threeguesses: ([disney] DEAD)
[personal profile] threeguesses
Title: tie our hands to something solid
Author: [ profile] lowriseflare and [ profile] threeguesses
Rating: R
Word Count: ~6000
Summary: The one with the Other Thing.

tie our hands to something solid

The tip off is when she won't get in the shower with him.

Which is fine: one week into their suspension and they've basically been breathing down each other's necks the entire time, holed up at Sam’s place like maybe it isn’t safe outdoors. Like they should be stocking up on water or something, settling in for the winter (not that—well, whatever, not that Sam minds). Still, she goes from physical to hands-off in about thirty seconds flat; it's odd.

"You okay?" he asks once he's out, pulling a t-shirt on and scrubbing a hand over the still-damp back of his neck. McNally's sitting on the couch watching Animal Planet, some show about Coast Guard dogs. Her hair's in a messy knot on top of her head.

"Totally," she tells him, eyes on the set. She slips her toes under his ass on the couch, which is pretty much her default tv watching position, but when Sam slides a hand up her calf inside her sweatpants, touching up to the back of her knee, he feels the muscles tense under his palm.

"Hey," he says, more quietly this time, because until this morning she was walking around his place stark naked like she'd lived here all her life. "It's me."

She looks at him finally, brow furrowing up. "What? Sam, I'm— It's nothing, okay? I'm fine." More words than she normally manages, this early and no coffee; Sam skims his hand back down her leg, an experiment. She relaxes pretty much immediately.


He tugs her feet out from under him and just rubs for a while, her freezing toes and her chilly instep. He waits until he's got her leaning back against the armrest to speak:

"You want a heating pad or something?"

Sam watches as six different expressions skitter over her face in about five seconds: surprise, a little embarrassment, something he thinks is probably supposed to be annoyance but isn't, quite. She opens her mouth and closes it again, goes faintly pink in the cheeks. "Do you even own a heating pad?" she demands.

Sam grins once. "No."

Andy snorts, kicks him in the bicep. "Asshole," she mutters, but she's smiling, and when Sam slips his hand back into the leg of her sweatpants, this time she just sort of sighs.

(He has owned heating pads, in fact, in the past: Corinne, back in Montreal before they even moved in together, so she wouldn't have to lug hers between houses; his girlfriend at the Academy, who kept this weird microwavable thing at his apartment. He's got this urge to go out and buy one now, actually, like it's something he should maybe have on hand— but, yeah, no. A: he's getting way-the-fuck ahead of himself, and B: it would probably spook McNally right back to her toilet factory, so.

Although: she already has a toothbrush.)

Sam rubs up her calf, massages a bit. The backs of Andy's knees are always ridiculously smooth. She's got baby-fine stubble everywhere else (he finally put a stop to her filching his razor; you'll dull it, he said, and she pouted at him for a good half-minute), but right behind her knees she's like a worry stone, polished down. Sam thumbs there until she sighs again, a different kind of sigh.

"That all right?" he asks, after a minute. McNally nods, eyes on the set. Sam glances her way for a second, gauging, looks back at the dogs in their orange life vests. Andy presses her toes against his lap.

(She painted her nails in here the other night, slow and meticulous, chin on one bare knee and tongue caught between her teeth. "Sorry," she said, when she glanced up and caught him looking, four of her toes candy apple red. "I know it reeks."

Which, uh. Not really why she had his attention.)

Sam keeps his hand inside the sweatpants—they're his, and roomy, waistband folded over twice—slides two cautious knuckles along the warm underside of her thigh. Andy's hips come up like a reflex. "Sa-am," she warns, kicking at him one more time. "Come on."

Sam hums a bit, runs his thumb along the edge of her underwear, testing. Andy gasps.

"Okay, seriously?" She's laughing a little now, but nervous, like she isn't sure whether or not he's kidding. "Quit it." It's her copper voice, the one she uses on cons and crowds, brassy and loud; Sir, I need you to step away from the barrier. Still, Sam zeroes in on the essentials: first, the fact that she isn't moving, and second, how there's this hitch on her inhale, something that sounds like nerves but isn't. Not if you know what to look for.

(Sam knows.)

"You're missing your show," is all he says. On screen, the handlers are unclipping the leads on two German Shepherds. McNally turns back to the tv slowly, like she can't quite believe what she's doing.

(She can believe it, though. Sam's still figuring her out, little by little--what works for her, what her tells are; how she likes to be touched. She's simultaneously exactly how he thought she might be, and an absolute total surprise.

Still—she can definitely believe it.)

Sam skims a nail along the elastic of her panties, slips his index finger underneath and snaps it back. Andy swallows. She's watching him again now, mouth just slightly open, blatant curiosity and the barest flicker of trepidation (and the way she's worrying that bottom lip, red marks and white teeth; that's a dead giveaway right there).

Sam slides his palm back down her leg, rubs at the hard knot of bone in her ankle. He fists his hands in the fabric of her sweatpants and pulls.

"Sam." Andy's eyes go saucer wide. "What are you—?"

Sam just raises his eyebrows in answer, like, you're a copper, you figure it out. McNally throws an arm over her face, groaning, tips her head back against the armrest so she doesn't have to look. She lifts her hips for him though, almost no prompting; Sam skims the sweatpants the rest of the way off, long legs and boy-cut underwear (purple today, kiss prints all over the front).

(It's not that she doesn't have lingerie, McNally: she does and he's seen it, three nights ago when she came back from finalizing her mortgage and dropped her coat; Sam would have laughed at the cliché except for how well it really, really worked for him. She just doesn't have much. And she does laundry basically never, so.

"You better appreciate this," she said, standing in his entryway with her shoulders back, scraps of filmy black lace. "These are hand wash only."

Sam— yeah. He appreciated it.)

Right now it looks like she's not wearing a bra underneath her thermal, the outline of her nipples just barely visible. Sam uses his nails on the backs of her knees, lightly, until he has her gulping. The no-bra thing is no longer a maybe.

Sam gets the shirt off so he can see for himself: dark nipples tightening up as he thumbs at her, tries brushing with the back of his hand. He's gentle, doesn't pinch like he normally would, just in case she's— Andy whimpers and keeps her eyes closed, that bottom lip getting redder.

(She trusts him, McNally. She has from the very beginning. Sam doesn't know what he did to deserve it, but he'll be damned if he's gonna fuck it up.)

He flattens his palms down her rib cage, careful (she's absurdly, insanely ticklish, it turns out, which would actually have been a useful thing to have on her except that it only took her about two seconds to figure out that Sam is absurdly, insanely ticklish himself. Ten seconds after that, he called a truce), bends his head to get his mouth between her legs.

"Okay, Sam," she says, that edge in her voice like she doesn't know whether to pull back or push forward, a holding pattern. "You realize—"

"Yeah, McNally," he tells her, teeth against the cotton. She smells like sleep and like the detergent he uses, and also a little sharper than normal. "I realize."

(He hasn't totally decided what he's going to do yet. Only that he wants to do something.)

He settles for mouthing at her through the fabric a bit, gently. Just getting her used to the idea. She's still got her legs together—not tightly or anything, Sam still has room to manoeuvre, but she's definitely not opening up the way she normally would. He slides a hand under her thigh, pulls up until it's over his shoulder.

"Ugh," Andy says, head dropping back in what looks like resignation. "Sam, seriously, I'm probably like—you know?"

Sam knows. But now that he's got her spread he can lick a hard stripe from top to bottom, feel that she's wet (and he can feel the string too, actually, a distinct ridge that isn't her, but it's not really—he doesn't mind, is what he's saying). The cotton's getting damp, some combination of his mouth and Andy. Sam is—yeah. Sam is pretty much the opposite of deterred here.

He tries using his teeth, just a little—and he wouldn't, normally, the way she seems so hyper-sensitized and skittish, but her underwear's in the way to dull it, so...

Andy gasps, a hand flying to the back of his head.

Sam rubs at her hipbone, smiles against her thigh (she's not shy when it's working, McNally. He likes that about her, the bossy shove of her hips; the first time he ever did this to her she apologized after, like she thought she'd been unladylike or something. Sam blinked. "Are you kidding?" he asked her seriously, and McNally grinned like Christmas in reply). "Good?"

Andy whines to answer, pushes up against his mouth. Sam glances up at her before he does it again: eyes heavy-lidded, free hand up and clenching in her hair, and just—


Sam licks through the fabric one more time, then backs off enough to ease those little shorts down; one leg at a time so she'll stay open, so he can see what she looks like this way (dark and swollen; wet and coral-pink). There's winter light coming in through the window, her skin all warm and golden. When his gaze flicks up again she's blushing.

"Sa-am," she says, in a voice that absolutely in no way means stop. "I'm going to make such a mess."

"So?" (He wants her to, is the thing; wants her teeth marks on his shoulder and her dirty dishes in his sink.) "Make a mess." He sits up to pull his shirt off, folding it in half and sliding it under her thighs.

"God." Andy's pupils are entirely blown now. She shakes out her sloppy topknot, wraps the elastic around her wrist (she knows, by now, how much Sam likes her hair—he literally couldn't keep his hands out of it back at the apartment, kept petting through that thick weight). "I'm doing the laundry."

"Do whatever you want, sweetheart." Sam looks at her for a second longer—bare everything, scooped-out belly and the neat line of her ribs—then pushes himself up off the couch.

"What're you—?" She stops as soon as she sees what he's reaching for, breath choking off in a gasp. "Sam."

Probably he'll never get sick of hearing her say his name like that. "Come on, McNally." He thrusts the kleenex box at her. "Take it out."

(Easier to manoeuvre, sure, and that's what he's telling her if she asks, but it's possible that's not the only— He's maybe a little invested in the idea, is all he's saying. Her making a mess.)

"Shit." She takes the kleenex box like it's a bomb, eyes wide and disbelieving; Sam wouldn't be surprised if she chewed her lip clean off. "Shit, okay, just— Turn around."

Sam smiles a bit but he does what she tells him, feels her fidgeting around on the cushions while he eyes the picture frames on the wall. One of them's a little crooked, actually—it's possible one or both of them bumped into it the other night, half-naked stumble toward the bedroom. Sam’s not entirely sure.

"Okay," she says after a moment, as much to herself as to him. "Okay." When he looks she's got that expression she had sitting on the table in the apartment, mind made up and waiting, but she's also got a death grip on the wad of tissue in her hand.

"McNally," he says, prying it gently out of her fist and nudging her backwards, kissing a line between her breasts and down her belly. "Relax."

And she does, for a while: breath shuddering out as he spreads her open, presses on her clit with one wet thumb. McNally whines. Sam gets his mouth on her, just lightly; she tastes a little bit metallic but mostly just warm and human, like herself but amplified somehow (and god, fuck, this isn't a thing he ever—there's a lot of shit he never thought much about doing until he thought about doing it to her, it turns out).

He's going easy, just soft with the flat of his tongue, blood and salt and the sound of her breathing. Andy's hand opens and closes in his hair. At first it seems to be working for her but after a minute she starts squirming, and not in a good way; Sam nuzzles her thigh a bit, smooths a hand up her side. "Andy, sweetheart." He slides two fingers down lower, circling but not slipping inside. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"Um." Her hips are rolling but not actually going anywhere, stalled out; her muscles twitch a little, clenching on nothing. Sam takes a guess at what she's not asking for, starts sliding his fingers in— only then she stops him, a hand flying off his head to wrap around his wrist. "Sam.

Sam looks up, gauging: she's got her lip back between her teeth and a full-body blush creeping down, the paler skin of her breasts and belly. Just the tips of his fingers are inside her, up to the first knuckle; she keeps flinching, like her body's desperate to pull him in the rest of the way. So. Probably it's time for a little reassurance here, is what Sam's thinking.

"Andy." He shifts over so he can nudge her foot with his erection. "I'm not exactly doing this out of altruism." (God, he's really not, he's so fucking hard it hurts, he doesn't even know—) "Let me."

(She's done some similar reassuring herself, actually, when he bent her over the counter and then worried about it. Arching her back and dragging his hand down between her legs, the way she was suddenly a lot wetter than she'd been two minutes ago; "Sam, I swear, if you don't follow through I'm going to break you in half.”

Sam followed through.)

She still isn't moving though. "Sweetheart." Sam rests his head against her hipbone. "Don't make me beg." (Christ, he thinks he actually might.)

Andy tips her chin back and whines again, quiet, a low frustrated keen he's hearing out of her for the first time. Sam takes a chance: he crooks the tips of his fingers just the slightest bit, gives her some pressure, and—


"Okay." She lets go of his wrist, finally; before Sam can slide any deeper she's shoving herself down onto his fingers, hard and fast. "Okay, just—fuck, Sam, please—"

And god, that works for him way more than it should (all of this works for him way more than it should, her eyes shut tight and her wanting; her free hand creeps up to rub at her nipple and it honestly almost ends him right there). Sam swallows hard. He nudges her legs as wide as he can get them on the couch and licks up next to his fingers, sloppy wet chin and her slick like a seal all down her thighs. "There you go," he mutters, when he hears her breath go sharp—tries biting like earlier, this time no fabric between. "Come on, beautiful girl."

(Sam, uh. Gets his mess.)

"Shit." Andy relaxes out of her arch, slumping back down against couch; one skinny arm gets thrown across her eyes, like she's hiding from someone. "Okay, um. Wow. Like, Sam—" She lifts her arm up a bit, winces through a grin. Her free hand trails around to rub at his mouth, fingertips coming away red. "Holy crap."

"Yup." Sam smirks at her, shifts up on his elbows to smear his chin across her abdomen (and sure, his shirt is right there, but—it's just more fun this way). Then, because he's curious: "So. You've never—?"

"No-o. Nope." She's shaking her head vigorously, pulling at his shoulders. "I have not." She gets him up between her legs but keeps their hips apart, a knee coming up as a brace (conscious of his jeans, Sam guesses, which—yeah. Not something he cares about right now). "Have, uh. Have you?"

Sam looks at her for a second, this blush that won't quit and teeth marks along her bottom lip. "Nope. Not like that."

And McNally actually grins, is the thing, like that's got her pleased, being the only one he's ever— God. Sam is in some trouble here. "Cool," she says, tipping her head up to kiss him. (Which—Sam didn't think she would, after, but he definitely read that one wrong because there she goes; wet and sloppy, licking into his mouth like she's maybe looking to taste


They make out like teenagers for a minute or two, rasp of her tongue over his and Sam's bottom lip between her teeth. Andy holds tight to either side of his face. When she pulls back she's got a look on like she's considering. "I guess," she says slowly, tongue at the corner of her damp pink mouth, "it's possible that wasn't as overtly gross as I was expecting."

Sam smirks. "Kissing me?"

"Shut up." She pushes at the side of his face a bit, ducks her head. "You know what I mean."

(He does, and.) "It's not gross," he says, low and quiet, tries to figure out how to tell her what he wants to tell her without totally freaking her out. He pets through her messy hair for a minute, thinks about tugging her up and doesn't. "McNally. Hey. Nothing about you is gross."

"Yeah, well." She looks everywhere for a minute, like that's embarrassing: the ceiling and the coffee table, the tv still chattering softly away. Then, like maybe she's just noticing now, she reaches down between them and rubs the back of her hand over the bulge in his jeans. Finally she glances up at him again. "You, uh. Weren't kidding, huh?"

Sam huffs out a little laugh into her hair. "No, McNally," he says, pushing a bit against her knuckles. "I wasn't kidding."

She hmms an answer, like maybe that's embarrassing too (but it's definitely—she's not displeased, is the thing; the opposite actually, if Sam were forced to guess). She flips her hand, gives him some more pressure. "So, um." All shrugging shoulders, nervous body language everywhere. "Do you maybe want to—?" Sam looks down to see her hips tipping up a bit, a suggestion.

And just—

(She's messy like, all down her thighs, across her belly where he wiped his mouth; his t-shirt is wrecked, no question. He wants her messier, though, wants her to—he doesn't even know. In between her legs her curls are drying, stiff and sticky. It isn't gross. God, is it ever not gross.)

"Yeah, sweetheart." He gets his mouth on her warm neck, changes his mind and pulls back to look her in the eye. "I want to."

"I'm gonna get you all—" Andy warns, gesturing vaguely, like now that she's suggested it she wants to make extra sure. She's tightening her legs already, though, pulling him down just the slightest bit (which: bossy through her embarrassment, that's just-- Sam grins against her temple).

"Probably," he agrees.

"God," Andy says, huffing a little, the eye-roll implicit in her voice. She's working the button fly on his jeans, quick and efficient. "Honestly, Sam—"

She doesn't finish, though, and Sam doesn't ask her to because she's got one damp hand wrapped around his cock, no preamble—stroking up hard like she knows makes him crazy, palm rolling over the head. There's a place on the underside she just discovered a couple of days ago, all nerves, and she gets her thumb in her mouth now, sucking, and swipes there until he groans. Andy smiles.

She does it twice more, like a party trick, before she starts pushing impatiently at the waistband of his jeans; once Sam helps her work them down she lifts her hips and slides herself along the length of him until he's good and sloppy. "Told you," she mutters quietly, the barest hint of a smirk (and that is—jesus fuck, that is). She reaches down between them, jacks again before she manhandles him into place. "Easy, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam tells her, gritting his teeth against the feeling (she is like, unmistakably wetter than normal, is his main issue here). He pushes in real slow, though, careful to the very last inch (for the obvious reasons, yes—no way is he hurting her, for starters, her wide eyes and irrational trust; you were there—but also he just plain wants to be allowed to do this again. Many times. Every time she's—yeah). Still, she hisses when he bottoms out, hand flying up from between them to brace against his chest, warm and sticky.

"Sorry," she mutters distractedly, pulling back a bit. She leaves behind a palm-shaped smudge on Sam's collarbone. "God, we're going to need a shower."

Christ, they really are; not the point, though. "Are you okay?" he asks. She's clenching on him a little, not voluntarily. Tensing up. Sam smooths a hand over her hair.

"Yeah, yeah, just—" She shrugs, makes a face. "Sensitive, you know?"

She did look swollen, earlier. Sam thinks about it for a second before reaching back to lock her ankles, a hand at the bottom of her spine. He lifts until he's sitting on the couch with her in his lap, warm weight coming to rest against his thighs. "Better?"

Andy rolls her hips down, testing; she makes a noise that doesn't mean no. "You know I'm going to—like, more this way, right?" She gestures down between them.

"Shower, McNally," Sam reminds her, strained. He really needs her to move. Barring that, he needs her not to be so wet and open and—fuck. He needs her to move. "Andy," he mutters, bites off a please sweetheart, and after a second her hips start to go. Sam gets his hands around her waist. "Easy," he manages; his breath is a little ragged and he realizes he was holding it. "Take your time."

It's just a slow, gentle rocking at first, then (once something hits for her, eyes flying open and that quick sharp gasp) harder, fingers coming up to curl around the back of the couch. Sam's forehead tips forward into the crook of her neck.

(She wasn't wrong, is the thing; he can feel her all down his lap, hot and slippery. There's a wet quiet sound every time she moves. Sam wants to get his fingers between them again, wants to spread it around or—god, he doesn't know, he isn't entirely sure what he wants or why he wants it, just that he really, really does. He feels that way about her a lot.)

"Shit." Andy spreads her legs to get him deeper, knees in the cushions on either side of his hipbones. Sam closes his mouth around one dark puffy nipple, circles his tongue over the tip. "Shit, Sam—"

Sam reaches down and gets two fingers on her clit, presses gently. He leans his head back so he can watch.

It hits her hard and fast this time, a sharp sound working its way out of her throat (and christ, listening to her is always just—). Sam cranes his neck a bit, brushes his mouth across her wrist. Her fingertips are digging into the upholstery, the soft snick of nails against the fabric and those skinny arms boxing him in. He lets her ride it out. Sets his teeth against the urgency that's crawling its way up his spine.

"You good?" he asks, once he feels her pulse slow down. It's steadier now, a slow thump against his lips.

"I'm wonderful," Andy sighs, which makes him laugh (only it, uh. Comes out strangled). Suddenly she's all attention, copper instincts coming back on line in a blink. "But you're not," she says slowly, a hint of—something—creeping into her tone. She slips her thumb into his mouth, rubs against his tongue. "Are you?"

"I'm fine," Sam tries to tell her, but he's got a hand wrapped around her thigh now, fingers just curling into the worst of the mess, and he is definitely—he's holding on a bit too hard for fine.

Andy's watching him, careful; after a second she swipes the tips of her first two fingers through the place she's wettest, lifts her hand to drag an identifying mark across his chest.

(jesus christ and all his saints, this girl—)

Sam raises his eyebrows, curious (and turned on, fuck, he's so insanely—). McNally raises hers back.

(You're a copper. You figure it out.)

Sam groans and drops his head back; McNally slides herself up and down his cock, thighs working and leaning forward to come after his neck (Sam's had a thing for hers since the night of the blackout; the last couple of weeks make him think maybe that's possibly a two-way street).

She's going hard, is the thing, fast and determined; he wants to tell her to be careful, to be easy (that she's perfect like this, that there's nothing about her he doesn't—)

He also really, really never wants her to stop.

"McNally," he starts, something between a warning and a plea, but Andy's hand comes up from in between them; she gets her salty, sticky fingers back into his mouth.

(And fuck, that is just—she learned him way quicker than he thought she would. Almost quicker than he's comfortable with, actually, like she can open up his head and see exactly what kind of effed up thing is going to get him there.

This? Definitely going to get him there.)

Sam makes a helpless noise, feels it sparking all the way up his spine. He starts sucking automatically, and then—when his brain recovers from the shock—with a little more purpose. Working his tongue between her fingers and licking every last bit of the taste away, sloppy and rough. Andy hums a pleased note and leans down to kiss him, thumb still at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on," she says. She's worked a twist into her rhythm, is spreading her legs even wider (not that, uh. Sam needs the help). He's still got one hand curled around her thigh, fingers dipping down to feel how slippery everything is. "Sam—" She bites his lip, panting slightly. "Your turn to make a mess."


Sam makes one.

Andy scratches through the hair at the nape of his neck as he comes, murmurs nonsense into his skin. There's a feeling in his chest like he can't get deep enough, like they could do this twice a day for a year and he'd still want to be closer. Sam groans against her temple, low and ragged.

She stays in his lap once he's finished—wanting the contact or afraid to move, Sam's not sure. In any case, it's not like he minds. He rubs up her back for a while once he recovers enough to lift his arms, soft skin and the smell of her hair, everything warm and wet between them—and god, the couch, he doesn't even know how they're going to—

(Already he wants to do it again.)

"So, um," she says finally, rubbing her nose along his shoulder. She's shy again, face buried in his neck. "That was a new trick."

Sam drags his knuckles up her spine, slides his palm under her hair to cup the base of her skull. (And he thinks about telling her, how good it was and how much he really— but. He can already feel her blush heating up his skin, so.) "Never a dull moment," he says instead. Andy huffs a laugh into his neck.

He shifts her a bit and she tenses, all her muscles seizing up at once (which is—he's still inside, and sensitive, so that's an interesting feeling). Andy doesn't notice: "Sam, seriously, the cushions—"

"Easy, sweetheart." He reaches over and grabs his t-shirt. "Got it covered." He wipes off her thighs and slips himself out carefully, shirt cupped underneath just in case. Andy bites her lip, embarrassed, but she lets him: lets him flip it over and refold it, find a clean side; lets him rub between her legs until he's got the worst of the mess. She leans into it a bit, like she likes the attention (and it's possible—it's possible Sam wouldn't mind doing this job with his mouth).

"You're good to go," he tells her finally, tapping at a hip. She pushes herself off the couch and gasps, looking down at his lap (which: yeah. He is considerably messier than she—)

"Andy," he says soothingly, because god, her face. "It's fine."

(It's more than fine, actually. It's...a lot more than fine.)

She chews at her lip for another half-second. She still won't look him in the eye. "Stay," she barks, and heads for the hallway.

Sam stays.

She turns up a minute later with a damp hand towel from the bathroom, climbs back onto the couch and gets to work: the dips between his fingers, the marks she left across his chest. She gets the insides of his thighs, slides higher—Sam watches her, he can't help it, one hand rubbing distractedly at the back of his neck.

"Shut up," she tells him, although he hasn't actually said anything. She's smiling, though. She's smiling kind of a lot. "This is for practical purposes only."

"Uh-huh," Sam agrees. He's half-wondering if there's a way to keep her in his bed for the next week (or however long she—). He just... he bets she wouldn't stay shy, is all. The way she's grinning— she wouldn't stay shy.

"Okay," she says after another minute (and practical purposes or not, she keeps her hand on him for a long time). "So." She's put another tampon in; Sam can feel the string against his thigh. "All that, and it's only lunchtime."

"Never let it be said we don't have goals." Sam drags her forward a bit to kiss her, soft and sloppy. She's smiling almost too much to manage it, bright, and oh, he has to be careful here. She makes him want to tell her things. "Speaking of," he says instead, his lips on hers for one more second. "Race you to the shower."

Andy laughs as she scrambles off the sofa. Her face is rosy-pink and glad.
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