Page 90 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Lies,” I say, tucking her under my arm. “But yeah, I’m ready to live my best vegetarian life for a week or two.”
“Agreed,” she says. “I’ll pop over to the store tomorrow before y’all wake up and grab stuff to make tofu curry for dinner tomorrow.” Her lips turn down. “Is it wrong that I’m kind of sad that we only have two more nights? I really love your grandma.”
I grin. “Don’t be sad. We’ll just make plans to come back soon. I’ll still be on the PT bench during camp in August. I can probably talk Coach into letting me do my exercises remotely for a couple of days so we can sneak away for a long weekend.”
She sighs, letting her head rest on my chest as we walk. “That would be nice. I doubt I’ll have the food truck up and running by then. But even if I do, I can take a couple of days off, too.”
“No sense working yourself to death,” I agree. “You’ve done enough of that. And you don’t have to worry about paying for rent anymore, so…”
She makes an irritated sound. “No money talk until we get home, remember? But if you’re going to insist on it, just know that Iwillbe chipping in on the mortgage. Proportionally. Since I don’t make a pro hockey player’s salary.”
“Fair,” I say. “Very fair.”
“And then, when you’re old and crusty and can’t play hockey anymore,” she continues, “and I’m a famous restaurant mogul with a fleet of food trucks and an award-winning restaurant in the French Quarter, I’ll take over paying the larger share.”
“Also, very fair. I’m looking forward to being a kept man.”
“Shower?” Makena asks with a smile as we turn into the yard.
“Soon,” I say. “I want to show you something first. Seeing all those kids today made me wonder…”
“Wonder what?” she asks, following me through Nana’s wild garden to the far corner where my old playhouse squats in the gathering shadows. Its brightly painted wood looks a lot more weathered than I remember, but it’s still here. Still standing.
“What’s this?” Makena asks. “Where you used to go to smoke weed when you were a teenager?”
I laugh. “Nah, I was never a smoker. But my Oxford friends and I may have gotten wasted on Pabst in here a couple of times during summer vacation. And I used to play in here all the time as a kid when it was raining. Come on.” I open the creaky door and duck inside, muscle memory navigating the low doorway.
She follows me, glancing around in the fading light. Band posters from bands I loved as a teenager paper the walls, along with artwork from when I was younger, and ancient protest posters from when Nana was a teenager hiding fromherdad out here. There’s a small couch, a desk that’s seen better days, and my beanbag chair still in the corner.
“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” Makena observes. “Nana must come out here and clean up every once and a while.”
“Probably,” I agree. “I think she’s got a soft spot for the clubhouse. This is where she and her friends used to hang out, plotting the feminist revolution and sewing charms on their bell-bottoms. She must have told me that women couldn’t have their own bank account until the 1970s a hundred times when I was growing up.”
“Good,” Makena says, taking my hand. “We should never forget how far we’ve come. Or the women who had to fight to get us there. I’d be so screwed if I couldn’t manage my own finances. My dad would never have co-signed a small business loan for me.”
I squeeze her fingers. “Speaking of loans and finances… I’d be happy to loan you the money for the food truck, okay?” I cut her off before she can protest, “I know you’re a strong,independent woman, but why pay interest if you don’t have to? We could draw up something official, lay out clear terms for you to pay me back over time, just…without interest.”
She shakes her head—annoyed but touched, I can tell. “I don’t need you to save me, Parker. I mean, I did that one time, but not now.”
“I don’t want to save you,” I say. “I just want to make you happy.”
“You already make me happy,” she says, pressing onto tiptoe.
The kiss is gentle at first, tentative in this space that still feels frozen in another time. But then she curls her fingers into my ass through my shorts with a soft moan that reminds me how fucking starved I’ve been for her all day.
I walk her backward until her shoulders meet the wall, my hands framing her face. She arches into me, and I trail my mouth down her throat, feeling her pulse race under my lips. Her hands tangle in my hair as I nip at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
“Parker,” she breathes, but it’s not a protest.
I hook my fingers in the neckline of her sundress and pull it down, exposing her breasts. No bra. She rarely wears one, and it drives me insane. I cup her breast, thumb circling one nipple while my mouth finds the other.
She gasps, her back bowing off the wall as she presses herself deeper into my mouth. And then, her hands are under my shirt, her nails dragging down my back. I work my way across her chest to attend to her other nipple, taking my time, loving the hungry sounds she makes when she needs me inside her.
When I finally drop to my knees, adjusting my weight to accommodate the brace, she’s already trembling.
I push her dress up slowly, kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other, teasing her until she’s squirming against the wall.Only then do I tug her panties down, steadying her as she steps out of them.
She threads her fingers through my hair, holding on as I press my mouth to her. The first taste makes me groan, and her hips buck forward, seeking more. I give it to her, the kind of slow, thorough attention I know she likes best.
