Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“I’m sorry I laughed at you that time you got diarrhea at Barnes & Noble. And I’m sorry I told everyone about it. And I’m sorry for repeating it now.”

— Mean Girls (2004)

I danced in the shower to no music, grinning like a goof. I also borrowed his razor and the hotel toiletries, rushing through all the cleaning and shaving and washing because we were on the same page, he was staying in Chicago, and playing the piccolo was next!

No, Ava. Not playing the piccolo.

Fucking.

Gripping the bar of soap, I stopped dancing and thought about this, and the idea of making love and, according to Des, how those two things were different. Which, if I stopped to consider, made sense. I’d just never given it much thought because I’d never been especially interested, highlighting my inexperience and naivety, bringing both into sharp focus.

I didn’t want to continue being a passenger in my own life. Or in my love life. Or in my sex life. Or in my “fucking” life.

A new idea lodged itself in my brain and I finished showering quickly before I could talk myself out of it. Flipping off the water and grabbing a towel, I didn’t even allow myself time to dry off properly, instead speed-walking to the door and opening it.

“Hey, so I was think⁠—”

I never got to finish my sentence because the moment I stepped into the doorway, Des grabbed me and wrapped me in his arms and kissed me. His hands were everywhere, and his mouth seemed jealous of his hands because it also began moving everywhere as he spun and brought us to the bed.

Trying to catch my breath and my earlier train of thought, I couldn’t help but be reminded of his thief alter ego, his moves so incredibly fluid and controlled. Controlled . . .

CONTROL!

I gripped his shoulders. “Wait! Wait, Des. Wait.”

He was currently above me, kissing a trail down my body.

“Mmm?” was all I got in response, and I knew right away—based on how his hands had slid from my thighs to my knees, pushing them open—where he was headed.

“Stop,” I said.

And he did. Other than breathing, he froze. He lifted his head and peered at me. “What’s wrong?”

“I have an idea.” Urgently, I tapped his shoulder before I surrendered to what he had planned or talked myself out of it. “Come here.”

His eyes narrowed in question, but he allowed me to guide him to a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, his feet flat on the floor.

Stepping away, I searched the room. “Where are the condoms?”

He leaned back on his hands, the very picture of relaxed and comfortable in his own skin. His eyes slowly trailing appreciatively over my nakedness, Des tilted his head toward the nightstand. “There.”

I grabbed one and then returned to where he sat, standing in front of him. Inhaling deeply, I met his eyes and worried my bottom lip. Des watched me while I debated whether this was even a good idea. It had seemed like a good idea in the shower. Now I wasn’t so sure.

Stop talking yourself out of fun. Stop being a passenger in your own life.

Then again, he was the expert after all. And what did I know? I’d had intercourse exactly once. And⁠—

“What’s up, Ava?” he asked, his tone playful but also somehow striking me as a tad menacing. “Do you want to put it on me?”

I nodded.

His eyebrows jumped. Clearly, I’d surprised him. “Really?”

I nodded again. “Why don’t you”—I pointed to the bed—“lie down and let me figure it out.”

His face split with a grin and the spark of interest behind his eyes told me he liked this idea. A lot. “Yes. Absolutely. Yes, I can definitely, definitely do that.”

His easy surrender gave me confidence. Shifting on my feet restlessly, I studied the packet, finding the tear line easily.

“What brought this about?” Reclining, he folded his arms behind his head. “I could’ve shown you on a banana.”

Using my fingers and nails, I ripped open the packet. “Why not use the banana in your pants instead?”

He laughed, a deep rumbly chuckle. “Are you saying I’m bananapants?”

“Well, if the condom fits . . .” I pulled the condom from the wrapper and knelt in front of him.

He immediately sat up. “What are you doing?”

The sharpness of his tone had me freezing and inspecting him. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you going to—you know.” Des gestured between his penis and my mouth.

“Give you a blow job?” I filled in the blank.

He nodded, his eyes wide. And then he swallowed.

Hmm. Interesting.

“I hadn’t planned on it. Why? Should I?”

His face contorted, obviously conflicted, and he said, “Nooo.” But it sounded like a yeees.

Chuckling at his transparency, I positioned the condom in place and gave him a wink. “Maybe next time.” I then proceeded to roll the condom down.

Or rather, I tried to. It didn’t roll. And that’s when I realized I had it on upside down. “Shoot.”

“Do you want me to help?” He reached forward.

I batted his hands away. “No. No, let me.” Flipping it over, I tried again. It wasn’t rolling smoothly, like it had when Des did it last week. Holding his very hard penis with one hand, I repeatedly returned to the rolled-up latex, sliding my fingers down and then up, over and over. It took forever.

“Ava.”

“Hmm?” My eyes, on the progress of the condom, flicked up to his. “What’s up?”

“Let me do it,” he said, his voice raspy, his gaze pleading.

“What? Why? Am I hurting you?”

“In a way, yes.”

I studied him. He looked like he was primed to jump from the bed and his hands had fisted tightly in the sheet.

“Am I actually hurting you?”

He nodded. He exhaled. It sounded unsteady.

My hands stilled in place, one around his shaft, the other near the head. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dying.” Now his voice was strangled.

“Des.” I gave him a flat look and resumed sliding my hand down and then up his penis to get the condom on.

“Oh God.” He fell back on the bed and I noticed his thigh muscles flexed. In fact, his six-pack was on full display because his stomach muscles also flexed.

“I never thought I would both hate and love something so much,” he groaned.

Finally finished—and honestly proud of myself—I huffed at his continued dramatics. “I’m done. Unless there is something I need to do to fasten it in place?”

Des shook his head in a big movement, each side of his face touching the bed as it went back and forth. “No. No. It’s good. It’s sooo goooood.”

Rolling my eyes, I stood and stepped forward, placing my hands on his body so I could climb on his lap.

“What are you doing now?” The question arrived breathless, and his attention affixed to me again, wide and watchful.

“I’m going to, you know”—I indicated to his penis with my hand—“put it inside me.”

Again, he sat up abruptly, reaching for me. “Wait, no. You can’t just⁠—”

Again, I batted his hands away. “Stop! I want to do it.”

“But you have to be lubricated first.”

“I know that, dummy.” I wasn’t at all nervous. Something about bantering with Des, arguing with this guy I’d known forever and felt so hugely comfortable with—my person—neutralized any nerves I might’ve felt.

“Then let me—” He reached for me.

I grabbed his hands and pressed them to the bed on either side of his hips. “Leave those there! And I am lubricated! I’m so hot for you, I’m lubricated all the damn time, okay? Happy now?”

Des stared at me. First, with surprise, then he cocked an eyebrow and looked very satisfied with himself. His features reminded me of Eugene, aka Flynn Rider, from Disney’s Tangled. You know, when he did the smolder thing?

“You are?” he asked, deepening his voice.

I had to press my lips together to stop from laughing. “Just, shut it for a second and let me concentrate.”

Reaching between my legs, I gripped his penis and rose above it on my knees.

“Ava.”

“Shut up.” I needed to figure out how to hold him first, where to place my hand.

He sighed. Or maybe he panted? His lips were inches from my breasts and I could feel his hot breath on them, which didn’t help my concentration. Closing the distance between our bodies and kissing my breast, Des licked a hungry trail up to my nipple and sucked it into his mouth with a groan.

I shifted to the side to avoid his wonderful attention, trying not to be frustrated with either of us. “I said shut up. And hold still for a minute. Stop distracting me.”

Not three seconds later, he groaned again. “At least let me⁠—”

“No! I want to figure it out myself.” I pressed the head of his penis to my clit, jolted a little at the contact, my breath catching, and then slid it back. The angle didn’t feel quite right.

“God, fuck, Ava.”

“Shhh!” I wiggled my hips, trying to figure out the best angle while I adjusted him to line up with my entrance. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Des lifted his hands.

I stiffened. “I swear, Des. If you touch me right now or try to do it for me, I’m going to make you watch Army of Darkness and I will quote every line, talking over the whole movie.”

His hands reversed course and he shoved the base of his palms into his eye sockets. “It might be worth it. You don’t seem to understand⁠—”

“There!” He was inside, finally.

Grinning at my triumph, I lowered myself, bracing my hands on his shoulders. It didn’t hurt at all, but I felt really—well—full.

“Hmm. Lie back, please. I need to troubleshoot something.”

He made a pitiful sound but did as I requested.

Bracing my hands on his upper body, I bent forward and peered down at where our bodies met. Des was about halfway inside me.

I flipped my head back. “How do I—you know—put you all the way inside?”

“How can you be so cute and sexy at the same time?” he asked the room on a groan, palms still pressed to his eye sockets.

Ignoring that, I decided to experiment and arched my back. I also spread my legs wider. I sunk lower. “Oh!” Ha! Obviously! Obviously, I needed to use my weight and spread my legs. Easy.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands abandoning his eyes and grabbing my hips, glaring at me with what looked like accusation.

Removing his hands and returning them to the bed, I tilted my head to the side, inspecting him anew. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I want—’ Eyes flashing, he grit his teeth, cutting off his own words.

“What?”

“You need to move,” he said, the words sounded like a threat.

Still in the experimentation phase, I placed my hands on his upper chest once more and tried pivoting my hips. It felt good, very nice actually, but not enough.

I stopped. “Hold on. I have another idea.”

“I feel like you’re toying with me.” His eyes were now slits.

“I’m not!” I barked a laugh. “I’m really trying to do this well, but this is my first time taking control, doing something to you instead of the other way around. Please, I need you to be patient.”

“You’re teasing me. You’re pouring out a glass of water in front of a man dying of thirst and you’re asking him to be patient.” Now he sounded mad.

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“At least let me touch you.”

“No.” I slid my hips back and lifted up and—dammit—he slipped out. “Crap.”

Des sucked in a hissing breath. “This isn’t making love.”

“What? Why?” I reached between my legs again. Great. Now he’s slippery.

“Because you’re fucking with me.”

I couldn’t help it. I threw my head back and laughed. Then I bowed my head forward and laughed some more. He was so clever and funny and witty, even like this, even now. And I loved it. And him.

When I recovered and my gaze returned to him, I immediately read his features. Des stared at me with such a visible, visceral longing, he truly appeared to be suffering. Like maybe he was losing his mind and I’d tied his hands.

I didn’t want to give up, not yet. I wanted to be the one in control and giving instead of the passive one receiving.

Sighing, I twisted my lips and considered new options. “If I can’t get it right this time, you can take over. Okay? But then the next time we do it, I get to try again. And I will keep trying and you will let me. Got it?”

He nodded and swallowed thickly, his eyes like twin laser beams glaring into mine.

Repositioning him at my entrance, now knowing the correct angle, I fit us together much easier this time and immediately spread my legs to take as much of him as I could.

His eyelids flickered. “You’re a fast learner.” His voice low and deep and gravelly, it sounded like he approved.

“How’s this?” I braced my hands on his chest for a third time and began to move, pivoting my hips slowly, cautiously, and lifting up. But not too much, careful to keep him inside.

“Good,” he said darkly. “But I still need to touch you.”

We stared at each other while I debated whether to let him. His gaze grew so intense, my heart skipped a beat and warmth suffused my chest. Or maybe it was the feel of him inside me. Or maybe it was the sight of him beneath me while I controlled the pace. My confidence growing, I straightened and began rolling my hips like a wave instead of pivoting them.

“Does this feel good?” I asked, panting, because it felt very, very good to me.

He nodded, his fingers stretching and flexing in the sheets.

No longer touching his chest, I moved using just my legs and hips and core strength, my thighs beginning to burn and my pace a little faster.

He breathed out, his eyelids flickering again. Des was the first to look away, his gaze traveling down my body, eventually lowering to where we joined. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing quickened.

“When do I get to touch you?” His tone gruff, Des’s hands inched forward on the mattress. “Do I need to beg? Is that what you want?”

Raising my arms over my head and stretching, because it felt good in the moment, I took mercy on him. “Touch me,” I whispered.

Immediately, his palms came to my thighs and smoothed up to my hips, but he kept his grip light as he slid a hand toward my pelvis. Using his thumb, Des traced a circle around my clit. A shiver passed through me, interrupting the fluid rolling of my hips and stomach.

“Something wrong?” He stretched his neck, eyes returning to mine but now glaring. He still looked angry.

“Are you mad?” I asked. His thumb circling and caressing the center of my body caused my legs to shake.

Surprisingly, especially after all that pleading to touch me, he released my hip and tucked his arm behind his head. “I’m not mad,” he said, sounding mad—or something like it—his glare dropping to my chest. “I’m just enjoying the show.”

For some reason, his glare paired with his voice’s undercurrent of aggression morphed the gathering twisting tightness in my lower abdomen into a fusion of something both liquid and electric.

“Why do you look mad if you’re not mad?” I said on a gasp, the urge to increase my tempo overwhelming. The feel of him inside and outside and glaring and lying there looking so hot, I was close. It was so unreal. Like a fantasy. Everything about this moment. And he loves you.

“Stop talking, Ava,” he gritted out.

“Why?” Oh God. I was extremely close. But I needed more. Faster. Harder. “Why do you want me to stop talking?” I couldn’t catch my breath.

Des closed his eyes and pressed the back of his head to the mattress. “Because I’ve been trying really fucking hard not to come before you do for the last ten fucking minutes.”

An unplanned and surprisingly sinister laugh tumbled from my lips and my gaze trailed down and over his bare skin. He had so many scars and his body was so beautiful, and it was mine, and he loved me, and he felt so good inside me, and he was MINE!

I cried out, my own body separating from my mind and taking control, greedy and mindless, and my hips jerked and jolted. It felt like being shocked, and my lungs struggled to expand. Entirely lost to it, I didn’t realize Des had picked me up and turned us so that our positions were switched. My back on the mattress, his hands finding mine and entwining our fingers, he rolled his hips and the wave crested again.

My cries became higher pitched and uncontrollable, the electric, liquid heat in my abdomen gathering and expanding and tightening and shattering into sublime bliss. He smothered my sounds with his lips and tongue, invading my mouth hungrily while his thrusts became as greedy and hard and fast and ungraceful as mine had been earlier.

Des gathered me, still trembling, legs shaking and sore, and embraced me tightly, rolling to his back and kissing me like I might disappear, similar to the first time we’d had sex.

As lost and mindless as I was now, Des seemed even more feverish, consumed, and singularly focused on holding me as close as possible. This time I didn’t laugh at his cuteness or tease him. I held him just as tightly in return, seized by the sudden suspicion he needed this. The forceful hug, the weight, the skin-to-skin contact in this moment of vulnerability.

And me. He needed me.

I had no idea what time it was when I awoke and discovered a naked Des Sullivan in bed next to me, facing me, his gaze on me, his head on a pillow. The sun still shone through the curtains but it wasn’t bright. That could’ve been the clouds or the time of day. Maybe late afternoon? Maybe the next morning?

“Hey,” he said when my eyes fully opened and focused.

I stretched. “Did you sleep?”

“No.”

Blinking him back into focus, I lifted an eyebrow. “Have you been staring at me this whole time while I’ve been sleeping?”

He nodded unabashedly, his lips hitching to one side.

“Creep.”

Now he grinned. “I’m pretty sure you like it.”

“I do,” I admitted easily. “I like that you watch me while I sleep, just in case I require tending. Or a grape peeled.”

Des lifted a hand and smoothed his palm over my hair, his fingers pausing at my ear to tuck a few strands of hair behind it. “I think you like being adored.”

I thought about that and decided he was absolutely right. My family adored me, coddled me in a lot of ways. “Does that bother you?”

He shook his head, his eyes bright and striking me as happy. “I love that about you. I always loved pampering you, if you remember. Like when I’d carry you on my back if you didn’t want to walk. Even in the lake when we—” Des cut himself off and rolled his lips between his teeth, his eyes closing. “Never mind.”

“What?” I gently poked his shoulder, trying to remember what we’d done at his parents’ lake house.

He shook his head.

“What?!” I sat up, taking the sheet with me. “If you tell me, I’ll flash you.”

He shook his head again, his eyes opening, and he cleared his throat as he also sat up. “Did you sleep well?”

I decided to let him have his secrets. For now. “I did. I don’t remember falling asleep. So . . .” I cocked an eyebrow. “Was that making love? Or was that fucking?” I wanted to know his opinion even though I had my own.

He smirked. A sexy, warm, cute smirk. “I think it was both.” Unlike me, he didn’t cover himself with the sheet.

“And did I do okay?” I asked. “After I got the hang of it?”

Des plucked one of my hands from where I held the sheet and cradled it on his lap in both of his. “Do you want me to grade you? Give you a sex report card every quarter?”

“I always did well in school, so yes. I’d like a grade.”

He chuckled. “Then A plus.”

Using the hand holding the sheet, I did a small fist pump. “Yes!”

His eyes moved over me like I was cute. “Can I ask, why did you suddenly want to do everything yourself?”

Leaning my temple against the headboard, I let myself ogle his sexy torso. “I realized, last week when we were together, I’d been a passive participant. I sorta sat there or lay there and let you do whatever. I mean, don’t get me wrong, no complaints.”

Gaze still on where he cradled my hand, he smiled softly.

“But, and again, don’t take this the wrong way, the entire reason I wanted to have sex with you, have you specifically be my first—heck, the entire reason I agreed to go to that secret society marriage meetup—was because ever since New Year’s, I’ve felt really restless and unsatisfied with myself for being so passive in my life. Like I’m in the passenger seat of my life and, I don’t know, fear—maybe—is driving?”

Turning his head to look at me, I could see the question behind his eyes before he gave voice to it. “You think you’ve been passive in your life?” he asked, like he couldn’t imagine me being passive about anything. “Do you have anxiety?”

“Yes, but not like you mean. I don’t fear social situations. I don’t feel discomfort or afraid in crowds or when giving presentations, or even one-on-one with people. It’s more like . . .” I needed to think.

He let me. And while I contemplated how best to describe the situation, he lifted the hand he held and brought it to his mouth, brushing my knuckles back and forth against his lips. The movement seemed absentminded and it made me feel warm and fuzzy and honest.

“It’s more like I don’t want to do something stupid and embarrass myself.”

Des’s eyebrows jumped. “You weren’t like that when we were kids. Or when we were teens.”

“Yeah.” I turned my head and faced forward, staring at nothing, and let myself speak in a stream of consciousness. “My job as a corporate tax attorney means people never have follow-up questions for me at dinner parties, not that I’ve attended dinner parties. Since New Year’s, I’ve been feeling tired for no reason. Restless with no cause. I keep thinking about the state of my life.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I’ve done everything right and all my decisions have been safe and smart.” I smirked self-deprecatingly.

“You’re right. That sounds terrible.”

From the corners of my eyes, I sent him an extremely dirty look.

Unexpectedly, he looked immediately contrite and said, “Sorry.” Clearing his throat, he asked lightly, “So how’s that going for you?”

“Not great. Nothing about my life felt right, like I was missing something. Something critical. Something that would make life meaningful rather than whatever the version of my existence had turned into.”

“How so?” He sounded interested.

I glanced at him. “Manny, my friend, is studying in France and he unexpectedly stopped by my place and brought, you know, olives and swanky cheese crackers with a bottle of wine.”

“Who is this guy?” Des’s eyebrows pulled together. “Was he trying to get you drunk?”

“Please listen. So Manny insisted I get dressed and do my makeup, even though we were merely sitting in my family room. While I’d changed, he’d lit candles.”

His eyes narrowed and he grumbled, “I bet he did.”

“Anyway. Mood lighting. Wine. Hors d’oeuvres. A chunky cable-knit sweater off one shoulder. Two friends in a Chicago apartment talking about fun stuff⁠—”

“What fun stuff?” His eyes were still narrowed and his voice sounded tight.

I tried not to laugh and twisted my hand so that our fingers entwined, giving him a reassuring little squeeze. “You know, like the state tax code and the probability that Zelda actually wrote The Great Gatsby. My point is, for some strange reason, that moment felt like a turning point to me. It felt so much like a scene from a movie that I’d started glancing at the front door, hoping a stranger would knock and interrupt our conversation, ask for directions, turn out to be a shape-shifter—preferably a dragon shape-shifter—and then my story would really begin.”

Good news, Des’s eyes were no longer narrowed. But he did look confused. “You feel like your life hasn’t started yet?”

I nodded. “My restlessness quadrupled since that night. Something needed to happen. Something needed to change.”

“But—”

I squeezed his hand again. “My whole adult life, I’d been all bark and no bite. I talked a good game and then I talked myself out of playing the game. I was—and am—tired of it.”

“Was? As in past tense?” His chin dipped and his eyes widened.

I nodded, giving in to the urge to smile. “I’m not saying you’re responsible, but I do have to thank you. Seeing you at that ridiculous secret society marriage meetup thing, and you coming to the barbecue, and then everything that came after. I guess, seeing you again has made it easier for me to start taking chances and”—I shrugged and sighed—“being brave. That and vodka.”

He laughed. Then he lifted a hand to wrap around my neck and tug me forward. Des placed a tender kiss on my lips, then pressed our foreheads together. “You have the same effect on me, Ava Archer.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered.

“You help me. I am braver when I’m with you. And I’m happier.” He kissed me again and leaned away to look into my eyes, his big palm still on my neck. “My life is better with you in it.”

My grin was huge and probably goofy, but I didn’t care. I loved him. And I loved that we’d found each other again. And I couldn’t wait to find out what we decided to do next.