Page 37 of Deja Who
NINETEEN
Weird day weird day weird dayweird goddamned day!
That was about all Archer had time for while Leah was backing him into the empty living room, snogging him
(mental note: stop watching so much BBC)
like she was—ha, ha!—gonna get murdered tomorrow. Or something. One of Elaine’s lines fromSeinfeld
(God, is that why I’m crushing so hard on Leah? she reminds me of a dour Elaine? God, what if she dances as horribly as Elaine does, the whole “full body dry heave set to music” thing? that would be so hot)
flashed through his brain: “We made out like our plane was going down!” Yep. That’s just how Leah was kissing him. Like she wanted to eat him while also pushing him away as she vigorously boned him and then never called him again on her way to get murdered.
Not cool. He would put a stop to this right now.
Right now.
Any minute now. He would. It would allll be stopped.
Thoroughly stopped. Stopped dead. Completely, utterly stopped.
“Ouch!”
“I’m so sorry. Here, I’ll kiss the stab wounds I inflicted and make them all better.”
“You hear yourself, right?” Right. Although, now that he thought about it, the thought of Leah’s lips on his wound... and then his other wound... and then moving lower
(oh please, God, let her move lower)
was disturbingly erotic. He managed to pull back and got a heart-stopping, dick-stiffening look at Leah’s lovely face and glittering eyes, her dark hair mussed and flyaway, her mouth a rosy bruise from kissing. “Okay, we have to... mmm... settle down now. Ah!” She’d pounced on him at “okay.” “Why wouldn’t you listen to the rest of that sentence?” He extricated himself again—Leah was strong for her size, all the murder-prevention training, no doubt—but it took longer this time because his blood was bypassing his arms and heading for his dick. “And just... y’know... have a discussion. About something.”
“I cannot think of anything I wish to do less,” she murmured in his ear, and then bit his earlobe. Which, Archer had just discovered, had a line straight to his dick. Who knew? Someone should do a study. Write a paper. Something. “I’m on the pill, and I saw your labs at the hospital. You’re fresh as a daisy, STD-wise.”
“Uh...” Boundaries? Wait, he could go in bare? Go in Leahbare? Their first time and any other time? No, no. Boundaries. Bare boundaries. Wait. What was he worried about again?
“I’d like to love you in your tower, so bring me there.”
Huh. That was sort of sweet and romantic. And the tower was pretty great. And hedidwant to be a good host. Not showing her the tower would be rude. Think how shamed his mom would be if she found out about his lack of etiquette.
(Do not think about Mom right now.)
“No. Here.” He grabbed her wrists and sort of pulled her after him as he backed across the room to the couch. “We need to sit here and—”
“Good idea. I like sectionals.” She pounced and once again his hands were full of Leah, only this time she’d knocked him prone which made it sooooo much harder
(that’s what she said)
(stop that! idiot!)
to fend her off. Not that he was one hundred percent on board with fending her off. Her lovely, apple-sized breasts were mashed against his chest, her lips were tracing the line of his jaw, finding the stubble and running her tongue over it, one of her knees was between his thighs, spreading his legs
(unhand me, you brute!)
and she was holding one of his wrists and stroking a thumb across his pulse point, which caused said pulse to ramp up at least twenty beats. He could feel something hard pressing against his chest,
(is that a balisong knife in your bra or are you just—cue punch line)
no, there were two of them, one in each cup, and he should be alarmed but wasn’t, and really, what harm could come from letting her molest the bejeezus out of him? What possible harm other than accidental stab wounds from her bra knives?
