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This? This sitting against the headboard shoulder-to-shoulder in awkward silence shit? Yeah, it was weird as fuck. Maybe made doubly so because it wasn't normal for either one of us in our own ways.
So, at a loss, I reached for a remote that had the TV cabinet across from the bed opening. "Alright, Jason Bourne or John McClane?"
"Ah... what?" she asked, body jolting when I spoke like she had been lost in thought. Likely not good ones either.
"Your buddy said you liked action flicks. Which fictional character sets your panties on fire?"
A slow, light blush worked its way across her cheeks, something I shouldn't have, but fucking did find almost annoyingly attractive. Then she went ahead and bit her lip too, because, y'know, I needed my attention to be drawn there right then. "Definitely McClane."
My lips tipped up at that. "Like the old geezers, huh? Fucking perv."
A strange, choked sound escaped her at that, her mouth opening and closing for a second while those bright eyes of hers danced a little. "I don't think there is a red-blooded, straight woman alive who doesn't want to get it on with John McClane." Her lips twitched even harder, but she shut up at that.
"What?" I demanded, wanting to know what put that look on her face.
Then, the laugh broke free, lighting up her whole fucking face. "I just..." she started shaking her head. "You know that catchphrase of his?"
"Yeah." Who didn't?
"I was thinking maybe he says it when..."
Then I chuckled too. "He shoots his load?" I asked, knowing I could have said 'comes' and that she likely wouldn't be bothered by that, but enjoying it way too much how her cheeks reddened when I said something more off-color. If she spent more than an hour with me, she'd probably have a permanent fucking blush. "Alright, pick one," I said, bringing up the Die Hard menu.
"Four," she said without even a hesitation.
"Fucking serious?" I asked, brows lowering. Who chose four over one?
She shrugged one of her shoulders, making the sheet fall down and show the tops of her breasts for a second before she snatched it back up. That modesty thing, it needed some work. Because I wanted to be able to look at that fucking amazing body of hers whenever I wanted. "I like Justin Long. I know, I know," she rushed on, holding up a hand like I was about to interrupt her, "that is not a popular opinion. But I think he has pretty good comedic timing and the best voice for sarcasm."
It was a weird opinion, but I shrugged. "Vengeance it is," I agreed, flicking it on.
Watching the set-up begin, I was oddly aware of my hands and the fact that I had nothing to do with them. Really, it was something I was sure I had never fucking felt before. And if I had, I probably just grabbed a cigarette or a drink. But I didn't smoke inside the house, and the drinks were downstairs, and I had this weird as fuck urge to not get up out of the bed and away from her.
Glancing over, Kennedy seemed similarly afflicted with discomfort, her arms crossed over her tits, hands clutching the sheets right up under the sharp edges of her clavicles.
But the fuck was I supposed to do? Spoon her?
Not to sound like a dick, but, yeah, spooning was some other world weird fucking shit. Like here, I want your ass in my crotch but not to fuck it, just to settle there all inviting, but my dick better not get any ideas because then I'm a jackass for not being able to touch you without wanting to fuck you. And your hair is all in my face. And your tits are right there but I'm not supposed to touch them. And, it's fucking hot. Bodies are hot. Nothing sexy about sweat.
Yeah, spooning was off the table.
At a loss, I crossed my hands over my chest, leaned back, and watched the movie.
Well, my eyes were on the movie. My brain kept doing weird shit like wondering if she was feeling as off as I was and if she was watching it or just looking like she was like me.
Sometime around the middle of the movie, she slumped down so her head was on the pillows. Looking over, her eyes were small slits, likely not used to the late night kinda lifestyle that I was being that she had a business to run and that meant she had to sleep at normal hours.
Before the story really started to unfold, when I chanced a look again, her eyelids were closed, her light lashes resting on her cheeks, making me realize maybe for the first time how bad her under-eye bruises were. Like she didn't get enough sleep. And, with absolutely no evidence to support such an idea, I felt like it wasn't just the normal stresses of owning a business that put them there.
