Free Monsters by Liz Kay Page A

around my right arm and try to stretch out my shoulder, roll it around in the socket.
    â€œAll tense again?” he says.
    â€œI’m always tense,” I say, and I frown at him. “I’m uptight. Remember?”
    He steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders, rubs his thumbs along my neck. He works his fingers along my collarbone, up the top of my spine. He’s standing close enough that his breath rustles my hair. He holds my neck in his palms and tips my head upward with his thumbs, catches my mouth with his lips.
    â€œI think you should go to bed with me,” he says, his lips still against mine.
    Actually, this sounds like a terrible idea, but again I have no self-restraint, so I say, “Okay,” and he laughs. He says, “Wow, Stace, you’re really blowing me away with the enthusiasm.”
    â€œNever mind, then.” I brace my fingers against his stomach and start to pull away, but he catches the back of my head, winds his arm around my waist, tightens his grip. “Honey, I’m just teasing you,” he says. He slides his hand up under my shirt, traces the edge of my rib cage with his fingers, and he coaxes my mouth open with his teeth. And then he pulls away and grabs my hand. “You want to bring your wine?” he says.
    â€œNot really,” I say, and he says, “Good.”
    He pulls me through the house to the master, which is in the back, past the study, and there are even more of his stacks of books, and there’s one book lying open on the middle of the bed, and it’s mine. It’s not
Monsters
though. It’s my first book, and I don’t even know what to think of that, but Tommy just moves it off to the side table and sits down on the bed. He pulls me to stand in front of him, and he catches my legs between his knees, works his hands under my shirt, and rubs his palms along my waist. He slides his hands up, lifting my shirt over my arms, dropping it on the floor behind me, slips his fingers under the straps of my bra, rubs his knuckles along them. He presses his mouth into the space between my breasts, moves slowly up my neck and to my mouth, pulling me down onto him. I move my knees up onto the bed on either side of him, and he grabs me tight around the waist, holding me up. “You doing okay?” he says into the side of my neck, and I nod. He lifts me by the hips, rolls me over onto my back, grabs his shirt by the collar and tugs it off. He leans into me, pressing his skin against my skin, and I let my head fall back, let him bury his face in my neck. His fingers are working at the waistline of my pants, which are loose enough not to unfasten. When he pulls hard enough, they just slip off. And he kisses me again, catches my knee with his hand and lets his fingers trail all the way along my thigh, and when he slides his finger inside me, I catch his lip with my teeth. “Oh, baby,” he says, “you don’t feel uptight anymore.”
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    The morning that Michael died, when I came down the stairs, he was in the dining room, sitting with his laptop. He had his planner out, working already, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock. I hadn’t bothered to get dressed yet, but it was one of those mornings when my hairlooked all slept in and sexy, and Michael was wearing this dark striped button-up that I liked.
    â€œYou look kinda hot this morning,” I said, and he said, “You too.”
    â€œYou’re not even looking.”
    â€œI don’t have to. You always look hot.” His right hand was still on the trackpad. I could hear it clicking. His eyes were on the screen.
    I walked around him, straddled his lap from the left, stretched my arms over his shoulders, kissed his jaw.
    â€œBabe, come on,” he said, and he put his hands on my shoulders, pushed me over far enough that he could see around me. “I’m leaving in five minutes. Save it