Page 38 of Dice & Dekes

I hear her footsteps patter away, followed by the hiss of the faucet. I like the sound of her in my house. When I moved in, I loved how quiet it was without Mom or Dad or my sisters hovering around all the time. I could watch TV in my underwear and nobody would complain. I could jerk off in the living room if I wanted. Not that I ever have, because the couch would be hard to clean, and I hate the idea of my naked butt touching my nice leather sofa, but the point is, Icould.

I love my family, but I don’t miss living with them. When Knova leaves, though, Iwillmiss her. Even if she makes me sleep on the couch. Which means sleeping in PJs at all times, because, again, butt + leather = no.

Knova walks back to me. Halfway here, she pauses, and the quality of her footsteps changes. She’s kicked off her shoes.

“You look nice tonight,” I say with my eyes still closed.

“I always look nice.”

I smile at her spikiness, which is one of my favorite things of all time. I love when Knova’s crabby. I love when she’s nice.

I love Knova, end of sentence.

Don’t you dare say that aloud.

“You looked extra-nice,” I say instead. “You did your makeup differently.”

“Because my old makeup kit was destroyed. Here, I’ve got your water.”

I open my eyes at last and take the glass she’s holding out with both hands. I take small sips, eyeing Knova over the rim. She’s watching me with her arms crossed, with her weight shifted onto her back leg. I know that expression. I knowallher expressions. This one is her thinking face.

“I can’t leave you out here,” she says. “You’re all drunk and pathetic. I can’t ditch you on the couch. If I let you into the bed, you promise you won’t do anything… nefarious?”

“In the bed?” I repeat. “Withyou?”

“That’s the idea.”

I chug the rest of my water and deposit the glass on the side table. “Yes. I swear I will besowell-behaved. Let’s do this.”

Easier said than done. The couch, which I purchased because it is so very comfortable, has me in its clutches. I make two failed attempts to get up before Knova takes pity on me and pulls me to my feet. She keeps holding my hand as she leads me upstairs to the bedroom. Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is solid. Familiar. It feels weirdly natural—like we’ve done this a thousand times. Like this is what home’s supposed to feel like. And that scares the shit out of me.

I feel both instantly sober and, simultaneously, as if I’ve drunk three flutes of champagne. I’m all bubbly and light.

In my room—our room???—Knova releases me and reaches for her sleep set. “I’ll be in the bathroom for a bit,” she says. “I need to wash my face.”

Left to my own devices, I change into my pajama pants, pulling them low enough so you can see my happy trail—I mean… if you really wanted to—and stumble into bed to wait for her. The pillows smell like her shampoo, with a faint scent of smoke mixed in. I bury my face in them and breathe deep.

The sound of the bathroom door opening yanks me from the edge of sleep like a slapshot to the face. I don’t move, don’t speak—I just pretend to sleep and listen. The quiet pat of her bare feet on the floor. The soft rustle of fabric. The light citrus scent of her moisturizer that wafts across the room and wrecks me.

Peeking at her, I notice my reluctant wife is wearing silky sleep shorts and a top that somehow accentuates her nipples. A sliver of her firm stomach is visible between the hems and I have the strange urge to lick her there.

Which is definitely not something I should be thinking about right now. But I am. Loudly. With every single goddamn nerve ending.

Knova slips into bed and lies, stiff as a two-by-four, with her arms at her sides.

She’s all sharp lines and tension, like someone expecting a bomb to go off. Spoiler alert: the bomb is me.

Despite the water I just drank, my mouth is dry. I’m watching her through my lashes like a man about to commit a sin.

“You gonna turn off the light?” I ask, voice low.

She doesn’t move. “I should.”

No one moves. No one breathes. And I’m very aware I’m between her and the wall. Which means the only way out is over her.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? There is no way out. Not from this. Not from her. I’ve been in love with Knova Hale since I was thirteen years old, and somehow, I’ve survived it. But this? Her here, in my bed, close enough to kiss? That’s not survival. That’s slow-motion implosion.

I could straddle her. Pin her wrists. Tell her she’s mine and mean it.

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