My Crazy Hot Interstellar Affair

19. Woman Makes Bad Impression on Boyfriend's Bloodthirsty Parents

Andie followed the cup to the stone floor and ended up in a pool of espresso, her limbs akimbo in a sort of accountant-meets-pretzel heap. A large, cinnamon-scented hand reached down to help her. Andie surveyed the hand, followed it up to the carved biceps, down the sculpted abs, to the happy, happy trail, and, "Oh, my god, you're naked." Andie bit her lip.

"I am not ..."

"I know. A god. And don't touch me," Andie said, wondering where she had come up with the ridiculous notion that Oliver should not touch her, despite the manifest assets before her and his obvious happiness in seeing her. But now that she had come up with the idea, she had to follow through. Andie rose under her own power.

"Don't touch you?" Oliver said, brow wrinkled. He eyed the TV, still playing "As the Earth Turns," waved a hand, and it clicked off. Apparently, all electric-powered gadgets obeyed his every desire.

"And ours too," Bad Andie sighed like a teenage girl at a One Direction concert.

"Stop sighing like a lovesick adolescent," Andie chided.

"Stop acting like a geriatric nun."

"Correct, Oliver. No touching. About that show ..." Andie pointed to the now dark TV.

"I missed you," Oliver said, blue light arcing in eyes, even though she was currently in coffee-marinated sweats. The way he said it made Andie's heart clench and her nether regions tighten. But wait, she needed answers first. Answers, then sex.

"Wrong order!" Bad Andie said. "Sex first. Always!"

Oliver, who seemed to agree with Bad Andie, tilted Andie's head toward his and plunged in for a deep, languorous kiss. When Oliver finished his expert oral ministrations, Andie once again found herself dizzy and weak. "Will you come back to bed?" he murmured.

"Yes," Andie said. What was it she going to ask him? There was something, she was pretty sure. Probably to kiss her like that a thousand more times. "Kiss me, please," she begged.

"Happy to oblige." Oliver lifted her easily, and the kiss remained unbroken all the way back to his bedroom. God, this man ... alien ... whatever could kiss. Andie could not hold out long enough to make it to the bed. Oliver made her wild. She pulled down on his neck. Oliver quickly got the idea (he probably had an IQ of 500, so his astuteness was no great surprise) and they both toppled to the orange shag.

"I've never made love on orange shag before," Andie said.

"Me neither," said Oliver.

"But it's your shag."

"True, but I never bring women here."

"Never?"

"Not once. Does that count as never?"

"Technically, I think it does. But I'm kind of surprised. I'd have thought you'd have women over all the time, given that you look like a movie star and smell like breakfast pastries."

"I smell like breakfast?"

"No, like cinnamon rolls or sticky buns. Good enough to eat." With no preamble, Andie began proving her theory.

"I approve of your oral ministrations to Oliver's rocket of manly love. Preparing for blast off," said Bad Andie.

"Now you're using bad romance novel euphemisms when you got all mad at me for doing it?  Stop right now or I'll spend the rest of the day at the office curled up with the trial balance."

"Fine," Bad Andie grumbled. "This is all the thanks I get ..."

But Andie couldn't hear the rest as she was riveted to Oliver's ... okay, rocket of manly love seemed appropriate now.