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We ate dinner and then we curled up together on the couch and watched one of Lillah's favorite shows.

"I love the smell of this candle." She said, when I came back from the washroom. "Where did you get it?"

"My mom threw it in one of the moving boxes."

"She has good taste. I think I like her." Lillah grinned as I curled in behind her again.

"She would love you. She would take one look at you and probably start planning the wedding and picking out baby names."

"Whoa, slow down there." Lillah laughed.

"Hey, she has been asking me every single time I talk to her if I've met anyone yet. Last week I made the mistake of mentioning you, and she spent almost an hour interrogating me."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her you are smart and stubborn. That you make better tortilla shells than I do and that your dog weighs more than our goalie."

"Stop! You did not say that about Cooper." She said, laughing.

Her laugh was music to my ears, and I pulled her closer to me kissing her. We watched the rest of the movie, and by the time the credits rolled, Lillah was looking more like herself. I'd gotten up to put the pizza away and when I came back she was sitting on the couch petting Cooper.

"Marshall."

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking. I don't want to do this halfway. Whatever this is between us, I don't want to pretend it's casual when it isn't."

"It isn't casual, not for me, and it hasn't been that way for a while." I said, sitting down beside her.

"Okay, so what is it?"

"It's you and me together. Officially, exclusively. Whichever word you wish to use."

"How is boyfriend?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What? Are we in high school?" I winked.

"Okay fine. Significant other, or partner, or better yet the guy who lives next door, who comes over on occasion and fucks me silly and can't stop thinking about me?"

I chuckled. "I think I will take the last one." I got up and pulled her to her feet. I cupped her cheeks with my hands and looked into her eyes, at the gold flecks in her brown eyes and at the small scar on her chin.

"I won't let anyone hurt you. Not him, not anyone. Before you tell me that is a big thing to say, and I know you've probably heard the same promise before from him, remember I'm not him and unlike him I will keep mine."

She leaned into me, kissing me softly at first. Then harder. Her hands slid under my shirt, her fingers tracing the muscles along my ribs, her nails grazing the skin on my back. I pulled her close, and she pressed against me, chest to chest, hip to hip. The kiss went from tender to frenzied.

I pulled her down onto the couch, lifting her so she could straddle my lap. My hands settled on her hips, fingers pressing into the soft curve of them, and she rolled against me. The friction hit me low in my stomach, a slow drag of heat that made me groan. She did it again, harder this time, grinding down against the length of me through my jeans, and my grip on her tightened until I knew I'd leave marks. Her mouth found my neck, my jaw, and then the spot below my ear, the one that made every coherent thought dissolve. I could feel her smile against my skin when my breath caught.

I lifted the hoodie over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath, and for a second I looked at her. The warm light from the lamp caught her skin, and I swallowed hard, my chest tight with something that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with her. I kissed her throat, slow, then her collarbone, then down the center of her chest, dragging my mouth across her skin. I took my time, pressing openmouthed kisses to every inch I could reach, my tongue tracing the curve beneath each breast.

She arched into me, her fingers threading through my hair and pulling hard enough to sting. I took one nipple into my mouth, circling it with my tongue before sucking, and she gasped—short and sharp, her whole body tightening against me. I switched to the other, grazing my teeth over the peak, and her hips ground down against the hardness straining behind my zipper. The sound she made—low and broken—went straight to my cock.

"Off." She tugged at my shirt, her voice rough and breathless. I pulled it over my head and tossed it to the floor, and her hands were on me before I could take a breath. She traced the muscles of my chest with her palms flat, her fingers warm against my skin, then down my stomach, following the V-shaped muscle that disappeared below my waistband. She ran her fingertips along that line slowly, deliberately, watching my face while she did it, and my abs contracted under her touch. I grabbed her wrist, stopping her before I lost control.

"Bedroom?"

She shook her head. "Here," she said, biting her bottom lip. Something about the way she said it—low and certain—made my pulse kick hard against my ribs.

She pushed me back against the couch and reached for my belt. Her fingers worked the buckle, then the button, then the zipper, and I lifted my hips so she could pull my jeans and boxers down. She wrapped her hand around my cock, her grip firm enough to make my vision blur. She stroked once, slow, base to tip, her thumb sweeping over the head and smearing the wetness there. Then again, twisting on the upstroke, and I hissed through my teeth, my hands fisting the cushions. She watched me the whole time, that expression half power and half want, and I couldn't look away from her.