Just This Once by Evelyn Jeannie Hall

Twelve

Lacey knew people thought of her as impulsive, but she resented that. She liked to think of herself as spontaneous. Anytime she went too long without pulling an idea straight out of her ass, she felt this craving to improvise, to do something no one else could see coming. The concept of being predictable or staying too long with the status quo equaled boring to her, and if there was one thing Lacey never wanted to be, it was that.

This may have been why having this clandestine affair with Zane pushed all her buttons so well. Intrigue? Check. Attractive as fuck guy? Check. Not burdened with a long-term commitment? Check. Hot multi-coming sexy times? Check-check. All this sneaking around did wondrous things for her imagination, her libido, and even her self-esteem. It was hard to lack confidence when a terminal bachelor like Zane Morrison made time in his busy schedule to seduce you on the regular.

Garnering so much of his attention was the motherlode of all ego boosts.

Somehow, though, things between she and Zane had evolved. She didn’t know how or why exactly, she only recognized that a level of comfort and trust had developed between them that hadn’t been there at the outset. Yes, she’d trusted him to fuck her hard enough to take her out of her own life for a few hours—or all night—but what they had now was different. She’d told him secrets no one else knew, not even her siblings. And on those rare occasions when she neither saw nor spoke to him, an ache formed behind her sternum. The few times this had occurred, she’d contacted him by text. Which inevitably became sexts. Which swiftly extended into her hauling her ass over to him for a booty call.

Case in point…

Lacey: Whatcha doing?

It was 1:35am on a Tuesday. She should’ve been deep in slumberland because she’d be helping Elizabeth at Bread and Breakfast in far less time than would ever count as a decent evening’s sleep, yet here she was. Lacey peered through the shadowed environs of their Brooklyn loft. The barriers that enclosed their bookended bedrooms served more as half partitions than anything else, so they could still hear whatever their roomie was up to.

This was why she had her phone on silent and had texted instead of called. She didn’t want to disturb Elizabeth. This also meant not ever having Zane over. Even if Elizabeth knew, neither she nor her beneficial friend were the quietest during sex. And exposing her youngest sister to that would be both tacky and inappropriate. So… no.

Despite this inconvenience, Lacey loved living here. She and Elizabeth had gone to several thrift stores and found a collection of stained-glass art that they’d hung in every window. Lacey had decorated their place in these retro, hippie-looking scarves, and the brocade of throws she’d draped over all the furniture made their abode feel cozy and lived in.

Granted, their double loft might not be any larger than their attic apartment over in Jersey City square footage-wise, but the vibe felt safer and more positive. Or maybe that was just because no violent memories of past traumas haunted it.

The blue bubble on her screen peered back up at her without a response. Hell, she shouldn’t have texted him at this hour. If she woke him up, she’d feel guilty. Then, as she was about to give up on him, her cell vibrated.

Zane: *Snoring emoji*

Lacey: Seriously?

Zane: Nope. Apparently, I’m an insomniac tonight. And you know what’s worse?

Lacey: What?

Zane: My dick’s even more awake than I am.

Lacey: Want me to kiss it and make it better?

Zane: Wish you could, but I have to be up soon.

Lacey: Me, too.

She yawned so widely her jaw popped.

Lacey: I miss you.

Only after she’d sent it did she consider the ramifications of her sentiment. She shouldn’t have texted him that sort of message. That’s not what they were about.

Zane: Miss you, too.

Her heart stuttered, then squeezed. Part of her lit up at knowing he’d typed that, but part of her cringed with tension. Since these weren’t the sort of things fuck buddies were supposed to think, much less say, didn’t that mean they were heading toward a possible upset? That was the last thing she wanted. She’d never had any doubts that their arrangement would eventually reach a stopping point, but she wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. Maybe everything would feel less hazardous if she swung the pendulum back in the opposite direction.

Lacey: Miss my tits and ass, you mean.

There. That should do it.

Zane: Well, duh. Your tits and ass are top of the charts.

That felt better. More natural and less like skirting flames that could burn her. But two conflicting emotions descended upon Lacey. One of relief and one of longing. She’d wanted this with Zane, and she adored having it. She didn’t harbor any regrets about it not being more.

Did she?

Okay, time to bungie jump her way out of her overthinking head.

Lacey: Your dick is the cock of the wok.

Raunchy, irreverent humor to the rescue.

Zane: Ah, baby, tell me something I don’t know.

I love you.

The sentence formulated in her brain and rose through her psyche without her being cognizant of where the notion even came from. She dropped her phone like a hot potato. The next words that registered came from another emotion entirely.

Oh, for God’s fucking sake!

Because she couldn’t love Zane, not “in love” love him. She just couldn’t. She’d never felt that towards any man throughout her existence, and she certainly hadn’t ever said those words to one of them out loud. Lacey regarded the phone in her lap like it’d hypnotized her with a hidden subliminal message, brainwashing her into thinking she had cravings she didn’t actually have.

Had she texted him those words? Diving for her cell, she examined it. No. No, she hadn’t. Thank God. Setting her phone on the marble-topped end table she used as a nightstand, she reclined back into her mattress. Then, she got up and set the electronic device even farther away on her dresser. She couldn’t afford to take any chances. Gulping past an arid throat, she pressed her eyelids shut, doing her best to pretend that her “I love you” had been nothing more than an errant thought.

The phone buzzed against the top of her bureau a minute later, and she felt real trepidation of peeking at it. Visualizing a dozen alternate scenarios in her head—each one more outlandish than the last—she finally climbed off her mattress to see what he’d sent.

Zane: Gonna try counting sheep like I did as a kid. Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let… well… you know.

Leave it to the guy she’d was wigging out over to be calm and considerate right now. Jerk.

Okay, so he wasn’t a jerk. Not even a little.

She pictured him lying in his four-poster bed, the wrought iron bars of his headboard behind him as he shut his eyes and imagined white wooly creatures leaping over a low fence. She even attempted to do the same thing.

It didn’t work. And it was all because somehow, despite her vigilance, she’d fallen in love with the man.

Now, the question she must ask herself was what she should do about it.