Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Throughout the tour, Belly tries to focus on the house, get a layout on where she’ll be staying for the next two weeks.

It’s gorgeous. They start upstairs, with each of the spacious bedrooms and gleaming bathrooms.

“You'll be in here,” Conrad says, his long fingers wrapped around her suitcase as he pulls it through the doorway of one of the bedrooms. He glances over his shoulder at her, his eyes trailing down and then back up her body, assessing her, leaving heat in its wake. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Her eyes wander to the closed door across the hall. “Who will be in there?”

He lets the question linger just for a moment before he grins and says, “Me.”

“Oh.” Belly isn't sure why she's so breathless. Conrad turns back around, and she exhales, grateful he hadn't noticed.

The bedroom that will be hers for the next two weeks has white wallpaper with blue accents, and though she's more intensely focused on his hands as he talks, she's pretty sure he says that his mom had the wallpaper flown in from Paris.

There’s a large bed against the wall, a white wrought-iron bed frame, and white curtains that billow with the window floating in from the open window. A desk is in the corner, a large, heavy standing mirror is by the window.

Belly immediately loves this room.

After that, they head downstairs. Conrad walks in front of her, his hand wrapped around the railing. Her eyes stick on his fingers for one singular second before she tears her gaze away, biting her lip in an effort to stop a flush from appearing on her cheeks. (It doesn't quite work.)

The entryway is grand, with wooden stairs and paintings on the wall by the staircase. My mom painted those, Conrad says, and Belly notes this as something to ask Susannah about later.

The living room doesn't have a TV, but there is a lot of natural light, a floral print couch and an armchair, a fireplace that remains unlit now that it's summer.

An image comes to her so clearly then, as if it's reality and not a fantasy: Belly, in the winter. Snow falling in thick, fluffy flakes, building up on the windows and the porch.

She’s curled up on the couch in a crewneck and sweatpants, a blanket tossed over her legs as she watches a movie (It’s A Wonderful Life, probably; she rewatches it every year) on her laptop.

The fire crackles, warm and inviting, and Conrad’s sitting in the armchair, doing a crossword puzzle, asking her for her thoughts on a clue he's stuck on, his pencil tapping against the paper in—

Wait.

Conrad?

She almost laughs.

Conrad Fisher isn't someone she's going to build a life with.

Between her looming deadline for the book and the fact that she's had a disastrously dry dating life, she's not exactly looking for love at the moment.

And she’s certainly not looking for love with Conrad Fisher, of all people.

She's pretty sure he hates her. She's not his biggest fan, either.

They move onto the kitchen, which is exactly how she would’ve imagined the kitchen of this beach house, had she actually taken the time to imagine it: the decor is in muted blues and whites, a vase of fresh blue hydrangeas on the counter placed there by Susannah. An island in the middle is its epicenter, wicker barstools underneath. That leads into the dining room with a sturdy wooden table and a cabinet full of glassware, and it's here that Belly can admit she's not paying attention to the house at all.

She's thinking about Conrad.

About his hand curling around her shoulder as he nudged her out of the way of her suitcase, his touch burning through her as though his hands were roaming over her naked body, instead of wrapped around her shoulder.

About forearm flexing as he'd pulled her suitcase out of the car, the way he’d looked at her after she said what'll you give me if I do?, his eyelids going heavy from lust.

About the look in his eyes as he said bragging rights aren't enough for you?, like he wanted her to challenge him.

Or to kiss him.

She’d thought about it. In the handful of seconds between her asking what he’ll give her if she doesn't argue with him and him asking about bragging rights, she’d pictured closing the distance between them, her hand sliding into his hair. The beat of silence before she kissed him, gave in to the tension that's pulled taut between them every time they've seen each other for years.

She didn't.

Kissing him wouldn't solve anything, after all. He'd probably be annoyingly good at that, too, instinctively knowing where she likes to be kissed and touched, the way he instinctively knows how to push her buttons.

And then she'd noticed he was hard. His cock was straining against his jeans, and his cheeks were flushed, yet he was looking right at her.

He wasn't hiding it.

That was hot as fuck.

Now, they move into a second sitting room, and Belly stops in her tracks, her throat tightening.

In the sitting room, pushed against one of the walls, is a bookshelf.

That bookshelf is filled with Laurel's books. Her standalone works, a fantasy trilogy that's gone out of print, her mystery series. The 10 in that series she wrote before she died, the two that have Isabel Conklin on the spine instead of Laurel Park.

Conrad’s eyes follow hers, and even though she's been so focused on him that she hasn't been listening to what she's saying, she notices that he stops talking, the shape of his mouth forming around a word before it falls away.

Her gaze snaps to his, and he scratches the back of his neck, almost like he's nervous. But that's impossible.

Conrad Fisher is never nervous.

You've only met him a few times, her brain reminds her.

Right.

Well.

In the few times she's been around him, he's never been nervous. He’s been confident, and cocky, and annoying, and hot as hell but he's never been nervous.

This is a first.

“I wasn't sure if I should move them,” he admits, his voice quiet and delicate, as though he’s afraid that, by talking too loudly, she’ll run away. He swallows hard, his Adams apple bobbing with the movement. “I know it must be difficult, seeing the books together like that.”

“It's not that,” she says, and Conrad gives her A Look, his eyebrows raised, his head tilted, and she sighs. “Okay, fine. It’s kind of that. I think it’ll always hurt a little bit, you know? I just—I know she and your mom weren't close after college. I wasn't expecting her to have all of her books, even mine.”

Conrad opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but after a moment, he crosses the room to the bookshelf.

Thinking this is part of the tour (he hadn't gone this in-depth in any other room, a fact that Belly hasn't registered due to thinking about him but trying not to look like she's thinking about him), Belly follows him. Her breath catches when he pulls two books off the shelf: the first one in Laurel’s mystery series and the second one in her fantasy trilogy.

He sets the mystery book on top of the fantasy novel, then opens to the title page.

“Oh,” Belly breathes out, her hand reaching out of its own accord to brush the edge of the page.

There, on the title page of the book, is Laurel’s handwriting.

Dear Beck, Laurel’s written in her swooping handwriting. You know I always put something in my books that reminds me of you. This time, it should be obvious.

Laurel

It hits Belly, then, that it’s been years since she's seen her mother’s handwriting, and she sways a little on her feet, dizzy from the sight of it.

Conrad's hand wraps around her waist, his forearm pressed against the small of her back. It’s instinctive, a way to stop her from falling, yet she's grounded by it. She leans into it, her eyes leaving the page and focusing on him.

In her vision, he’s blurry.

“Shit, Belly, I’m sorry,” he says softly, a reflex. The book closes with a soft thud, and his hand comes up to brush her hair behind her ear.

This is the first time he’s ever touched her on purpose.

“No.” She shakes her head, sniffles. His hand settles against her cheek, warm and steadying. “No, don't apologize. I just . . . I haven’t seen her handwriting in a while. I almost forgot what it looked like.”

Her voice cracks. Saying it out loud makes it even more real, somehow.

“Belly,” Conrad says gently, though concern clouds his green eyes. “You're not a bad person for forgetting her handwriting.”

She stares at him for a long moment. She has no idea what she's looking for in his gaze, but he hasn't run, he hasn't let go, he hasn't even said anything snarky.

“I know,” she says, and her voice cracks again. “It just hurts. Forgetting pieces of her.”

“It always will.”

She cracks a smile, nudges his shoulder. “Med school made you wise.”

“Yeah.” He laughs a little awkwardly, likely thrown by the compliment. It was teasing, though, so Belly doesn't think it counts. “I actually—”

“I’m starving,” Steven calls, followed by his footsteps bounding down the stairs. “Can we get dinner or go grocery shopping?”

Conrad’s hands fall so quickly it's as though he’s been burned, and Belly tears her eyes away from him just as Steven comes around the corner, into the second sitting room.

“Yeah,” Conrad says. He lets go of her quickly, as if he’s just remembered that they despise each other, and hooks his thumbs into the belt loops on his jeans.

“Actually,” Steven says, tapping his chin as though he’s thinking incredibly deeply about what he wants to say next. Belly sees right through him; his eyes are bright with mischief, so it's obvious he's about to make some sort of joke. “It’s my birthday, so I shouldn't have to go grocery shopping. Will the two of you do it for me?”

“Your birthday’s next week,” Belly snarks, setting her hands on her hips.

Conrad shrugs one shoulder, and even though he hasn't said anything, it's obvious he's about to disagree with her. The niceness he’d exhibited moments ago is gone, replaced by his usual annoying, cocky self. “I don't mind. The grocery store isn't far, and it shouldn't be crowded.”

Belly rolls her eyes. There it is. “Kiss-ass.”

His eyes cut to hers, and the tiniest of smirks is forming at the edges of his mouth. “Would it kill you to do something nice for your brother?”

“No, but an hour in a grocery store with you might. You probably have a whole system. A color-coded list, or—wait, no, one of those apps where you input everything you have in your kitchen and it tells you what you're out of.”

He crosses his arms, and the face of his watch glints for a moment. “You probably forget half the things you need and only remember once you’re on the way home.”

“You shop the store in order.”

At that, he looks genuinely horrified. “Do I even want to know how you go through the store?”

In order, too, but he doesn't need to know that.

She grins, the corner of her mouth tilting up wickedly. “I start from the back of the store, and—”

“Don't finish that sentence.”

She takes a step closer to him, tilting her head back to look at him. He has to look down at her, but that doesn't matter; she still feels like she has the upper hand in this situation. The air is taut between them, crackling with an electricity that she ignores.

“Why not? Are you afraid of how much you’ll like the answer?”

The words are purposefully breathless, and she watches the moment they land, because his pupils dilate so much they practically swallow his irises.

“I’ve never liked any of your answers,” he says coolly, though the faintest of flushes creeps onto his cheeks. “They piss me off.”

She thinks of saying what’ll you give me if I do? and how hard he was. Judging by the way the flush on his cheeks deepens, he’s thinking about that, too. His jaw tightens.

“We both know that's a lie.” She turns to Steven then, only to see he’s talking to Taylor, who must've entered the room at some point while Belly was annoying Conrad. “Conrad and I will go.”

“Thank God,” Steven says.

“You don't have to,” Taylor adds, rolling her eyes. “Steven was just being an ass.”

Belly glances up at Conrad, who hasn't looked away from her. Annoyance radiates off of him in waves, and she grins at him, sharp and sarcastic. “I know. Conrad, what do you say?”

He swallows hard. “Let's go.”

*

Conrad grips the steering wheel so hard his fingers already ache.

He’s on-edge, feels a little out of control, and they only just got in the car. They're taking his car, which Belly surprisingly hadn't fought him on, and the radio plays softly between them, the air still taut with lingering tension.

“The only grocery stores in Cousins are overpriced and all organic,” he says, bracing his hand on her headrest and glancing over his shoulder as he backs out of the driveway. He very pointedly does not look at Belly. “We’ll have to go to one about half an hour away. Is that okay?”

“Maybe I want overpriced organic groceries.”

He bites back a grin, feels the burn of her eyes on him but doesn't look back at her. “Well, you'll have to wait until next week, when it’s just us. We can go then.”

“Really?”

He laughs. “You're so used to getting what you want that it doesn't even bother you that you have to wait, does it?”

“I’m very good at waiting, Conrad.”

“Yeah.” The word scrapes against his throat. “I’m sure you are.”

The car rolls to a stop at a red light, and he can't help it: Conrad does glance at her then.

She’s no longer looking at him, has instead turned her gaze out the window to watch the ocean rush past. Her left hand is curled into a fist on her thigh, while her right hand fiddles with a thread on her dress. She’s tense, like she's bracing herself, though for what, he doesn't know.

He imagines putting the car in park, right here in the middle of the street, and then asking her to go to the backseat.

“You’re tense,” he’d say at the inevitably confused look on her face. She’d bite her lip, and he’d want to tug it free with his teeth. “I want to help. Please, Belly.”

“Okay, yeah,” she’d reply, letting go of her lip, saliva shining on it as she unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs into the back.

His brain takes over from there, providing him with a short film of what would happen next.

Once they're both in the back, he’d run his hands up her thighs, slipping under her dress to the waistband of her underwear.

“I want to taste you,” he’d say, his gaze dragging up her cherry-print dress to her face, and even though he’s never seen it, his brain provides him with her lust-filled gaze: her dilated pupils, her heavy eyelids, the shallow breaths she’d take, the faint flush on her cheeks. “Can I, Belly?”

“I don't know,” she’d shoot back, attempting for snark but landing on breathless. “Can you?”

His eyes would darken. “Yes. Need to hear you say it, though. That you want this.”

“Such a gentleman, asking that from between my thighs.”

He’d laugh, low and ragged and full of want. “Belly.”

“Yes, Conrad,” she’d breathe out, her back arching against the leather, her thighs spreading a bit more to make space for him. “I want this.”

“Conrad?” Belly asks now, pulling him out of the fantasy and back into the present. She’s looking at him now, her eyes narrowed. “The light’s green. People are going to start—”

The car behind them honks, interrupting her.

Belly tilts her head back and laughs, and the sound is so beautiful that he wants to bottle it up and listen to it forever.

He blinks, startled by that thought, and turns back to the road, takes his foot off the brake, and continues on the way to the store.

Throughout the drive, he does his best not to look at Belly. For a few minutes, neither of them speaks, but the silence isn't awkward. There’s a current of tension underneath the silence, at least from Conrad’s side of things.

He needs to get home. His hands flex against the steering wheel, itching to get out his laptop and type his thoughts out.

“Do you have a list?” Belly asks, breaking the silence.

In his periphery, she's looking at him again, her curious gaze locked on his.

He can't even go through an hour alone with her without thinking about eating her out, how the fuck is he supposed to get through the next two weeks? And next week, when they're alone?

Fuck.

He never should’ve agreed to stay and show her around Cousins.

“No,” he says, glancing at her just for a second. His eyes meet hers, and he swallows hard. “Do you want to start one on your phone?”

She smirks. “No.”

“Please?”

She rolls her eyes, and it sends a shiver down his spine. “Only because you said please.”

“Wow, that was easier than I thought it’d be.”

“What, you thought I’d fight you on that?”

He shrugs, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “Was kind of hoping you would.”

She stares at him, and then laughs under her breath, the complete antithesis to her earlier laugh. “You’re such an ass.”

“You didn't even hesitate. Do you have a list?”

“Of what?”

“Names you’d like to call me. You’ve called me an ass twice today, so it must be a pretty short list. Might need updated.”

Her eyebrows furrow, and he wants to smooth out the crease between them with his thumb. “When was the other time I called you an ass today?”

“You said I was a ‘kiss-ass’ for agreeing to go grocery shopping for Steven.”

“A kiss-ass is different than an ass, Conrad.”

The degradation of it skips down his spine. His hands tighten around the steering wheel so that he doesn't reach for her.

“Oh, it is? How?”

“Well, for one, you're kissing up to someone else, and, two, it just is.”

“‘It just is,’” he echoes slowly, just to fuck with her. “Okay, Belly. Whatever you say. I still would like to hear the list though.”

She scoffs. “Why, so you can get off on it?”

“You think I get off on lists?”

“I know you do.”

At that, he grins, watches the way her lips part when she notices. “So you're admitting it, then?”

“What?” The word is more breath than sound.

“That you think about me getting off.”

The effect is instantaneous. Her eyes widen for a millisecond before they narrow, her lips part, a furious flush stains her cheeks and spreads down her neck and disappears beneath her dress.

“Don't be ridiculous, Conrad,” she bites out, tossing her hair over her shoulder. The scent of her floral shampoo floats towards him, and he does his best to hold his breath. “I don’t think about you at all. Doing anything.”

She sounds like she's trying to convince herself of that fact.

He doesn't point that out.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Belly.”

He can practically see the anger rolling off of her in waves. Her jaw is clenched, and she’s studying her hands so intensely.

“I can't stand you,” she says.

“Good,” he replies smoothly. “I can't stand you, either.”

The grocery store is more crowded than he’s ever seen it. People are everywhere, lingering for too long in front of things and their carts jamming the aisles so it's impossible to get anywhere.

Belly stares at him. “I thought you said it wasn't crowded.”

“I’ve never seen it like this.”

“Maybe we should split up. Divide and conquer.”

He gasps, faux-shocked. “Isabel Conklin, are you suggesting we work together?”

She rolls her eyes, but he doesn't miss the grin she bites back. “Don't act so surprised.”

“It's a good idea,” he admits, his eyes staying on her for a moment before he realizes he’s just staring at her now, and he glances at his watch. “We could meet back here in, say, an hour?”

“An hour it is,” she agrees, and he hands her the cart he’d grabbed. “Please don't tell me you're planning on trying to one-up me by grabbing everything with your hands. It won't work.”

Now he’s the one that rolls his eyes. “I’m not doing that. I was trying to be a gentleman.”

She snorts. “Right. That's definitely a word I’d use to describe you.”

He raises his eyebrows, intrigued. “Is that on your list of nicknames for me?”

“See you in an hour, Conrad.”

“That's not a no.”

She flips him off as she walks away. He grins, even though she isn't looking at him.

As he shops, he glances down aisles out of habit, and he spots Belly four different times.

The first time, she makes eye contact with him, holds it for a beat before she tears her eyes away to look at rows and rows of colorful cereal boxes. Her jaw is clenched, and only her side profile is visible.

Look at me, he wants to say, the words a soft command. He wants to close the distance between them, press his index finger beneath her chin, and tilt her head up to look at him.

So.

Maybe Isabel Conklin is making him a little bit unhinged.

Maybe, his mind mocks. Try definitely.

Okay.

Fine.

He’ll admit it.

Isabel Conklin is definitely making him a little bit unhinged.

He pushes his cart to the next aisle, turns down it without even paying attention to the contents.

The thing is . . .

The thing is.

He knows Belly doesn't want him. Not the way that he wants her. She doesn't fantasize about him, doesn't imagine him eating her out or picture him slowly sinking inside her, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself back, trying not to give away how badly he wants her.

And that's fine.

They would probably be a disaster together, anyway.

The second time he runs into Belly, she doesn't notice him. Her side profile is facing him, and she's tapping her foot, surveying the different potato chip options in front of her.

He stands there for a moment, watches as she sets her hand on her hip, and then he snaps himself out of it, makes himself keep going.

As he passes by the aisle, he swears he feels her gaze on him.

He looks up at her, like it’s a habit to find her gaze no matter what, whether that's across a crowded bar or down the potato chip aisle at the grocery store.

It's not a habit.

She bites her lip, her eyes on his, and his cart almost crashes into an endcap of different flavors of Oreos. He swerves at the last second, and she laughs, even though he can't hear it from here.

You're ridiculous, she mouths, rolling her eyes.

He smiles at her, sheepish, and shrugs.

The third time he sees her, it’s several minutes after they caught each other's eye in the potato chip aisle, and he’s in the frozen section, staring at a frozen meal that he doesn't need.

There’s the weight of someone’s eyes on his back, and without even looking, he knows it's her.

Don’t look, his brain tells him. Don’t make it obvious.

He looks.

She's stopped at the end of the aisle, staring at him, frozen mid-step, her dress strap falling off one shoulder.

He glances over his shoulder, like she could be looking at someone else (she isn't, he knows this), and then turns back around, points to himself, and mouths, me? Oh, stop.

She flips him off again.

He blows her a kiss.

She raises her other hand, flipping him off with both middle fingers.

And then she turns around and practically stomps away.

The fourth time, he’s finished shopping but still has time left before they're supposed to meet, so he’s looping back through the store. He spots her in the candy aisle, standing on her tiptoes, trying to reach something.

He doesn't even hesitate. He turns the cart around and heads towards her, pushes his cart into hers once he reaches her.

“What do you need?” he asks, his voice low.

She lowers herself back onto her heels and glares at him. “Certainly not you.”

Let me help you, he wants to say.

Instead, he maneuvers around their carts and stands in front of her, leans his hip against the shelf.

“Okay,” he says, the word so quiet it's almost a whisper.

Her face burns. “So, what, you're going to watch me?”

“I thought you didn't need my help.”

Determination overtakes Belly’s face, her eyes flickering between him and whatever candy she's trying to reach. “I don't.”

She turns away from him then, stands on her tiptoes, and reaches for a bag of Sour Patch Kids.

She misses.

“I can't—” she grits out, then groans.

She tries again. This time, she gets closer, but still doesn't reach it.

Conrad reaches up and grabs a bag of Sour Patch Kids with ease, maintains eye contact as he tears open the bag and pops one into his mouth.

It’s so sour that he winces, just a little, but of course she notices.

“You don't even like Sour Patch Kids.”

He doesn't answer, just tilts the bag towards her with one eyebrow raised. She considers it for a moment, her eyes flickering between him and the bag.

She shakes her head and tries to grab a bag again. This time, she stands on the bottom shelf, and he thinks, for a second, she's going to get it this time.

Again, she misses.

Her mouth presses into a thin line, and she turns to him. A few seconds pass, during which they stare at each other, and then:

“Will you grab one for me?” Belly asks, now biting her lip.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk hanging off his lips. “So now you want help, got it.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, crossing her arms.

He grabs the bag of Sour Patch Kids, and when he hands it to her, their fingers brush. It does absolutely nothing to him. Electricity doesn’t shoot up his arm.

(It does. He ignores it.)

Her phone rings, then, and she pulls it out of her purse.

She stares at it. He watches as she chews on the inside of her cheek.

“You can take it,” he says quietly, pushes off the shelf and walks back to their carts. “I’ll start sorting our stuff.”

She silences her phone, slips it back into her purse. “It wasn’t a call.”

Conrad’s eyebrows furrow, and confusion sweeps through him. “Oh.”

She glances away from him, smiling softly. “It was a timer to come find you.”

A beat of silence passes, and then he laughs loudly.

“Conrad,” she huffs, though she's laughing, too. “It's not that funny.”

“You weren't going to text me?”

“No.”

“And you were going to seek me out instead?”

Her eyes bore into his. “Yes.”

The word is breathless, and it catches him off-guard.

“Belly, that's . . .”

She rolls her eyes, and she’s bracing herself again, like she had been in the car. “Stupid?”

“Kind of hot, actually.”

Her eyes snap over to his, and they're scorching with desire. “You think so?”

He steps closer to her, tilts her chin up with his index finger, and holds her gaze for one, two heartbeats. “I do.”

Belly’s eyes are wide and her lips are parted. He’s standing so close that he could count each of her eyelashes, if he wanted.

“You think it's only kind of hot though, right?” she asks, her eyelashes fluttering. Her hand wraps around his wrist, keeping his finger beneath her chin.

The air is thick with lust, and Conrad’s surroundings have completely fallen away. His world is only Belly and her hand around his wrist.

“Only kind of hot,” he agrees, a rough edge to his voice, like the words are being raked over gravel. Or hot coals.

His eyes drop down to her lips, which part even more, then drift back up to meet her gaze again.

She stands on her tiptoes again and leans toward him, just a fraction, but it's—

“Excuse me,” someone calls, shattering the moment. “I’d like to get through here, and your carts are blocking the way.”

Belly’s hand falls, though she doesn't stop looking at him. “We should . . .”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, and his hand falls from beneath her chin. He doesn't look away from her as he backs up, only tearing his gaze away once his back hits their carts. “Shit.”

Belly’s eyes widen. “Are you okay?”

“I'm good,” he says, though he sounds far away, like he’s still locked in that moment where they stared at each other, seconds away from kissing.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the woman says as she passes by, once Conrad and Belly have moved their carts out of the way. The woman grins at them bashfully. “You two make such a cute couple.”

“Oh, we’re not—” Conrad starts, but the words stick in his throat.

“Dating,” Belly finishes. “We don't even like each other.”

The stranger laughs. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive,” Belly says, smiling politely at the stranger before she looks at Conrad. She gives him a look so adoring it fizzles all the way to his toes (and definitely not his cock), before her eyes gleam mischievously. Caught you! that gleam says.

He swallows hard and looks away.

“Well.” The stranger laughs awkwardly, clears her throat. “Have a nice day.”

“You too,” Conrad says. He waits until he and Belly are alone again, and then he turns to her. “What do you say we divvy up our stuff and get out of here?”

Whatever happened before they were interrupted is gone now.

It has to be.

Because he's sure Belly isn't interested.

“Yeah,” Belly says distantly, and then she blinks, shakes her head once as though she's clearing it. She looks away from him to a random point over his shoulder, her eyes so intensely focused that it's clear she's not thinking about whatever it is she's looking at. “Yeah, that works.”

What are you thinking? he wants to ask, wants to pull her close and tuck her hair behind her ear and—

He shuts that thought down before it can go any further.

When they get back to the house, Conrad and Belly carry the groceries in. It takes two trips, and they pass Steven, Taylor, and more of Steven’s friends who must've arrived in the past two hours. They're in the pool, splashing each other and laughing and screeching loud enough to warrant a potential noise complaint from the neighbors.

On the way in the second time, as Conrad passes Steven and his friends, he notices that they have beers and wine coolers in glass bottles near the pool, and he winces, wants to say something about not having glass near the pool but isn’t sure how to say it without coming off like a dick, so—

“Steven,” Belly hisses, puts her hands on her hips and doesn't care when the bags slide down to her wrist and jostle against her bare thigh. “You know better than to let anyone have glass near a pool.”

Steven groans. “Who put you in charge?”

She ignores him in favor of looking at Conrad, and she's backlit by the sun, which outlining her in an orangish-red glow, like it’s siding with her and her fury.

Because Belly is furious, her eyes blazing, her jaw clenched, her eyebrows knit together. Conrad’s a foot away from her and he can feel the force of it.

“Conrad,” Belly says, exasperated. “How far away from the pool do they have to be to use glassware?”

He blinks. “Technically there isn't a rule, but the picnic table would be great.”

She nods, her jaw still clenched, and turns to her brother’s friends. “You heard him. Picnic table.”

They all stare at her, then look at each other, shocked.

“Now,” Belly snaps.

Everyone scrambles out of the pool and grabs their bottles. Some of them look between Belly and Conrad as they pass, like they're trying to figure them out. A few of them don’t look at Belly or Conrad at all.

One person that Steven’s only mentioned to Conrad, a tall, lanky guy with aviator sunglasses pushed into his hair, whistles lowly and, as he passes by Conrad, says, “Dude, she has you wrapped around her finger, bro.”

He says it loud enough for Belly to hear.

Conrad looks at her. She’s already looking at him, her eyes narrowed, hands still on her hips. When his eyes meet hers, one of her eyebrows raises, like she's waiting to see what he’ll say in response.

“So what if she does?” He says it without thinking, holding eye contact with her for a moment before he turns back to Steven’s friend. “She doesn't, but would that be such a bad thing?”

The friend holds up both hands in surrender and backs up toward the picnic table. “Relax, man. I was just kidding.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should think before you speak,” Conrad grumbles.

The friends’ eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything. When he gets back to his friends, he leans over to one of them and says something that both Belly and Conrad are too far away to hear, but he's looking between them, eyes still wide.

With a shrug, Conrad heads into the house. Everyone’s eyes are on him (including Belly’s, but he isn't thinking about that, he isn’t), but he doesn't look at them, just stares straight ahead as he passes.

Belly follows after him, hot on his heels, then stops to slide the sliding glass door shut. It muffles the sounds from outside, and he sets the bags on the kitchen island and braces his hands against the cool marble.

“What was that?” she demands, tossing the bags onto the island next to his before she whirls on him.

This time, he doesn't look at her. Embarrassment burns his skin, and he suddenly wants to take off his shirt. Or, better yet, take a cold shower.

“What?” He knows what she's going to say before she says it.

“Come on, Conrad.” She scoffs. “You looked about five seconds away from challenging a former frat boy to a duel.”

He had no idea that was what she was going to say.

A surprised laugh bursts from his lips, and he drags a hand down his face with a heavy sigh.

She steps closer, so close that he inhales only her floral shampoo. His eyes flutter closed, and he resists the urge to tuck his face into the crook of her neck and breathe in deep.

The edge of the counter bites into his hands. He barely resists.

“You didn't have to do that,” she whispers. “I can handle myself, you know.”

“I know,” he says, with a short laugh, his eyes opening. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Do you really think—?” Her voice cracks, and she stops, shakes her head.

Conrad glances at her, turns his head and slides his hands up so they're flat against the island.

She’s averted her gaze and is chewing on her lip.

“What is it?” he asks, fully shifting so that he faces her, his hip pressed into the marble. His feet are in-between hers, and he's so close that he can feel the heat radiating from her.

Silence stretches between them for several long seconds. She doesn't look at him, and he doesn't press her any further.

“Do you really think Steven and his friends will listen? About the glass?” she asks, her tone lighter than it had been moments ago. Her eyes meet his, and something in them has shifted, closed itself off.

That wasn't what she wanted to ask him.

He doesn't know how he knows, but he does.

“Yeah.” Conrad swallows hard, the flush on his cheeks spreading down his neck and beneath the collar of his t-shirt. To disguise how he's really feeling, he smirks. “I bet they're scared of you now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Challenge sparkles in her eyes and the set of her jaw. She smirks, too, desperate to outdo him, and fuck. “You really want to bet?”

“What will I win?”

Belly scoffs and rolls her eyes. “God, you're such an—”

“Ass?” he interrupts, giving a short, sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, Belly. I got that. Your list needs updated.”

“I told you, there isn't a list.”

“Not now, there isn't. A list can't be one word long.” He tilts his head, but before he can say anything, the sliding glass door opens and he steps away from her, though his eyes don’t leave hers.

“Everything okay in here?” Steven asks. “Do you want me to go so you can finish . . . whatever this is?”

“No.” Belly’s the first to look away. “Nothing is going on.”

Are you sure about that? Conrad’s brain asks.

He ignores it.

“Yeah,” Conrad agrees, and he turns toward the island, which is still covered in their groceries. “These should be put away. I’ll do it, and then I have work I need to do.”

His fingers are still itching to fly across his keyboard; he needs writing time.

Steven groans. “Seriously, dude? You have to work?”

Conrad raises an eyebrow and moves to start putting groceries away. “Not everyone gets a week off.”

“Plus, aren't you balancing med school and a part-time job?” Belly asks, shrugging one shoulder when Conrad looks at her. An embarrassed flush creeps onto her cheeks.

“I forgot to tell you,” Steven says as he passes through the kitchen. “He dropped out of med school.”

“What?” Belly fully turns to him then, now that Steven’s gone, her jaw dropped in shock. “Why?”

Conrad grabs a bag and walks toward the pantry, his back to her. He looks over his shoulder. “I like the audio stuff more than I ever liked med school.”

“Oh. That’s . . .”

“Stupid?” He's echoing her word from earlier, and he doesn't mean to do that.

It just happens.

He swears.

“Really admirable, Conrad.” Her voice is soft with honesty, and he's pretty sure he stops breathing for a second.

He gasps, faux-shocked. “A compliment, from Isabel Conklin?”

She rolls her eyes again. “Don't let it go to your head.”

“Don't worry, I won't.”

They put the groceries away in silence, and then everyone helps out with dinner. Surprisingly, no one seems to be afraid of Belly. Or if they are, they hide it well.

Once dinner is over, Steven suggests lighting a fire, and everyone agrees.

Conrad stays back to do the dishes.

Ten minutes later, Belly comes inside, and she shivers.

He looks up from where he's drying a dark blue ceramic bowl. “Cold?”

She shrugs. “Figured you could use the help.”

“Belly, no. You're on vacation.”

“So are you,” she says, gently tugging the dish towel from his grasp. Her gaze flickers to his watch, which he’d taken off and set on the counter, the only habit he still has from medical school. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

He stands there for a moment, just looking at her. “Okay.”

Conrad tries not to think about how Belly moves around the kitchen like she's been here a thousand times as she puts away dishes, her vanilla perfume wafting toward him each time she brushes past him.

“Sorry,” she murmurs when she bumps into him, her hand curling around his upper arm to steady him, even though he wasn't jostled.

He's facing the sink but looks at her hand on his arm, then his eyes meet hers. “So, should we place that bet?”

Her hand tightens around his arm, her nails biting into his skin before she relaxes and her hand falls back to her side. “Shut up.”

He smirks. “You're just mad because you know you'll lose.”

“Don't you have work to do?”

“Yeah,” he says. He stares at her, then he leans back against the fridge, facing her, crosses his arms. “Well, I’ll see you later. Think about that list.”

She huffs. “Maybe I’ll just call you an ass for these next two weeks. No other nicknames necessary.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“You would, wouldn't you?” She steps closer to him, the distance between them now nonexistent, and presses her hand against his chest. She stands on her tiptoes so they're at eye level, her eyes gleaming. “I bet you’d get off on that.”

“Be careful with all these bets you're making.” His voice comes out strangled, and his eyes drop to her lips. Her lips part; is she also thinking about what would happen if one of them leaned in? How the tension would snap?

“I’m not worried,” Belly says, smirking. Her hand fists in the front of his shirt, and Conrad swallows back a moan. He’s hard against her stomach, but he can't even bring himself to care. “I know I’ll win. I think you know it, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Now he's the one that’s breathless. His eyes are still on her lips; he can't stop thinking about kissing her. He blinks slowly, like he's waking up from a dream, and looks back at her, his cheeks burning. “What gave it away?”

“You're so, so hard.” Her hand trails down his chest with a slowness that would have him begging if he weren't at least trying to keep his composure. “For the second time since I’ve been here.”

“Please,” he whispers, and with that one word, his plan to keep his composure crumbles. At his sides, his hands tighten into fists. His forehead drops against hers. “Belly.”

Her name is a soft moan in the space between them.

Her breath hitches, and she leans in just a fraction, enough that her nose is slotted against his and her breath coasts over his face.

His heart pounds, and he blinks slowly again, so needy that he can't think about anything but her hand (or, fuck, her mouth) on his cock. It’s happening, she's going to kiss him, and her hand is sliding down his shirt to the waistband of his jeans.

Her hand stops.

She pulls away.

“Please,” he says again, but no sound comes out. His mouth simply forms the shape of the word. He moans again, completely undone, and she isn’t even touching him.

Her mouth moves to his ear, and he knows that what she’s about to say will be ruinous.

“I need to shower,” she muses, and his eyes flutter closed. The mischief in her voice is an indication that she knows exactly what she's doing to him, and she's enjoying it. “But you should take care of that.”

She leaves, because the loss of her heat is immediate. He feels it like an ache.

Conrad is incredibly, painfully hard.

He gives himself a few seconds before he opens his eyes.

The only part of her he sees is the skirt of her dress in the millisecond before it disappears through the doorway.

He stands there, his back against the fridge, catching his breath, until her footsteps fade.

And then he heads upstairs, reaches his room, shuts and locks the door before he leans against it, breathing hard.

Even though the bathroom is two rooms away, the spray of the shower comes through the walls, followed by the faint sounds of the music Belly is listening to.

With a shake of his head and a deep breath, Conrad pushes himself off the door and crosses the room to the closet.

He turns on the light and shuts and locks this door behind him, too.

The closet isn't huge by any means, but he's cleared everything from it and soundproofed the walls so that he can use it as a studio. There’s an armchair against the back wall, a microphone on an arm next to it. In front of it is a table, just big enough for his laptop and a pair of over-ear, noise-cancelling headphones.

He tells people he's an audio engineer, and while that isn't exactly a lie, it isn't the whole truth, either.

What he really does is much simpler to explain, and, if he's honest, probably more interesting.

He writes and records audio erotica, and then posts it to an app called Feverish under the alias CBeck (which is just his first initial and middle name, and, to him, not all that creative). He’s garnered a following there, and that earns him enough money to make a living, even in Brooklyn.

He has no idea how this happened, but he honestly loves his job.

Even right now, when Belly has blown up his plan for today.

He always, always posts on Fridays. He usually has an audio ready to post, and an emergency backlog just in case.

Today, though, he’s in the mood to post something else.

Typically, he writes a script, edits it, then records it, and adds sound effects in after. His scripts are short stories, and he takes time to think through each plot point meticulously, making sure that all of it works.

Today, he isn't doing that. He’s so fucking turned on, and he knows exactly what he wants to record, what he wants to post.

He takes his phone out of his pocket (and double-checks it's set to Do Not Disturb), then sits in the armchair. On the other side of the armchair is a small cabinet likely intended to be a nightstand but that he uses for storage. It's wooden and has one drawer, and a cabinet door beneath it.

The cabinet is empty.

The drawer, however, is not.

He pulls open the drawer, stares at its contents: bottles of lube, vibrators, cock rings.

None of it appeals to him.

He spots a piece of fabric, one he's used to tie over his eyes to heighten his other senses, and that gives him an idea.

Conrad opens his laptop and waits for it to turn on. Once it does, he gets up, turns off the light so the closet is only lit by the glow of his laptop, then sits again and opens his recording software.

After he closes the cabinet drawer, he sets his headphones in his lap. He pulls the microphone toward him, tests the levels once using the built-in features in the recording software, and pulls off his pants and boxer briefs, kicks them off into the dark closet.

And then he hits record.

“This wasn't what I’d planned to post today,” he starts, closing his eyes. In the darkness, Belly materializes, her hand fisted in his shirt and her body pressed against his. “But I just—I’m desperate to tell you how I feel. Desperate for your hand or your mouth on my cock.”

Some Feverish voice actors post rambles, where they talk directly to the listener without the buffer of fiction in their way. He’s listened to a few of them to see if it's something he could get into, and he's never been able to tell if it's real, if the creators on the other end are taking stories from their real lives, if they're actually masturbating.

He's read the Feverish subreddit (anonymously, obviously); he knows people speculate about this kind of thing, whether their favorite voice actors are actually masturbating or not.

Conrad has only posted one ramble, during which he did masturbate (he does, whenever the story calls for it, but he’ll never reveal that).

It has over a million plays, is easily his most-played audio.

The DMs he got from it were so graphic that he told himself he’d never do it again.

Well.

He's a liar, apparently, because here he is.

Rambling.

About to fuck himself.

Not thinking about the listeners or the unhinged DMs he’ll get from this.

He’s only thinking about Belly.

Her eyes dropping to his lips. The tip of her nose pressing against the side of his. That lethal combination of her floral shampoo and vanilla perfume, which sounds like it shouldn't work, but it does.

“Fuck,” he groans, drawing out the middle of the word as his head falls back against the armchair. Instinctively, he pulls the microphone closer to him without even opening his eyes. “I want you so fucking badly it almost hurts. There's a pull between us, do you feel it? I bet you do.”

I bet you do.

He's snarky about it, purposefully saying I bet because he's thinking of Belly saying I bet you’d get off on that.

She isn't listening.

Obviously.

He knows that.

And yet.

Conrad already sounds so fucking wrecked. His voice is ragged, and his lower stomach tightens with want.

He exhales. “You're going to be the death of me. Standing there, in that dress, making me want you so badly that I’d beg for it. For you.”

His hand wraps around the base of his cock, and his next breath hisses out from between his teeth.

“I wanted to,” he says, and he moves his hand up, all the way to the leaking tip, moaning as he does. This part is fiction, because in reality he did beg. “I wanted to ask you to put your hand around my cock, wanted to beg for you to fuck me.”

His hand moves back down his length, and he imagines it's Belly’s hand, the warmth radiating from it, how tight her grip would be. She’d squeeze him, he knows, so he squeezes himself. A low groan rumbles through him.

“I’m imagining it's you.” Conrad’s eyes are squeezed shut, and his mind is turning what happened in the kitchen into a full-fledged fantasy: Belly’s hand squeezing his cock, her moan soft in his ear.

“Were you this hard during dinner, too?” he imagines her asking, her voice as soft as silk, yet with a bite to it. “Aching for me to touch you like this?”

“Fuck,” he groans, his hand picking up the pace. His toes dig into the carpet, and his breathing picks up. “I’m not going to last, fuck, I need—”

“What do you need?” the Belly in his fantasy asks, her voice turning sweet. “Tell me, Conrad. I want to make this good for you, you know.”

“I need—Fuck, your hand.” He's fully rambling now, but he doesn't give a shit, because all he's thinking about is Belly. “Keep talking to me. Spill every filthy thought you've ever had about me into my ear.”

She’d laugh, full and bright and musical, yet with an edge to it. “You're so desperate to take control, aren't you? Tell me I’m in control.”

“You're in control,” he breathes out, his hips bucking off the armchair as he fucks his hand. “Fuck, I’d—I’ll do anything for you.”

“I know.” Her voice is so sweet, and she's as breathless as he is. “And you're doing so well.”

The praise shoots right through him, and he's done for. He's gone. She has him wrapped around her finger, and she isn't even here. “I want to see you.”

The curl of her mouth would be downright diabolical. And yet, the mere thought of it nearly sends him over the edge.

“I bet you do,” she says, and the fantasy fades to black for a moment. When it reappears, they're in his room, and he knows Belly’s never been in here, yet here she is, above him, naked, her hair just long enough that it obscures her nipples from view.

“Please.” His voice is a plea, and he's forgotten the fact that he's recording. He’s forgotten that she didn't actually get him off, that she's barely touched him at all. He’s so lost in the fantasy, the warmth of her above him, the expanse of her bare skin. “Please, I need you. I need you to—”

Fuck me. That's what he wants to say.

Instead, he pulls up his shirt in one swift motion, exposing his bare stomach, and god, he needs her, he needs to come, he wishes she'd actually touched him downstairs in the kitchen, he wants—

“I want you,” he says, his voice breaking on want. His pace is rough, and his heels are digging into the carpet, and his other hand is tightly knotted in his t-shirt. The mic is pointed at his mouth, and without even thinking about it, he angles it toward his cock. He’s breathing hard, moans when he hears the wet, slick sounds of him fucking himself coming through his headphones. “Do you hear that, sweetheart? What you're doing to me?”

The pet name slips out. He has a list of pet names he uses exclusively for his audios, and sweetheart isn't one of them. He'll have to edit that out.

Right now, lost in the throes of his impending orgasm and imagining the way Belly would scoff at that, he doesn't care.

“Don't call me that,” he imagines Belly snapping.

Conrad laughs, low and ragged, more breath than sound. His eyes squeeze shut even tighter, and her hand would slow its pace, so he does, too. His mouth drops open in pleasure, his thoughts clouded by lust.

“You didn't like the pet name? ‘M sorry. I won't do it again.”

In his fantasy, Belly stares at him through heavy eyelids, and her lips parted.

“You're affected by this too,” he says, imagines himself reaching out and sweeping his thumb across her flushed cheek. “What do you need?”

“You,” she’d say, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his.

He groans immediately, his head tilting back against the wooden headboard as his hand slides down to cup her jaw and his tongue slips into her mouth.

“Where do you need me?” Conrad’s voice is absolutely wrecked with want. “Between your thighs? Want me to eat you out? Or do you want my cock?” he asks. Fantasy Belly’s breath hitches, and her eyes widen. He smirks at her. “Yeah, you want my cock to stretch you open, want to come around my cock? I need to—Fuck, I need to grab a condom.”

It's Belly he’s imagining, the curl of her smirk, the squeeze of her hand around his length.

“I want you to come right now,” he imagines her saying, her voice soft and threaded with heat as she whispers in his ear. “And then I want to ride your thigh.”

“You want to . . .” He trails off, moaning at the thought, and then tries to smirk, but his mouth drops open with pleasure. “You want to use my thigh to get yourself off?”

Oh, she'd flush at that.

But she wouldn't hesitate to answer. He knows enough about her to know that she knows what she wants.

“Yes,” she’d say, and that image, her bare cunt slick against his bare thigh as she thrusts against him, is what does it.

He comes, thick ropes spilling onto his stomach. He fucks himself through it with a long, low groan, his head tilted up towards the ceiling.

“Fuck,” he says, breathing hard as he slumps back into the chair, sweat cooling on his skin in the dark soundproof closet. His eyes snap open, and he blinks a few times to adjust to the light.

The imagery fades and is replaced by the harsh, bright glow of his laptop screen, sound waves appearing on the screen as he continues to catch his breath.

He needs to finish the audio. He wants to finish the audio.

His hand reaches out and presses pause, his chest heaving, his come drying on his stomach.

Fuck, that was intense.

He needs a minute.