Page 19 of Doing It for Love

His hand runs down my neck, over my shoulder, down my arm, landing in my own hand.

He squeezes twice.

And I squeeze back once.

Chapter 6

When I fell in love with Landon, I was too afraid to tell him. We had just made love for the first time and there was this moment in his bed, staring at the moonlight across the ceiling, listening to his heartbeat and his heavy breathing when it almost fell out. But I didn’t want to say it first. It had only been a few weeks, and at the time, I had no idea if he was one of those guys who freaks out with the L-word or not.

But he squeezed my hand twice as I rested it on his chest. Out of instinct, I squeezed back once.

I started noticing the two-time hand squeeze after certain moments or looks he gave me. Once when I quoted Edward Scissorhands to him. Another when I stole one of his hats and wore it during our date. More squeezes when we’d say goodnight. One night I finally asked him about it.

“What?” he whispered in the dark. I tucked my cold toes up against his shin.

“You always squeeze my hand twice.”

“Yeah.” It’s all he said…at first. And we both drifted into sleep.

But at some point during the night, he woke me, hovering over me, looking as wide-awake as the moon. I asked what was wrong, and he took my face in his palms, rested his forehead against mine, and said, “Two squeezes mean I love you.”

His fingers snaked down my body, leaving chills in their wake. He grasped my hand and pumped it twice.

“I’ve been too afraid to say it,” he admitted with a small smile. “But I’ve been saying it to you for a long time now.”

I remember my heart pounding, my sleepy smile widening. And I squeezed back, saying, “I’ve been saying ‘I love you too’ for a long time now.”

It’s been our silent expression ever since. So when we’re in a crowded room, half asleep, or arguing, whenever he squeezes my hand twice I know he still loves me. I’ve always squeezed back.

I blink out of my daze, rubbing my hands under the shower stream. The paint mixture pours off my skin down to the drain, and I keep giving myself extra squeezes, imagining Landon’s hands around mine. Thank heavens I had the good sense to shower at Theresa’s. His wet body is tempting a few doors down; I can’t imagine what a hormonal mess I’d be if we washed off together.

After rinsing the neon from my nooks and crannies, I shut the shower off and grab at a ratty towel Theresa keeps under her sink. Her counter is completely cluttered with hair products, makeup, and perfumes. Long brown hair covers the floor, and I towel-dry my head, adding blond strands to the pile.

Landon takes longer showers than I do, so I take my time getting dressed, borrowing some of Theresa’s pajamas. She’s still at the club, probably completely wasted by now. She was maintaining a balanced buzz when I left, but that was an hour ago. I asked Jace to make sure she got a cab. Hopefully, he stays coherent enough to listen.

I make her bed because it drives me crazy that the comforter is hanging off the edge and the sheet is matted at the bottom. Just as I’m fluffing her pillows, I hear a key struggling to get in the lock.

Theresa giggles as the door creaks open. I tuck my phone in my back pocket with a laugh, ready to put her to bed and set some Advil on the nightstand for her in the morning, but a crash, thud, and low grunt stops me in the bedroom doorway.

My eyes bug out, staring at the hallway pictures, when I hear her say, “I want you in me.”

“Theresa,” a male voice answers. I think I know that voice. “You’re drunk.”

“Yep.” She attempts to purr. “Take advantage, because this won’t happen when I’m sober.”

Something shuffles across the floor, and I dive for the closet. I should’ve known she was going to bring someone home. Theresa has more bedpost notches than I’d like to know about.

As soon as I’ve confirmed “male voice” is long gone I’ll slide out. Unless he tries to take advantage while she’s passed out. Then I’ll grab a wire hanger and slice off his man jewels.

I keep the door open a crack, but I don’t catch anything but two very painted figures. The one covered in bright blue takes the towel I used and spreads it across the bed, fumbling with holding Theresa up at the same time. He finally huffs in defeat and ends up dropping her to the mattress.

“Wait,” she says.

“What?”

“It feels good. You on top of me.”

Oh, sweet mother. I hear kissing. Lots of it. And breathing and groaning, and as close as I am with the girl, I do not want to hear her drunken sex noises.

---