Okay Let's Try This Real Quick

"No. I'll drive." The slight growl in their voice pulls at you and you search for their face in the dim light of the car, sobering when you see authority there. It makes your hackles raise a bit, and they must see you about to make a comeback because they sit up from their reclined position and reclaim your hand, nibbling and sucking on your pulse before you say anything.

"I'd love to warm you up myself, but right now you are sleep-deprived and shaking like a leaf, and I want us to get home safe," they purr. The lights are on in their eyes again, and you forget what you were about to say, just settling on the fact that they're being nothing but reasonable.

"Alright." Your eyes drop to your lap for a second to escape the glow, and you gasp when they nip you.

"You good?" they purr again, leaning over you to catch your other hand reaching for the door handle. "I said I'd warm you up." They run kisses over your knuckles before sweeping a tongue over the raindrops on the back of your hand, like they have all the time in the world. You dazedly and briefly believe that any contact with them has paralytic side effects.

"I um-" they catch the thin skin of your wrist between your teeth and bite, and this makes you writhe slightly in your seat. You want to whimper, and you know you should ask them to stop now if you don't want a sleepless couple of nights like the last time. "I um-"

"Okay, let's switch," they announce, placing your hands back in your lap and walking around the front of the car to the driver's seat.

You slide over the console into the passenger side, warm in more than one sense of the word and worried about how you forgot everything but their slick tongue and teeth for a moment.

They smugly glance over at you during the drive, with their indie playlist still coming through the speakers, and you don't pull away when they curl their fingers through yours. You glance at the lean length of them crammed, a bit more severely than you usually are, behind the wheel. Their hand is hot, and they squeeze yours intimately, every once in a while, the rest of the way back. You don't fall asleep, but you engage in lazy conversation, sometimes humming to the music.

They park right in front of their apartment, in the visitor's space next to their car, and look over at you, light gleaming on their exposed arms from the sun weakly peeking through the clouds ahead.

"I want to kiss you before I leave," they say, and for a minute you actually think about what it'd feel like.

"Yeah... no."

"Because?"

"I don't want a physical relationship, remember?"

"I'm not asking you to come in. I'm asking to kiss you." Their fingers slide against your palm, and you stubbornly stare into their eyes, trying not to press your legs together too visibly.

"We know where things like this go," you say, too softly and too pliantly, but you reinforce it by taking your hand from theirs. "And clearly I can't..." the words are bitter and stuck in your throat, but they wait, leaning against the door. "...control myself," you finish, defying gravity by keeping your eyes locked on their face. They gaze lazily and thoughtfully at you, and you can't keep the irritation and embarrassment from showing on your face.

"I like that, but I won't take advantage of it," they craft, staring back at you. "I want to know how your lips feel, and it's a nice way to end the afternoon."

You have to look down at your hands. You need the privacy, and to clear your thoughts for a minute. And then you lean forward, across the console, and place your hands on their hard shoulders.

"Look at me." You forgot you weren't. Their eyes are following you.

"Sorry."

"Kiss me." Your stomach jumps, and flips. You place your lips down on theirs, and the skin is soft and giving. They wrap their hands around your wrists, around your pulse, and give you more heat. You used to think about how kissing would actually work, if you ever got somebody to do it with. You never could have imagined the intensity of the heat that spreads to every part of your body when their mouth opens against yours and splits your lips apart to slip their tongue inside.

You aren't shaking this time. They are making slow, easy love to your mouth with their own, and you feel the console dig into your hip as you let your upper body fall against them. Sucking sounds come from them releasing your tongue, and they rest a hand on the back of your neck while you actually moan in your throat for the first time. Their voice rumbles in agreement under your chest and they hold you there, breathing as hard as you are.

"I really, really like that you can't control yourself around me," they husk, shifting to make you look at them. "I like turning you on, but I'll never go farther unless you ask, okay? This is what I want from you because this is what you give me."

"Okay," you manage, with swollen lips.

You wonder how long it'll take before you ask, and you think about how necessary it is to drive them away with your problems soon. The situation is getting... admittedly serious. They place their hands over yours in your lap, and you kiss softly a few more times before they lean back to get out of the car, bag bouncing behind them as they jog up the stairs.

. . .

Over the next few months, you struggle with the fact that your hangouts feel more like dates. You go out for sushi, and to the mall; sometimes in your car, sometimes in theirs. They don't ever kiss you like they did the first time, though; it's quick pecks, on your head and cheeks, even your shoulders if they're exposed. But you feel the heat drum up when you are alone with them, and at night you dream of daring to explore their mouth while you cradle the back of their head, tight curls springing under your fingers. The way they look at you, those same feelings pouring out of their eyes every time, of want, warmth, and something deeper that you refuse to name... it's supposed to wake you up. You're sitting at opposite ends of the couch in your living room one day when Queenie walks in.

She stops, and she stares. They look over to say hello to her, and ask if she wants to watch Naked and Afraid with the two of you, but she smiles and says she's getting ready for a date. Then she looks at you, curiosity and "we'll talk later" dancing in her eyes. Dread sits heavy in your mind at what she's going to say, and you are grateful when she whisks back out the door, sneakers making no sound on the carpet and the scent of Sweet Whiskey perfume trailing behind her.

"...Are you in trouble?" they whisper devilishly, mischief dancing in their eyes.

"Maybe," you answer, but you can't help but smile back at them. They scoot closer to you and you let your thigh nestle against theirs, choosing to forget it for now.

. . .

"They like you," she says. She's sitting at the table with a cup of Auntie Anne's cinnamon bites in front of her when you come out of your room on Monday morning. You stand in the doorway, not knowing what to say.

"Did you know?" She takes the blue toothpick that comes with her snack and stabs one of her pretzels, calculatingly, while you think out your reply.

"I figured there might be a chance of that, but it's nothing serious," you offer. She has cinnamon sugar on her shirt.

"It is when you like them back." You feel the blood rush to your face.

"I guess? But how would you even know? You just walked in on us watching TV," you half-whine.

She takes her time to swallow and lifts her eyes in thought. "How can I explain this... when you were just friends, in fact when you in particular are just friends with anybody, there's a certain way you conduct yourself. You draw a line that you don't step over, and you expect them to respect it."

You lean against the doorframe, uncomfortably intrigued with her analysis.

"When you are close to somebody, like me, or your sister, you don't hold anything back. It's like... you embrace us with your personality. You think about making coffee for us in the morning, you come up randomly in the middle of the day and ask for hugs... you're not afraid to be yourself and talk throughout the movie you're watching with us, no matter how much we say it annoys us."

She pauses here to look you in the eye, and you feel yourself flinch at the excitement there.

"I was coming up the hall and heard you ranting about something during the show, and I thought I'd see Tifah watching with you when I walked in. It wasn't her though."

You're standing ramrod straight, hand clenched in a fist behind the wall where Queenie can't see it. "So I... let them in?"

"You let each other in." She brushes the crumbs off of her chest and stands. "But how far are you going with this? Have you told them about how you feel about certain... things?"

"I uh, I told them I didn't want any type of relationship, physical or otherwise. Nothing's really happening." You shift, more than a little disappointed about it.

She takes her keys off the hook on the wall. "Well, something's going to happen eventually, and I know this whole abstinence thing has been a lifelong commitment for you. It's weird, but it's your decision. ...I'm going on a booty call, don't expect me home."

You want to laugh with her, but you simply grin convincingly and watch her go, standing in the doorway for a few minutes more and knowing that this talk is past due.

. . .

Tears are streaming down your face, and your stomach is starting to hurt. You're this close to rolling off your chair onto the floor, you've been laughing so long. They're laughing too, near hysterics in their low-pitched giggle that makes you crack up even more. You had decided to take them round to your cousins' house Friday night after they said they'd had a rough week, and it looks like you'd gotten a little loose from the endless supply of Hennessy your family kept in stock.

"The lady who found her was at least a foot shorter than her!" your oldest cousin is shrieking, railing on you about the time you got separated from your mom in Target.

"I was like, ten, I felt so bad!" You laughed long and loud about the way the woman had led you to the front of the aisle to find your mom looking for you in the next one over. You look over at them, to watch their laugh, and they are looking right back at you, tears and light in their eyes. It jolts you a little less tipsy, and burns a bit like the Henny in your throat.

Your cousins offer to let you both stay there for the night on separate couches; the amusement wiggling in their eyebrows means Queenie's observation has already made its rounds through the young adult ranks of the family. You expected nothing less, but you still feel your cheeks burning while you turn down the offer and ask for a ride back to your place instead. They'd slept over before, you explain - on the couch. You can practically feel them smiling serenely next to you.

"Have a good night, y'all!" Your cousin yells, leaning over to the open window to ensure the entire complex hears her. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" You hear her turn her radio up on a song that implies, apparently, that she "rides around the city with her hand strapped around her toes," and although the few shots you had lost their hazy effect around midnight, you can't stop yourself from giddily rapping the rest of the song. They shuffle up behind you at the door, making you giggle by snuffling at the back of your neck as you turn the keys in the lock. Nobody's home - you figure Queenie, against all odds, is moving in with her "booty call" soon, and Tifah stayed over your cousins' place so they could go to brunch in the morning. They all love brunch.

You both move around in the darkness in comfort and routine; they toss their shoes into the corner and you retrieve their designated sheets and blankets for the pull-out couch. You shift your weight to lean on one leg while you watch them from behind the couch; they're flipping through nature documentaries and stripped down to boxers and tshirt.

"Wanna sleep in my bed?"

The selection box pauses on "Blue Planet" on screen as they twist around to look at you, whale noises and David Attenborough's saintly voice filling the silence.

"I just figured, nobody's here to judge, and I don't really care, it sucks to sleep on the pullout when there's like three beds here... and I wanna talk to you."

They're trailing their eyes up and down you now, possibly holding back laughter as you get increasingly flustered.

"Like, it doesn't have to be my bed, Queenie's never here and Tifah wouldn't mind either, if you wanted one of theirs for the night-" you regret multiple things, right now.

They smirk, finally. "I want yours." You wanna punch them, but you just roll your eyes and sigh the nerves out, fleeing to your room and dumping the sheets back in the bathroom closet on the way.

"I like your jammies," they decide, watching you carefully wrap yourself in two of the five blankets on the bed, that actually resembles more of a nest. You are being generous tonight by letting them have the other three.

You chuckle and pass them the remote, finally sealed into your covers so tightly that no cold air can steal inside. They watch you from under one of the thinnest blankets, apparently amused. You hope they can't see that your breasts have jumped ship from your chest to your armpits - you debated over whether or not to wear a bra to bed, and quickly chose "not torture". They put "Blue Planet" on screen again, volume down so the dolphin clicks don't really register, before sliding down on the mattress to stare through the darkness into your eyes.

"What'd you wanna talk about?" they murmur, patting your stomach as it rises and falls with your breathing.

You can't meet their eyes. "Remember how I said I'm not looking for any kinda relationship?" They're slightly scratching at your belly with their neat, short nails, threatening to ignite the heat you hadn't indulged in since you mauled them in the car.

"Mmhmm." The gravel in their voice makes the fire under your skin whisper a warning to you, and you turn on your side to dislodge their fingers.

"I said that because I don't expect to have premarital relations at all." Your face grimaces at "premarital", years of a liberal upbringing rising up to rage at the memory of conservative Baptist teachings that echoed around your head.

They pull their hand under their head, and all they say is, "yeah?"

You expected laughing or exasperation, but maybe they're waiting for an explanation? You breathe - you're a grown woman, with grown problems, and you've practiced saying this one out loud for some time now.

"I don't really have a reason, other than a last tribute to being raised Baptist, but family has always been enough for me, and I figured eventually some half-religious Christian kid like me would come along and make a... decent match. And if not, I'd just be single until what the church thought didn't matter."

They are rubbing their hand over their shoulder, almost in a self-soothing way? You've never seen them do it before. You want to comfort them too, but you're stuck inside your burrito. You finish up:

"So... yeah. I figured we'd already kinda established something emotional, and I didn't want to drag you along into a dead end, or waste anymore of your time. Just, I always lean on you to keep me in check, and I know it's not right. It really isn't."

Whatever heat was in your system a few minutes ago has evaporated into the relapse of silence, and you wish they were teasing you about wanting to share a bed again. Blue light from the Coastal Seas episode of "Planet Earth" is now playing across your faces. You can't look at their face anymore, and you break the blanket cocoon you'd sealed yourself in to lay on your side and look anywhere but at them.

"I don't think you remember what I said." There's a little anger there, and you're a bit relieved to hear an expected response, although you don't know what they mean.

They slide closer, blankets tangling around their legs, until all you can see is their body. You should look up - you can see the swell of chest and stomach underneath their shirt, and it's not helping.

"You listening?" Suddenly, they wrap a fistful of your twists in their hand and pull your head back, searching your eyes. "I want all of you," they blaze, pulling a little harder to elicit a little grunt from you. Their eyes are shining that light again, and you're bewildered, if what they said was what they meant. There are tears in those eyes, too.

"A lifetime? You would sign away part of yourself on an institution neither of us really care about in order to satisfy a tradition I can't let go of?"

"I want your time and your love. I get it for an indefinite amount of time, preferably the rest of my life, with a few legal perks. I don't like this reason," they concede, "but I think we already understand that our dynamic is one we don't want to live without. What do you think?"

"Marriage? Really? You want to marry me?" you ask neutrally, giving them a chance to retract their statement.

The shoulder-rubbing is nerves, you realize, and they resume it a little more intensely as never-before seen doubt and insecurity lace around their face. It hurts your heart, jarringly, to see it, and you make a choice.

"I love you," you announce from your burrito, "and I refuse to tie you down with the sinister workings of institutional religion."

The orchestral soundtrack of the documentary onscreen swells with your confession, and you smile challengingly. "Can't beat that, can you?"

"I can match it," they snap, and they straddle you, trapping your legs in your blankets and your arms above your head, pulse suddenly thundering against their fingers. They rock their hips against you, experimentally, before lowering their lips to yours.

It's instant flames searing in your stomach, and as the seconds of wet noises pass, you feel the flesh between your thighs swelling. You moan, frustrated when you realize that under their weight, you can't buck your hips to relieve the tension. They growl in return and grind themselves against where you need them; once, and twice again, then they swing themselves halfway off of you, their left thigh solidly wedged in between yours. Still holding your wrists, they let you rock your hips against them while they rain kisses on your face.

"I love you too, and you know it," they accuse. "I've never hidden it. My mom knows you're the girl I'm going to marry."

You'd have thought the mention of their mother would help you ease your pace, but you only grind harder against the thigh they offer as they hover like a starving man at the hollow of your throat, tongue dipping in and out in between their moans.

"Ms. Jenny... your mom knows about us?" You shiver and open your legs wider as they rotate their hips to grind their leg against you and you feel yourself ride over a little crest.

"Since I met you. The first day, six months ago." You ride over a slightly bigger crest, and they nip at your jaw when your eyes shutter closed. It makes you lightheaded, and under their body, the blankets, and your own clothes, you feel slick.

They almost throw themselves off of you, and for a moment you're grinding against nothing. You're reeling, and you look over in confusion and disbelief to see their eyes glazed over, their face slack, and their hand trailing down to palm their briefs. Their eyebrows are furrowed as they stare off into a space above your head.

"Are you okay? Did I do something?" You're worried about how disoriented they look, and as you wriggle to see them better, the wetness between your legs audibly smacks apart.

Their eyes clear up, and are dark and lustful. Probably mirroring yours. "Shit." It sounds so sexy, the way they growl it. "Shit." They chuckle, release themselves, and fold their hands behind their head, relaxing back against the bed to reveal a half-hard length in their shorts. You stare, wanting to touch. But you meet their eyes, while they smile goofily at you. "We were doing a lot that you didn't ask for, and I figure we have all the time in the world now for you to put in a request." They run their hand low on their belly, where you want your hand to be.