“Oh god,” he groaned, remembering our awkward NYN coffee date. “For you, I would.” He laughed as he kissed me gently, letting his mouth move from my lips to my brow, to my neck, and then my shoulder. “What do you think,” he said, his voice breathy, “that girl who took those pictures of us on the subway would say if she could see us now?”
“I think she’d be pleased at how right she was.” I rolled my hips against him, the pressure of his body a pull I was unable to resist. “That we might just be Subway QTs after all.”
“Can I call you ‘my QT,’ Franny?” Hayes asked as he licked my nipple ever so gently, pulling his teeth across my breast in a way that caused every hair on my body to startle.
“As long as if, after that, you promise to never, ever say that word again,” I said, before letting out a moan.
“I promise,” he said, moving his mouth to my other breast, his tongue hot on my skin, leaving my body cold and wanting the second it left. “Do you promise?”
“Yes.” I would promise him just about anything if it meant he would never, ever stop.
*
Franny: What would you guys do if I told you I just had three orgasms.
Cleo: With an actual person or w your vibrator?
Franny: Not just with an actual person. With HAYES.
Cleo: STFU
Franny:
Lola: omgomg I KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN
Franny: Yes how convenient you all couldn’t make it to dinner last night. Nice plan.
Lola: BUT IT WORKED
Franny: Don’t tell Perrine!
Cleo: Can I tell the guy from Bumble who I’m about to meet for coffee?
Franny: I hate u both.
Lola: Go ice your vagina, Fran!
Lola: Cleo, report back.
Cleo: I’ll let you know if he looks like someone who can go 4 three orgasms
Franny:
Franny:
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hayes
When I opened my eyes again, I was alone in Franny’s bed. Her room was dark, the rain still pounding outside. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The clock on her bedside table read 6:03 p.m.
I peered over the edge of the bed, but my clothes were nowhere to be found. There was, however, a folded shirt and pair of pants perched precariously on the bedside table next to me with a Post-it on top. “Drying your clothes. Put me on,” it read.
I was just yanking the T-shirt over my head when I heard the wood floors creak. “Hey.” It was Franny. Still wet, but this time from the shower. She was wrapped in a cream-colored towel, her hair in ringlets around her face.
“Hey,” I said. “Thank you for the clothes.”
“I thought you’d look good in my high school boyfriend’s Dave Matthews Band shirt and my biggest pair of flannel pants.” She winked, shuffling by me to her dresser. “I hope it’s okay that I put your stuff in the dryer. I read the tags—it’s all machine-washable.”
“Of course,” I said, watching from the bed as she slipped on a pair of gray sweats and a striped long-sleeved shirt.
The whistle of a teakettle piped up from the kitchen. “Be right back.”
I swung my legs over the bed, sliding into the pants. They were a little short but did the trick. I stretched, my body aching in the best way possible. I was still too out of it to really process what had gone down this afternoon. I mean, yes, sex. And more sex. But also words uttered. Body parts touched. Moans and sighs and promises of things.
I followed her trail out into the kitchen, where she stood over two steaming mugs. The groceries we’d picked up earlier were spread out on the counter: bok choy and cucumbers, and tomatoes so juicy they looked like water balloons about to explode, a container of fresh pasta, and some hand-rolled pretzels.
“Thanks.” I grabbed a mug and leaned against the counter, watching her organize and sort.
“So…，” I started.
She glanced at me, a small smile on her face.
“Would you want to hang out tonight?” I asked it at the exact same time as she said, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”
She laughed. “Yes, let’s hang out. As long as it involves eating some of this food.”
“I’m game.” I blew on the tea, inhaling its sharp peppermint scent. “What were you thinking of making?”
“Well, I have fresh pasta, tomatoes, basil, goat cheese, and some arugula, and that baguette I made you lug home.”
“It’s not soaked through?” I asked.
“I think we can make it work,” she said, pressing tentatively on its crust.