway, he reaches up to ruffle his sex hair and fuck me is right. The man exudes sex.

Or, as my nonna would say—he's sex on legs.

Long, strong legs that provide the perfect support for any position either of us can think of. And in our two-year history, there have been a lot of great ones.

But, as has started to happen kind of frequently, real life always seems to throw a spanner in the works.

"So, uh...my buddy's new bar just opened."

I watch the muscles in his arm shift and flex as he messes with his hair, avoiding his face. Puppy-dog. That's the expression that will be there if I look. If I moved my gaze a few inches over right now, I know I'd see big, pleading eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Wondered if you wanted to come check it out with me on Friday."

I hum and fling my legs over the side of the bed, reaching for my dress forgotten on cheap polyester carpet, that familiar old ache appearing in the pit of my stomach whenever he asks me things like this. Date-type stuff. "No."

His sigh seems especially loud tonight.

It rankles.

"Look, we both know—"

"The rules," he interjects brusquely, striding toward his clothes. "I know, I know. I just...nevermind."

Pausing to watch him, I can't help but smile. His pants go on first, then his shirt, but he fumbles with the buttons, adorably frustrated. When I finally take pity on him and step closer to take over, he blows out a big breath and drops his head back to stare at the flaky, leak-stained ceiling.

"When are you going to quit pretending you're okay with just this?"

I falter then. The button slips between my fingers; I get it on the second try. "When you quit pretending you're not okay with this. What guy doesn't like mind-blowing, no-strings sex on the regular?"

We both know I bypassed what he was actually saying. Tonight, he chooses not to push the issue. I'm glad. I really have had a long-ass day, and I don't think I have it in me tonight to list all the reasons we won't, can't, work.

Fastening the last button, I stretch up onto my tiptoes, bare length of me pressed against the clothed length of him, tugging his face down so I can kiss the grump out of him. It doesn't take long, the frustration firming up his frame eventually melting away, turning him to jelly.

When his hands find my ass for a good squeeze, I grin and pull back to catch my breath, forehead to forehead, still up on my tippy toes.

"Remind me why you're so against more, again? Just refresh my memory," he pants, crooked grin firmly in place, green eyes crinkled in the corners so I know he's over his little moment.

Somewhere behind me my cell beeps twice—it's his tone—and I can feel the twitch of his shoulders under my palms. He recognizes it, too. Pecking his lips once more, I duck out of his hold and reach for my Gucci. With my back to him, I shimmy into my fave little back dress and plaster a smile on my face. It's game face time.

When his hands land on my waist, gentle and—dare I say it—loving, I pull my lip between my teeth. "I'm good to you, aren't I? We're good together."

Spinning in his grip, I reach up to twist a finger in the baby-fine hair at his nape. "You may be good to me, but you're not good for me." Rueful, I kiss his shirt-covered chest—it really is a pity to cover a piece of art that fine—before stepping away.

Distance. I need distance.

"You make me soft."

Weak.

He sees that I'm not going to waver. Not tonight, at least. It gets harder and harder to resist, but he's the one thing I'm not strong enough for.

I should be strong enough to do the right thing. To give him up. To let him find someone who can give him all the things he wants, the things he deserves. A wife, kids, the home with a white picket fence.

He deserves the world, the whole nine yards.

But he'll never get that from me, and I think, deep down, he knows it. He just doesn't want to admit it—not to himself, but especially not to me.

.

We part ways with a kiss that curls my toes and washes away everything but him, but that moment.

All too soon it's over.

I sit in my car and wait until he's gone, his taillights disappearing around the bend just as I reach for the glovebox. My gold wedding band and diamond engagement ring catch the streetlight beside my car when I slide them onto my finger. They're cold.

And they're another lie. Just one of many I tell myself on a daily basis.

I'm happy.

I love my life.

I don't want 'more'.

And, perhaps the worst lie—that the man who just drove away with my heart is the one who isn't good for me, when in reality, I'm the worst thing that ever happened to him.

you can blame The Fic Lab for this one. these two were born from a prompt over there, and if you're not part of the group on FB already, why not? get your booty over there.

so, I'll say this once and once only—this is fiction, people can be dumb, and I don't agree with everything they'll do throughout the course of the story. it goes without saying that cheating is wrong and I'm never going to even try to justify it. just...remember that it's fiction and we'll be grand, 'kay?

much love to my incredible team of prereaders for putting up with my shit and the chapters I've flooded them with this week. y'all know who you are and you rock.