Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas #2) by Ali Hazelwood

            His pupils track the progress of my hands, blown wide. “I noticed you.”

            “Noticed me?” I undo the clasp of my bra. He twitches inside me. His jaw ticks with restraint.

            “In the building. The lobby.” He closes his eyes. Then opens them. “Once in the elevator.”

            I take off my bra, feeling stupid to have been worried. He’s staring at my body like it’s somewhere between holy and utterly, deliciously pornographic. “What did you notice?”

            “Sadie.” His throat bobs. “A lot.”

            “And . . .” I push down on my knees and circle my hips twice, working him a little deeper. A fraction of an inch, but the friction, the sense of fullness—my eyes roll back in my head. I didn’t know anything could be so far inside me and feel so good. Couldn’t have imagined. “And what did you think?”

            “Oh, fuck.” A desperate sound comes out of Erik’s throat. “This. This, and more.” He swallows. “Lots of other things, and—Sadie, you’re going to have to give me a minute to adjust or I’m going to—” Erik sounds just as astonished by this as I feel. His eyes are screwed shut, and his hands grip me so hard, and his teeth sink into my shoulder. “Sadie, I’m about to—”

            “Don’t worry.” I pant my smile against his ear, fluttering like I’m about to go under. “You’re doing so well, Erik.”

            I come like an avalanche, and then he does, and when I squeeze my arms around his neck, I don’t ever mean to let go.



* * *



            • • •

            In the morning, I watch him shave in front of the mirror just because I can.

            He uses a razor that looks like the ones I buy for my legs (i.e., cheapest at the supermarket). If he minds the bleary-eyed girl who had less than two hours of sleep and is currently sitting wrapped in a towel on his bathroom counter, he hides it well. But I’m almost sure he doesn’t. Mostly because he’s the one who put me here.

            “You’re so tall,” I say, a little tired, a little stupid, leaning back against the mirror.

            His mouth twitches. “You aren’t.”

            “I know. That’s what I blame the end of my soccer career on.”

            “Isn’t Crystal Dunn pretty short?” he asks, rinsing his razor. He dries his hands on his pajama bottoms, which hang deliciously low on his hips. “Meghan Klingenberg, too. And—”

            “Shut up,” I say mildly, which only amuses him further. He sets down the razor and moves closer, hands slipping inside my towel and coming to rest against the small of my back, warm and instinctive and impossibly familiar. Like it’s something he’s been doing every day for his entire life. Like it’s something he plans to do every day for what’s left of it.

            I love this. The way he pulls me into him. The way he grows hard but seems to be content with this not going anywhere. The way his face nuzzles into my throat. I love this. But.

            “I just think you might be too tall,” I say into his clavicle. “I foresee neck problems for both of us.”

            “Hmm. We’ll probably need surgery a few years down the line.” His smile travels through my skin. “How’s your insurance?”

            “Meh.”

            “Mine’s good. You should go on it when . . .” He trails off. Picks up again with, “Have lunch with me today.”

            “I don’t usually have lunch,” I tell him. “I’m more of a ‘big breakfast, then forty snacks scattered throughout the day’ kind of person.”

            “Have a big breakfast and forty snacks with me, then.”

            I laugh. Yes. Yes. Yes. “What’s the closest subway stop?”

            “I’ll drive you into work.”

            “I need to go home first. Feed Ozzy. Remind him of my unyielding love for him.”

            “I’ll drive you home, and then I’ll drive you into work. You can introduce me to the hamster.”