Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

I crush her mouth in the kind of cutthroat kiss that makes her gasp and sigh. Soon, the elevator reaches the twelfth floor, and the second we’re in 1205, I unzip her jeans, and she does the same for me.

I rip off my glasses and find a condom while she wiggles out of her jeans. Then I’m covered, and I hike up her leg around my hip and sink inside.

She shudders, her whole body surrendering to the feel of us together as she ropes her arms around my neck. Looking up at me, she licks her lips. “Watch me. Look at me,” she murmurs.

“Always,” I groan as I thrust into her.

She clenches around my cock, and heat coils in my body.

This feels so right. So good.

It’s only been days, but it feels like forever when you miss the person you love madly. “Missed you,” I whisper.

“So much,” she says, finishing the sentence.

Yes, it’s the same for both of us.

I grip her hips, push deeper, fuck her harder, but I also give her something else she wants.

A kiss.

Only this time, I’m slow.

Teasing.

Barely brushing my lips over hers in a gentle, intimate kiss, telling her without words that we can fuck hard or slow, kiss rough or soft. We can have it all.

“Whatever you want, honey,” I rasp out, “I’ll give you.”

“I know,” she says, panting. “I know.”

That feels like a brand-new promise too—that I’ll give her what she needs in and out of bed.

Soon, though, the thinking subsides, and we’re reduced to noises.

The slap of skin.

The feel of warm bodies.

Until she comes on a breathless gasp, and I follow her there, losing my mind.

Then, we slow down until I still and brush my lips to her neck, the spot of her bruise. It’s still a little tender, a little blue.

“Love your mark,” I whisper. “Love you.”

“Love you so much.”

A few minutes later, we’re in the bathroom, straightening up for our meeting, and she catches my eye in the mirror. “What did you mean about the loan? And asking your brother for help? I was a little preoccupied with kissing your face, so I didn’t quite get everything.”

I hold her gaze as I put on my clothes. “I called and asked him to float me the rest of the money for Inés’s loan. I don’t want him to pay it off for me; I just need an advance. I’m going to look for work as a line cook somewhere in the city to help make my rent. TJ has a friend in Queens who’s subleasing, so I figure with our YouTube money and some line-cook dough, I’ll be able to cover the bills and pay him back for the final loan payments. I decided to just get over it—my need to do it all on my own. He likes to help, so he’s happy to get the debt off the books. And I want to be here in New York.”

Emerson dips her face, looking a little sheepish. “That’s so sexy.”

I laugh. “It’s sexy, me asking for help from my little brother?”

She nods then meets my gaze. “Yeah. It totally is. You were pretty stubborn.”

“Pot. Kettle.”

“That’s why I recognize it. And I’m impressed. I know that wasn’t easy,” she says.

“It was worth it to be with you,” I say.

Fourteen minutes after making out in the elevator, we head downstairs, ready to meet the pink-haired whirling dervish. “I bet she takes us to a quinoa joint,” I say.

“An acai berry one,” Emerson suggests.

“An acai berry, chia seed, quinoa, and kale shop,” I say, not to be outdone.

When we reach the lobby, I’m surprised to recognize two ladies I adore, hugging in front of reception. Evelyn is there too, embracing both of them as all three bounce in excitement.

Hmmm. That’s interesting, and I’m not sure what to make of their moment.

So I focus on my mission. At the edge of the lobby, I find Ilene by her shock of pink hair. She paces, talking on the phone, and when she sees us, she waves us over then gestures for us to follow her out of the hotel.

We do, and the whole time we’re walking down the street, she keeps up the uh-huhs and yups and got its.

Until we reach a kombucha shop, where Ilene stops as she ends her call, and stuffs her phone into her purse. “That’s done, so now we can get a little something,” Ilene says.

Emerson looks from the door to Ilene. “I had a coffee, but Nolan would love any type of kombucha.” Then my girlfriend winks at me, mouthing sucker.

“I’m going to make you pay for that,” I whisper.

But Ilene just laughs. “Please. I have someplace else in mind.”

All I can think is thank fuck, since I hate kombucha.

She ushers us a few doors down to a lunch spot called The Happy Cow. A quick scan of the menu tells me it’s vegetarian. A quick scan of my memory bank reminds me it’s the first place Emerson and I reviewed together—the one in San Francisco, that is.