Will and Hanna: The Living Situation Negotiation

Hi adorables!

Here it is—as promised, the second (and final) Will/Hanna outtake to thank you all for your support!!

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The Living Situation Negotiation
Will POV

A cacophony of horns blared in the window, rudely jerking me awake. I rolled to my back, squeezing my eyes closed and taking a deep breath before glancing at the clock. The walls were blindingly white, the air already warm, hinting at the stifling heat we would face later.

There was no way it was as early as my sleep-deprived body would have wanted.

Seven thirteen.

Fuck. I forgot to set an alarm.

No time for a run. We’d overslept.

Hanna reached for me, warm and slow, hand sliding down my bare stomach, slowing at the trail of hair on my navel and finally curling around my cock.

I stilled the upward movement of her hand, trying to sit up, struggling against the soft, sleepy weight of her torso draped across me. “Wait, wait, wait. I gotta get moving.”

With a little giggle, she slid a leg across my waist and moved to straddle me, rubbing herself on my cock until I had more than just morning wood.

And fuck.

Fuck me.

“Hanna.”

“What?” She bent, pressing tiny, hot kisses into my neck. “You got here so late last night.” Her lips moved up to my ear, teeth nibbling. Her breath was warm, body soft and pliable over mine. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“I know.” She was asleep when I got to her place and, after her week full of job interviews, for once I didn’t have the nerve to wake her. “You were sound asleep.”

She kissed her way over to my ear. “Just a little sex?”

Hanna rolled her hips over mine, sliding the tip of my cock inside.

“Plum.” I groaned. “I have a meeting at eight thirty.”

“Come on,” she whispered. “Real quick.”

She tilted her head, letting it fall to my shoulder and looking up at me with sleepy gray eyes. I slid my hand up her cheek, pushing her messy hair off her face. “You know I don’t like to do real quick.”

A smile came across one side of her mouth. “I know, but I do.”

The day I could resist Hanna Bergstrom-soon-to-be-Sumner was the day I died. I groaned, reaching for her hips and arching up, sliding into her.

She gasped, sitting upright and bracing her hands on my chest, slowly rocking over me with a smile.

I stared at her lips, wet and parted.

I stared at her tits, nipples tight on top of heavy swells, as if we were part of our very own TubeV film.

I stared at her narrow waist, the curve of her hips, her toned thighs bracketing my waist.

I stared at the single ring on her finger.

Goddamn.

She lifted one hand using it to pull her hair over her shoulder, and let the thumb of the other one sweep back and forth across my nipple.

And the little shit didn’t start to speed up at all.

She was fucking luxuriating.

“Hanna,” I growled, grabbing her hips, holding her up a few inches so I could thrust up into her.

She giggled, letting me roll her to the side so I could work my body into hers, the soft pull of her all around me making me feel drunk, light-headed. Her hands dug into my hair, pulling my face to her neck, begging me silently for my teeth, for sucking rough touches to push her over the edge.

“You’re so warm,” I mumbled, biting her gently. “So fucking soft. Why didn’t you wake me up an hour ago? I could have been doing this for an hour.”

Hanna shrugged, turning into me. “You forgot to set an alarm. The make-love-to-Hanna-before-big-meeting alarm.”

I pressed my ear to her lips, wanting to consume her sharp little sounds that grew longer, and breathier, and then she was arching in my arms, coming all around my cock, nails digging into my scalp.

I didn’t think I could get there fast—didn’t think I’d ever want to rush through something with Hanna in bed—but she leaned away, pulling me to her chest and rubbing her tits all over my face. Laughing, I rolled onto her, going for broke and riding her hard for three . . . five . . . ten deep stabs until the intensity of my orgasm shot down my spine and through me, pulling a deep groan from my throat.

I stilled over her, slowly lowering my body to hers and kissing her. Eyes closed, slow and sweet. I felt as I always did after making love: like I might not ever be able to move away from her skin.

“I love you,” she said into a kiss.

“You’d better.” Another horn honked loudly outside the window, jerking me from nirvana. I planted one more kiss on her mouth before pulling out with a groan and climbing out of bed.

Watching me, Hanna sat up, pulling the sheet over her lap. “What time is your meeting again?”

I glanced back at the clock. “In forty five minutes.”

“You have plenty of time.”

I threw her a mildly skeptical look over my shoulder and dug into my overnight bag, searching. “Fuck. I forgot my razor.”

“Use mine,” she said, shrugging.

“It has the lotion thing all over it,” I told her, gesturing vaguely. “I’ll smell like piña colada.”

“The horror.”

This situation was starting to suck.

I mean . . . not really—I had Hanna every night, either here or at my place—but I hated the transient feel over overnight bags and the daily decisions about where we would sleep based on our work schedules the next day. We were only seven blocks apart, for fuck’s sake. It didn’t matter where we slept. I wanted all of the domestic fucking things with her—laundry, lazy Sunday’s watching football at home together, shared groceries. We were getting married in a matter of months and still didn’t have a plan about where we were going to live.

I wanted to be with her for good—now—in a shared home. Our home.

As if she was having the same thought, she said, “You know, if you lived here, things would be so much easier in the morning.”

“Or,” I countered, walking into the bathroom to brush my teeth, “if you moved into my place, we would be seven blocks closer to my office and I could have taken seven minutes longer having sex with you this morning.”

Hanna stood, following me into the bathroom and stretching to put her chin near my shoulder, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “William.”

Speaking around my toothbrush, I shot back: “Hanna.”

She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve been over this before.”

I bent, spitting and rinsing out my mouth. “My place is in a better location.”

Sighing, she gave me her standard reply: “This place is bigger. You could use the second bedroom as an office.”

“My place is rent-controlled.” I moved to the shower, turning on the water.

“This place is paid for. It’s my parent’s—there is no rent. We could use your rent to save for a house.”

“I don’t want to move out of the city.”

She paused, staring at me for a few quiet breaths. “Well, if I don’t get—or want—a faculty position at NYU, we’re going to have to.”

My Hanna was always kind, generous, wide-eyed and curious—all of the things I’ve always loved about her—but she was also wily, and knew that she would have her pick of jobs anywhere in the world.

She also knew I could do my job easily from almost anywhere in the world, too.

So I stuck with our present circumstances: living in Manhattan, Hanna knee-deep in job interviews and post-doctoral research, my job seeming to grow exponentially with every passing day. “All my books are there. All my stuff,” I said, lamely. “Where would I put it?”

She smiled. “You know where to put it.”

I stepped into the shower, scowling playfully at her.

“And all of Dad’s stuff can go up to Boston,” she said, following me under the water. “It’s just here because the place would look empty otherwise.”

“You want me to move in here,” I said, reaching for the soap.

Hanna nodded.

“I have furniture I like,” I told her. “Where would it go?”

“We would keep whatever you want, and put Mom and Dad’s stuff in storage.”

Fuck. It was hard to argue with this.

“All my books?”

She took the soap from my hand, began absently lathering her skin. “They can go on the shelves in the living room.” Soap bubbles lathered on her neck, her arms . . .

I watched as she gripped her breasts with sudsy hands, lifting them, pretending to wash them vigorously so they jiggled.

“I mean, we don’t have to live together yet . . .” she trailed off, pretending to focus on her soapy hands as she played with my favorite two things in the entire fucking world.

My cock jerked between us, ready to go again.

“Look at you working me,” I growled.

Her smile was playful, delivered through upturned eyes. “Yeah. A little bit.”

“You think all you have to do is shake your tits at me and I’ll move in here?”

She thrust her chest forward, shaking them with an enormous grin.

With a growl, I bent, sucking at her neck and wondering if I could get us both off in five minutes this time.

“Okay, Plum. I’ll move in.”

****

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