Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating by Christina Lauren

SEVENTEEN

JOSH

I wake up on the brink of orgasm. I’m still dressed but my chest is sweaty, my blood rushing hot and frantic, and as soon as I come into awareness, I can feel the electric storm building at the base of my spine.

What roused me was the sound of Hazel crying out in my ear. An ancient part of me must have understood the pitch of her noises and heeded it before I was even fully awake, because I’m still rocking my hips when I register that (1) I’m awake and (2) she’s gone limp beside me.

Everything falls still as we pant, breathless. Her leg is around my hip, her hands are fists in my hair, and her mouth is only inches from mine.

“Whoa.” I swallow, lifting my head to glance over my shoulder at her dark bedroom around us. The only light comes from the television. The Apple TV is cycling through the screensavers—a revolving series of flowers and wildlife. The clock on her nightstand tells me it’s 3:21 a.m.; the movie must have ended hours ago. I’m only barely oriented, and I look down at her, mouth soft and lips parted, her eyes open now and lit in the dark.

So here we are: somehow, in our sleep, we started to move together through our clothes, and I think Hazel just …

“Oh my God.” She swallows. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“Me too.”

“I woke up as I was coming.”

So she did come. Holy shit. My stomach tenses with need. “That’s about when I woke up.”

“I’m sorry, Josh. I didn’t mean—”

“No, stop, it was both of us.”

She must be able to feel the hard line of me, pressed against the heat of her, because she whispers, “Are you okay?”

Every muscle in my body is flexed. Hazel’s hands are still in my hair and she scratches her nails gently against my scalp, shifting her hips up just slightly, rocking into me as if she needs to clarify her meaning.

I’m rigid; I can feel the ache, the pulsing tension in my navel that will slowly morph into a leaden, throbbing discomfort. Tomorrow I’ll worry about the fallout. For now, “I … need to come.”

With a whispered, “Yeah?” she lifts her head just enough to press her mouth to mine. It’s soft and warm, and her hips rise from the bed, urging, circling up into me.

“I don’t mind … doing it myself,” I stammer between kisses, “if that’s better …”

“That’s a nice image, but …” Hazel hooks her thumb in my boxers and slides them down over my ass, to my thighs.

Before I climb over her, I have a moment of pause—What are we doing, and what does this mean?—but it evaporates like steam in cold air. We have to untangle slightly to get her underwear off, and I want to feel her, skin to skin. I pull off her shirt, and then mine.

The relief of it—of her bare skin against me, of her legs sliding up and around my hips—is nearly obliterating. I can sense how close my orgasm is, just beneath the surface.

She reaches down, holding me, playing with me against her, and I have to pull my mind somewhere else—I imagine running, scrubbing the shower, chopping carrots—so I don’t come from the heat and friction of her against the head of my cock.

“I know I shouldn’t talk because I’ll ruin it but holy shit, Josh. This feels so good.”

I grit my teeth, tighten the muscles of my abdomen, and force my hips to stay exactly where they are: far enough away that she’s in control, but close enough that she can do whatever she wants.

“I think I could come again. Like this.”

Holy shit.

“Like …” Her voice unravels into a gravelly little sigh and she arches her neck, the words becoming harder to find. “How does something so simple—” She slides the tip of me along her wet skin, back and forth, up and down, in between. I have no idea how I’m even still breathing. “How does this”—a little gasp—“feel so good?”

I’m shaking my head because I have no idea—or maybe my brain is just trying to convince the rest of me to slow down—but I’m distracted by the feel of Hazel’s knees sliding up to rest against my ribs.

She kisses my lips, pulling the bottom one into her mouth. “Do you think it feels good?”

I suck in a breath, light-headed. “I think you feel better than anything.”

“Did you know there are, like, seven thousand nerves in the head of the penis?” she gasps. “More than any other part of your body?”

My arms shake with the effort of holding back. “That seems about right.”

She laughs but the sound breaks apart and floats away as she moves underneath me, hips tilted up as she positions me just where she wants. Everything stops and her eyes meet mine in the odd light emanating from the TV. “Is this okay?”

I let out a single breath, a short laugh at the absurdity of this, kissing her chin. “Are you kidding?”

“We’ll just do it twice, then.”

I’d normally smile at this except my brain can’t process anything but the unbelievable heat of her, the knowledge that I’m about to get exactly what I want. My open mouth rests on hers as I push in, and it means I feel the way her breath shakes.

“Josh.”

She’s right, holy shit it’s so good. “I know.”

“Is this the worst idea ever?”

“I don’t know. Right now it feels like the best idea ever.” I cup her backside, lifting her hips to me, working myself in and out of her, deeper on each pass.

I feel a flash of guilt, like this sex should be for the sake of taking care of business only—an accident that happened in our sleep—and I shouldn’t be enjoying it so much. But how can I not? Hazel is gorgeous beneath me: her hair is a tumble of curls on the pillow, her mouth is full and wet, her breasts move with me every time I push deep into her.

And I get the sense that she’s relishing it, too. She touches me like she’s memorizing my shape, with fingertips and palms, thumbs tracing the lines of my back. Her hands slide down to my ass, back up to my shoulders, my neck, and into my hair. When I push up onto my hands to see what I’m feeling, her hands make a circuit of my front: my shoulders, collarbones, chest, stomach, and down to where I’m moving in and out of her.

Her fingers come away wet and before I can think about it I pull them up and into my mouth before bending to kiss her. It’s such a rare filthy thought but I want her to feel what we’re doing with every one of her senses. If she wants to memorize it, I want to tattoo it into her thoughts.

Look at this, I think. We’re making something right now.

God, there’s a different awareness this time that makes me feel both more relaxed and more inhibited. For one, we’ve done this already, so there’s the familiarity of her body under mine and knowing—even barely—what she likes. But I’m sober, and so every movement is intentional, every touch is conscious.

I also realize, when I hear her sounds and feel the hungry wandering of her hands, that for me at least, this isn’t just infatuation or a flash of desire, it’s deeper. I think this is love, I think she’s it for me, but I can’t quite reach that emotional place with her noises pressed right into my ear; I know I’ll be hearing them for days.

“Josh.”

“Yeah?”

She goes quiet, almost like she’s suddenly shy.

My mouth presses to her jaw, my hand finds her breast as I narrow my movements to the tiniest circles. “Tell me.”

Instead of answering, she cups my face and brings my mouth over to hers. Her kiss is so searching, so desperate that I have to wonder whether she’s asking me something with the touch.

Is this real?

“I feel it, too,” I tell her. Whatever this is. “I’m right there with you.”

Hazel slides her tongue over mine, spreading her legs wide and pulling me deeper, until she’s crying out into my mouth, telling me

Yes

I’m coming

I feel every bit of air leave me as I follow her down the spiral—a relieved gust drains me. The pleasure is unreal: metal and liquid and light, pulling a long groan from my throat that comes out strangled.

Her hands grip my backside, holding me deep as I shake.

Other than our gasping breaths, quiet surrounds us.

“Did you come again?” I whisper. I need to know she did. If the answer is no, I’m not done here.

She nods, her forehead damp against the side of my face. “Did you?”

I cough out an incredulous sound, and she giggles, but when I begin to pull back, she grips me with her arms around my shoulder and her legs around my thighs, keeping me inside her.

“Don’t.” She presses her mouth to my neck. “I’m not ready for this to be over yet.”

I know exactly what she means.

..........

Hazel is already up when I wake, naked in her bed. I hear dishes clattering in the kitchen, and a flash of relief ripples through me that she hasn’t taken off on a run, needing to process this somewhere else.

I cup my forehead and try to figure out what to do. I love Hazel; with the clarity of the morning sun beaming in the window, I know I do. But in the long run, am I what she needs? I don’t want to root her down if she’s not ready, and if she wants someone boisterous and gregarious like Tyler, who am I to say she shouldn’t have that?

I wonder, too, where her head is after what we did last night. Hazel has done this before—casual sex, hookups. But I remember the moments last night when it felt nearly desperate between us, like she didn’t want to let me go. I know that could also be the weight of our friendship, and her fear of losing it. It could have been a comfort screw and nothing more.

I have no idea what to think.

It’s calculated, but I pull on my boxers and jeans, leaving my shirt off. I figure, if she makes some crack about my body, or comes over to touch me—that’s good, right? If she wants to figure out what’s going on between us, I’m totally down for that.

In the kitchen, she’s pulling spoons out of a drawer and glances up when I come in. She’s wearing her favorite dalmatian pajamas—tiny shorts and an even tinier tank, which makes them my favorite, too.

Her chest and neck flush when she sees me, but I notice that her eyes stay firmly on my face. “Hey.”

I rub a casual hand over my stomach. “Hey.”

She quickly turns back to the silverware drawer, closing it with her hip.

“What are you making?” I ask.

Pointing to a box of Shredded Wheat on the counter, she says, “Just cereal. I figured you’d want some, too.” Then she lifts her chin to the coffeepot.

“No blue pancakes? No banana waffles?”

Hazel laughs down at the counter. “I’d probably burn them.”

I pause on my way to grab a mug. “When did that ever stop you before?”

I’m treated to a flash of a real smile before she tucks it away and turns to pull the milk from the fridge.

And seriously, what the hell? Where is my Crazy Hazie?

A sinking feeling spreads from my stomach up through my chest. Did last night break something good between us?

“Haze.”

She looks up at me as she pours some cereal into her bowl. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush before. “Yeah, why?”

“You’re being … normal.”

She doesn’t seem to get it.

I put my mug down and hold out my hand, curling my fingers. “Come here.”

She comes over to me across the kitchen. Her hair is a wild mess, tumbling down her back. The words are so close to the surface: I know this is confusing, but can we try to figure it out?

But she isn’t looking at me, and I can’t tell if the tightness in her eyes is fear or a need to put some distance between us. Am I missing something?

Unfortunately, she’s going to have to do that with words, not expressions and mumbled phrases. I put my hands on her hips and it’s an invitation to touch me. Instead she curls her hands into fists and tucks them against her chest.

“Is this about Tyler?”

She blinks with incomprehension and then shakes her head.

“Then did last night freak you out?” I ask.

She hesitates, but then shakes her head again. But she was pretty emotional last night, and it’s hard for me to know how to read that: if the most insecure part of me is right, and she wants to give this thing with Tyler a shot, I have to let her.

Right?

“Okay, so what is it? Why aren’t you wearing a chicken costume and frying me homemade doughnuts in the sink?”

“I guess it’s a little about last night.” She gnaws on her lower lip before admitting, “I … worry about what would happen …” She screws her mouth to the side, plucking words carefully, but lets the last bit out in a rush: “If we were to pretend we’re compatible.”

Ummmm. It felt pretty compatible. I squeeze her hips gently. “I don’t think we’re pretending anything. We’ve slept together twice, and that’s okay, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything we don’t want it to mean. You’re okay?”

“I am. Are you?”

I laugh a little. “Of course I am. You’re my best friend, Haze.”

Her eyes meet mine and they’re wide with surprise.

“What?” I ask.

“You’ve never said that before.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

I start to think back but it’s honestly immaterial. “Well, it’s true. I’m okay. You’re okay. Most importantly, we’re okay?”

She nods, and finally meets my eyes.

“Now come on. Make me some bad pancakes.”

She slumps with a dopey grin, shuffling back toward the stove. “I mean, if you insist.”

Something unwinds in me at the same time something else tightens. On the one hand, Hazel is back. On the other hand, I feel like we just agreed to maintain the status quo, when I think I want us to evolve.

We made love last night. She has to know that.

She pulls out a mixing bowl. “Did you have fun last night?”

I stare at her. “Um. I thought we already established that, yes, I had fun.”

Laughing, she amends, “I mean before we got back here.”

“Oh. I guess—Sasha is nice. Tyler seemed okay. Mostly I was worried about you.” I study her for a reaction to this. She does a quick scrunch of her nose as if stifling a sneeze. “Feeling better about it this morning?”

She’s only just gotten the flour out and already she has a streak of white on her cheek. “Yeah. I don’t really know why it hit me so hard. It’s good to see him. He seems like he’s in a good place.” Hazel nods a few times, as if she’s convincing herself.

“I thought you told me you were only together for six months. He said two and a half years.”

“He strung me along for two of those years. We weren’t really together; he was just nailing me on the side.” She meets my eyes and crosses hers goofily. “Yeah, I know. I’m an idiot.”

“Guys are idiots when they’re that age. I’m sure he said all the right things to make you think he was coming back every time. He’s several years older now. He seemed pretty remorseful.”

She makes a weird little grimace and then looks away. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am: Why the hell am I defending him?

Hazel moves to the fridge for eggs. Her phone vibrates on the counter.

“Who is it?” she asks over her shoulder.

I look down and my stomach drops.

When I don’t answer, she leans over to catch my eyes. “Josh. What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Nothing.” I show her the screen. “But Tyler texted you.”

“Seriously?” She shuts the fridge door. “Already? What’d he say?” Is that anticipation in her voice?

I don’t want to read it. Literally the last thing in the world I want to read is this text.

But that might be a lie, because I also really, really want to read this text.

“You honestly want me to read this aloud?”

“Yeah, come on, we have no secrets.”

With a heavy sigh, I unlock her phone with the thumbprint she had me program months ago, and read the text.

“ ‘Hey, Hazel. I’ve had more time to process the shock of last night.’ ” I pause, looking up at her. “You sure?”

She cracks an egg into the bowl and nods.

“ ‘You looked beautiful. I’ve never used the word radiant, but it kept looping through my head every time you smiled at me.’ ” I rub my finger below my lower lip. He’s right; she did. She looks even more radiant now—I like to think I did that. “ ‘You’re different, but still the same untamed wild thing I loved. It nearly hurt to see you because I know I fucked up.’ ”

Damn it.

“I really think you should read this yourself,” I say.

She looks at me, pleading.

I lift my coffee, washing down the fire that bubbles up from my stomach. “ ‘I said it last night, and I’ll say it again today: I walked away from something good, and I would do anything to undo it. Will you give me one more chance?’ ”

I put her phone down and run a hand down my face. “That’s it.”

It’s a few seconds before she speaks, and in that time I watch her whip the eggs into a frothy peak.

“That wasn’t bad, was it?” she asks.

I want to punch the wall. “What are you gonna say?”

She drops the whisk and drags the back of her hand—and another smear of flour—across her forehead. “Josh. He’s my ex—the Ex—and he’s back, trying to fix things. You’re here. You’re shirtless. We had sex again last night, and was it good? Yes, hell yes. But am I right for you? Are we anything? Or are we just friends who bang? What would you say, if you were me? Tell me what to do.”

I let out a long, controlled breath.

If she felt what I felt, it wouldn’t be a question. If Hazel is at all torn about the question of Josh versus Tyler, then it’s pretty clear she needs to figure it out before she and I can move forward—if she even wants to. The kitchen clock ticks while we maintain eye contact, and I calculate the odds of this going to complete shit.

She’s my best friend, I’m hers.

We’ve had sex twice.

Amazing sex.

I might be in love with her.

“Josh.”

She may, or may not, be in love with me.

Either way, she’s not settled yet.

“Josh.” Her voice is so thin, it’s like blown glass.

I rap my knuckles on her countertop. “If this is where your head is, then I think it’s worth giving Tyler another chance.”