“You already picked it, didn’t you?” I say, and she flashes me a wide smile.
“It’ll be delivered in the morning, so y’all need to finish this room before then.”
Scott curses and I let out a heavy sigh. “Linds, that’s just dirty. At least give us a little time.”
She shrugs and turns back to the kitchen. “I’ve got another four boxes in here. Have fun, boys.”
I shake my head and look at Scott. “You really need to control that girl.”
“Fuck you, dude,” he snaps. “Get that box out of my way.”
I move the box of clothes. Scott is pissy, which is making the whole process of moving even more hellish than normal.
But he’s directing all that anger at Lindsay. It would bother me more, except I know what she’s doing. I’ve been watching her single-handedly manipulate my boy for half a year, and if there is anything I’m sure of, it’s that Lindsay Illian knows exactly what she’s doing when she pushes Scott around.
Giving him something to be pissy about keeps him focused on her and not on the terrifying elephant in the room.
We’re moving in together.
It was her idea, although I know Peyton had a hand in it. And it makes sense. The new school year is starting, and they spend more time at our place than anywhere else. I knew all the reasons why it was a good idea, all the reasons on paper. Saving time and money, and practicality.
It was still terrifying, and part of me wanted to bolt. As much as I adored Peyton, as sure of her as I was, I had never lived with a woman. I'd lived in group homes, and by myself, and with Scott. I had never wanted to live with anyone else.
"Where does this go?" Scott asks, holding a big box with Peyton's handwriting on the side.
"Our room," she says bouncing on her toes. She cuts her eyes at me. "I got new sheets for our bed."
And that. That right there settles me. Because no matter what else there is, I'm doing this with her. A girl who I've got no fucking doubts about. And the idea of her in my bed, in my space, all the time—it's more intoxicating than it is infuriating.
I slap a screwdriver against Scott's chest and grin. "Come on. We need to get the table put together before that couch arrives."
He looks vaguely sick, but he follows me.
***
My whole body hurts when we finally quit for the day. It took two days and enough coffee to give me an ulcer, but we're done. Everything is out of our old place, and aside from the couple boxes of random shit no one knows what to do with, the new place is set up. Linds even cooked a first meal for us.
And Peyton has kept me out of our room as she worked on it for most of the evening, shouting for Lindsay and even Scott when she needed help and shoving me away every time I tried to sneak a peek. She's almost vibrating with excitement now as she shifts from foot to foot in front of the closed door, her wide blue eyes searching mine and nervous.
"Babe, you don't need to be nervous," I say, pulling her into me. "All I need is you and a warm bed."
She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. It's this adorable look she does when she's going to argue with me, or when she thinks she's right and I need to learn something.
"You deserve more,” she says stubbornly.
My stomach drops, an unpleasant pitch that sends the three beers I've had sloshing in a dramatic, not good kind of way. I reach past her and push open the door, my eyes locked on hers.
Pull her tight to me and lift her, just a little. Without hesitating, she wraps her legs around me, letting me carry her.
It feels right, somehow.
This girl has always felt right, in a way that is hard for me to define or quantify.
The room is lit by a few candles and a lamp by the bed—a queen-sized bed covered in a dark spread and fluffy pillows. My sketch pad and pens are sitting on the side table, waiting like I left them there earlier in the day. Books are scattered on her dresser with a small, carved box and a few mysterious, girly-looking bottles. An oversized desk is pushed against the wall overlooking the window, and her computer sits on one side, my work shit and notebooks on the other.
There are small ropes wrapped around the bedposts that make me grin, and our shoes and clothes are lining the walk-in closet.
The walls, though. They snag and hold my attention.
It's something that took me almost four months to figure out. Even now, Peyton is quiet and almost secretive. She doesn't share herself naturally, and there is very little that is more intrinsic to who she is than her art.
But she is fantastic. Where I prefer ink and charcoals, Pey likes watercolors and the camera.
The walls are a work of art. And a tribute to us. Pictures of me, on stage, smoking outside Keegans, blowing on my hands. One is in a field, and I remember when she took it. We had gone camping, just the two of us and a shitty little tent that we found out had a hole in it. I'm crouched next to a fire, and smiling at her.
I told her I loved her on that trip, after we got rained on and stumbled, cursing, through the storm. Thunder had been so loud, so fucking close, and she had stopped, tipped her head back, and twirled.
Fucking twirled in the rain, dancing in it like a child.
I fucked her in the field, thunder and rain all around us, her body running with water, and whispered those three little words while she shuddered and came.
There are more. Her in my bed, asleep. Us at Barrie’s, on New Year’s. Me and Scott singing. Us in a park and on our shitty couch, and the back of the truck, and a starscape.
Our whole fucking story is spread over the walls, in brilliant color and haunting black and white.
“Fish,” I murmur, and she makes a small noise.
“You like it?” she asks, her hands twisting together nervously, and I walk her backward, until she hits the wall and the picture of me grinning in the snow rattles. She gasps when I push against her, my dick rubbing at her through the layers of clothing.
“I love it,” I whisper against her ear. “I love you.”
She purrs, a soft noise of satisfaction and rolls her hips. Pleasure shoots through me, and I groan against her lips. “You know moving is exhausting as fuck, right?”
She nips at my lower lip, kisses me, and grins. Pulls back. “Go lay down,” she murmurs.
I arch an eyebrow and she smirks.
My shirt hits the floor and I toe off my shoes and shove down my shorts before I sprawl across the bed, propped on my elbows as I watch her.
She ties my ankles first, and I drop back, grinning.
Peyton loves games. She's sweet and proper outside our bedroom. She likes wearing her artistic edge in her clothing and the hair she cut recently, the gauges in her ears and nose piercing. But she's a sweet girl, for all that. Polite, and considerate.
But she's a demanding bitch in the bedroom. And she loves to play dominance games. It's not hardcore shit—neither of us have the bent for true D/S—but sex is a game. One mixed with pain and control and exhibition. It’s why she likes being loud when she knows Scott is home, why I can finger fuck her in a bar, or on a crowded city bus. It's hot as fuck, and I'm just kinky enough that I fucking fly on it.
She kisses me once when my hands are tied, and shoves a pillow under my head so I don't have to crane to see her.
Whatever game we're playing, she wants me to have a good view.
She strips slowly, a coy tease as she sways around the room, coming close for a kiss and brushing her bra-clad breast close to my lips before pulling away and shimmying out of her jean shorts.
She's naked and smooth and wet beneath them, and my dick jerks as I strain against the ties.
I'm not going anywhere.
It might all be a game, and I might love to play it, but I'm also not under any delusions about Peyton's seriousness when she comes to play.
"You’re tired, right, baby?" she coos, stretching out alongside me. Close, but not close enough. "So you relax. Watch."
My mouth goes dry as she leans her head against my shoulder, her hand dropping down to squeeze her tit. Her back arches a little, and her eyes go glassy as her fingers circle and circle, teasingly light before pinching a nipple and tugging, and her body goes bow-tight against me, her back arching as she moans. Her free hand is trailing down her belly, and I watch it with avid hunger as it smoothes over her soft stomach, the pale, freckled skin, down to her pretty pussy. She whimpers when she brushes her clit, and I swallow. "Does that feel good, sweetheart? Do you feel good?"