Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

I blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “No. I’ve been calling real estate lawyers, but it’s summer. A few are on vacation, a few are not affordable, some are not taking on new clients. I want to buy him out, and I have some money set aside. I’d been saving it for the down payment on a house. Or for when my car frees itself of its mortal coil. Or in case I need a new kidney.”

“Those three things have vastly different costs, Rue.”

“Have fun on The Price Is Right, Finance Guy.”

He smiled. “Eat up. Your food’s getting cold.”

I’d assumed we would transition to sex after dinner and loading the dishwasher, but Wednesday night hockey was, to my shock and awe, something that existed. When Eli twined his fingers with mine, led me to the couch, and turned on the TV, I was uncertain how to react, but didn’t protest.

His arms, wrapped around me, felt equally alien and mundane. In the uncertainty of the night, I let myself be led down the path of least resistance and sank into his body. He was warm. He smelled good. Outside of sex, I’d never touched someone for such a prolonged time, but contact with him was soothing. “Watching team sports” ranked somewhere below “tweezing spines out of a cactus” on my list of enjoyable activities, but this was, somehow, good.

Really good.

When Eli muttered, “That’s some bullshit,” either thirty seconds or forty minutes later, I blinked in confusion. I’d been that relaxed.

“What happened?”

“That penalty shot the ref called.”

“Ah.”

“The player with the puck jumps sideways to avoid a hit, barely gets clipped, and the defender gets called for a trip. Come the fuck on.” He waved his hand, charmingly aggravated. “Refs have been shit all season,” he muttered. His eyes flitted to me before moving back to the TV. Then did a double take. “What’s that face? If you think it was a legitimate penalty, I swear to god, I will cast you out to the mercy of the elements.”

“The temperature is really nice tonight. And I have no opinion. I don’t know the rules at all.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to teach you.”

I gave him a puzzled look.

“You grew up around rinks. You’d have learned everything there is to know about hockey by now if you were interested. You don’t need me imposing my shitty hobbies on you.”

A dense, heavy weight suddenly pressed against my sternum. Burned behind my eyes. “No?”

“Nah. Just tell me I’m right and the ref ’s a shithead.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’re right and the ref ’s a shithead.”

“You’re a natural.”

We exchanged a smile. The primal, gravitational force tugging me toward Eli was not new, but this was different. A new hum, buried deep, hidden below the frequency of civilization, and it was so much—so, so much—I couldn’t bear it.

“Eli,” I said.

“Yes?”

I thought I’d be rid of you by now. I thought I’d sweat you out. But it’s like you’ve stolen a little piece of me. And I’m afraid that when this is over, I’ll go back to my life, and my shape will have changed—just a little, but enough that I’ll no longer fit into my lonely, angular hole.

“I don’t know,” I said, as sincere as I could be.

“No?” He sat back, assessing me calmly. I couldn’t shake the needling sensation that he understood something fundamental, something nuclear about us that I could not yet accept. “I think you do know, but I might be mistaken.” His half smile was conciliatory. “Am I mistaken, Rue?”

My chest constricted. I was stripped. Uncomfortably seen. “I think,” I said, moving my hand up the inseam of his pants, “that we’ve been talking too much, and that’s not like us.”

His breath was a sharp intake when I cupped him through the fly of his pants. He was instantly hard. “Yeah? What’s like us?”

He didn’t help me, not even by shifting a single inch, but it took me very little to free his cock. By the time he was in my hand, hot and huge, I felt less fragile. “This.” I kneeled between his knees, put my mouth on him, and it felt like the world made sense again.

It was new—not giving a blow job, but giving one to someone whose body I’d become familiar with. Eli had become muscle knowledge, the wheres and hows of his pleasure seeped into me of their own free will.

“It’s almost fucked up, how much I like my cock in your mouth,” he said, and then he swore, shuddered, swore again. After a few valiant seconds of resisting me, he combed both hands in my hair and began thrusting, moving my head in the exact rhythm he wanted. I craved this—to be just a mouth and body again. To be used by him meant that I could not be observed, a second of precious respite from what was growing between us.

He was gentle, because he was Eli, but he was also rapidly losing control. He groaned. His grip tightened, his thighs tensed, and he was right on the verge—until he stopped me. “Nice try,” he half laughed, half panted. The accusation heated my cheeks. “Not working, though.” He took my chin between his fingers and forced me into a slow, deep kiss before carrying me upstairs.

There was usually, at some point of us being together like this, a moment in which the floor tilted and we tipped over—the momentum so fast and hard, we forgot ourselves and tumbled into bed. But this time it was slow, excruciatingly so, and it was Eli who paced us. He lingered on every inch of skin he uncovered, marked it with his hands and eyes, celebrated all progress with kisses and grazing teeth. It felt like revenge—like he wanted me to pay for trying to make him lose control.