Page 26 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Next up, Melody Jakes,” the karaoke host’s voice cuts through the air, making us both suck in a breath. But we don’t move our hands or look toward the stage. We only have eyes for each other right now. “She picked out a real treat for y’all tonight. Enjoy and don’t forget to leave your change in the donation boxes by the bar on your way out. We’re drinking for New Orleans tonight, darlins. Let’s show our city how much we care!”
Amidst cheers from the crowd, a woman takes the stage. When she opens her mouth, actual music comes out. This isn’t the usual karaoke massacre. This girl cansing. Her voice is smooth as whiskey, turning Prince’s slightly pervy “When Doves Cry” into something that makes my chest tight.
Makena’s hand slides higher.
My fingers dig into her thigh.
We’re both breathing too fast, eyes locked, as Melody croons about touching trembling stomachs and being left alone in a cold, cruel world, and fuck…
This shouldn’t be so hot—we’re in a dive bar that smells like sour beer and the unfortunate number of Pepé Le Pew Pews they’ve sold tonight—but all I can focus on is the heat in Makena’s eyes and the way her fingers are now dangerously close to where I’m straining against my zipper.
The blood is rushing south so fast I’m getting lightheaded. My cock is practically begging for attention, and her pinky finger is right there, just an inch away from brushing against it. I slide my hand up to her inner thigh, and she parts her legs just slightly, just enough to be an invitation.
Her pupils are blown wide, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and all I want to do is lean in and?—
“I have to pee,” she blurts out.
I blink, hand going still mere centimeters from her clit. “Pee?”
She scoots across the vinyl, breath still coming fast. “Yes. Pee. Right now. Immediately. You know I have a very small bladder.”
“Idoknow that,” I say, weirdly proud of that fact.
After barely a week, I know that she can’t make it more than three hours without needing to find a bathroom, wakes at the crack of dawn no matter how late she goes to bed, and always checks to make sure her dining partner has everything they needfor a luxurious meal before attending to her own plate. She loves fresh dill, hates cantaloupe with a passion I reserve for people who slap puppies, and has very strong opinions about free-range chicken.
Namely, that they should always be free range, and that chickens have a God-given right to live wild and happy before they become food.
I know all these things, but I can’t wait to learn more, to memorize this woman like the lyrics of my favorite song.
Which might be “When Doves Cry” now. I can’t believe I never realized how chock full of longing andsexthis song was before.
“So yeah, I’m going to do that.” She stands beside our booth for a second, shifting from one foot to the other, looking everywhere but at me. Then suddenly, she adds in a rush, “But if someone were to knock on the door to the family bathroom in like…two minutes, I would let him in.”
My pulse spikes. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes.” She finally meets my gaze, the hunger in hers making my mouth go dry. “Yes, I would. I would let him in and lock the door behind him. Two minutes, Parker, okay? Exactly two.”
Before I can respond, she’s gone, weaving through the crowd like her ass is on fire.
I sit there, stunned—my thigh still warm from her touch, my cock still hard, my blood thundering in my veins.
She wants me to follow her to the family bathroom.
The only bathroom with a lock at The Brass Monkey.
The bathroom that’s always empty because who the fuck brings theirfamilyto a dive bar in Metairie?
Two minutes, and I’m probably already down to a hundred seconds or less…
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi,I silently count, anticipation spiking hard enough to make my hands shake as I wipe them on my shorts.
This is probably a terrible idea. We’ve been drinking, and we’re roommates, and we have rules. I’m supposed to be a good guy who respects boundaries and doesn’t follow my drunk roommate into a bathroom for what is clearly not a book club meeting.
Twenty Mississippi. Twenty-one Mississippi.
But fuck, she wants this. She said she couldn’t do “this” anymore. That clearly infers that “this” is an issue that’s been bothering her for much longer than one evening. “This” was bothering her when she was sober. She’s just brave enough to say something about it now that she’s had a few.
Besides, she looked at me like she wanted to eat me alive, and I’m dying to be the main course, side dish, and fucking dessert.
