Perfect

She sat, cross-legged, hair done up in a messy bun, wearing a tank and pj bottoms. She pretended to concentrate on the laptop in front of her. Face scrunched with feigned concentration, turning her gaze away every now and then to glance his way. When she did, he swept his attention back to the project before him. And she'd pretend not to notice how he redoubled his efforts to hide his interest and subsequent fluster.

He was, at any given moment, but always in her presence, a cocktail of awkwardness and exasperated doubt. She felt it in his posture, saw it in his eyes, the way they'd flash when he thought she didn't see, and dim when she turned to look him full on in the face.

She rested her chin on one fist. Studying him, what she could see with his shell turned to her. The lithe muscles in the back of his arms, the smoothness of his skin, the thick ropey thigh that simply begged to be gripped and squeezed, to be stroked and followed up to where those long legs met the dip and curve of his hip and . . .

Feeling a bit warm, she ran her tongue along the swell of her bottom lip. Sometimes, she decided, what was needed, in situations as desperate and tenuous as the one that had been festering here between them, was a drastic move. One born out of confidence so bold and real that it could only really exist in movies and the really-well-written novel. Life wasn't perfect that way.

Who said it had to be perfect, anyway?

Heart thrumming and suddenly chilled, April shifted and tugged at the front of her low-cut tank, prepping for maximum effect. Keeping her gaze lowered, she causally cleared her throat. She glanced up at him. Hmm. He didn't seem to hear her. Or, more likely, pretended not to have heard.

Gonna play hard to get? How could I've guessed? She smirked. Here goes nothing.

"Hey, Donnie?" Her voice was lush and low, practically purring. This wasn't so hard. "Can you do a little something for me?" She'd even batted her lashes like a pro. Easy peasy. Come to mama.

She felt the cowardly, instantaneous retreat of her bravado as he twisted where he sat on her living room floor repairing the space heater that he'd wanted her to throw out but she insisted he could fix. His brandy-brown eyes met hers and the flecks of jade seemed to catch the light even from behind his glasses, catch it and fire it back: emerald flares.

"Yes? Whatever you need," he replied with a sincerity that melted her. Never failed.

Incinerated, her breath was stolen and she back-pedaled. "Erm, aheh, yeah, I-I . . . what was I going to . . . ?" she fumbled as her brain demanded an immediate cease-and-desist of any further plans of speaking or acting on the tightening she felt in her lower mid-section with the mere gaze of the male before her.

Dammit. Why did he have to be so hot? And why did he have to be so clueless to how she felt?

Maybe if those amazing eyes would stop looking into her, no doubt seeing her lust in all its primitive glory, yeah right, she'd be able to think. Dropping her head, she covered her face and coughed. There was a shuffling sound and looking up, she found him gone.

Where the hell did he go?

Her shoulders slumped and the slag of defeat was only a slight comfort to the knowledge that she very nearly made a complete ass of herself. What had she been thinking? Attempting to come on so strong? She'd only look ridiculous.

Some seductress.

A glass of water appeared over her left shoulder.

"Try this."

"Oh."

She took it morosely and murmured her thanks and sipped. The water nearly sucked into her lungs as he planted himself directly behind her. His large, warm, impossibly warm, hands came to rest upon her upper shoulder blades. She gulped and swallowed as much air as water. The heat from his touch went directly center and south within her body. He began to knead with his thumbs, somehow, perfectly, into the tender knots that she hadn't even been aware of.

"Haaa," she sputtered.

If she'd been incinerated before, she was a tower of molten lava at his touch.

"Drink some more," he softly ordered.

Was there an edge in his tone? Did he want her to obey him? What other commands did he want her to follow? She choked again.

What could she do? She lifted the glass to her parted lips, but breathing steadily was hard enough, drinking was completely out of the question right about now. He was doing something with his fingers alongside her neck, working his way from behind her ears and jaw down to glide between her shoulder blades, pressing just the right amount, rolling all the stress from her. And there was a growing tension he wasn't quite reaching with his hands on her up there. April imagined him sliding his hands down and over her shoulders, down lower to cup her breasts. Her hips tipped a little.

A groan, deep and utterly unlike her, erupted from the back of her throat, slipping between her gritted teeth. It was something hoarse and fluid and full of pleasure but also need.

From behind her, there came a barely concealed huff of satisfaction. And April couldn't help but give a lop-sided grin.

If he liked that sound . . . Her mind went somewhere carnal and dark and lust-filled. A place of entwined limbs and trailing fingers and open mouths, panting. Panting. April closed her mouth with a snap. Her cheeks flushed and the core of her body ached with need. His hands were relentless, kneading and rubbing her into putty.

She could just feel the sweep of his forearms, could just sense his bent legs on either side of her, so close, so terribly close. She had to grip the glass with both hands to keep from reaching out and clasping those thighs, pulling them tightly to her, coiling around them.

Slowly, she became aware of something. The pattern of his breath had become distinctly different. Her heart tripped. It was unsteady, shallow. Heated. She felt the warmth of it on the back of her neck.

His hands faltered. The motions slowed and then his touch was gone.

"Uh," he said, breathlessly, "th-that should help some. I hope."

They sat for a moment, neither daring to move, both wondering what the other might be thinking. The tension in the room was electric, fierce with hunger. But the building pressure must have been too much, for he made to move away. The spare inches now separating him from her were intolerable.

"Donnie!"

In her haste to catch him before he went too far, she dropped the glass. It didn't break, but rather, tumbled in an impressive acrobatic twirl that would have been hysterical under any other circumstances. Did you see that? The damn thing spun four times! Four!

The ice-cold water drenched her. She squealed from the shock and jumped.

Donatello mirrored the motion. Instantly on alert, but not knowing from where the danger had come. They were both on their feet, facing each other, flustered and gaping, gasping. April's arms were out at her sides and Donatello looked like he was about to catch something falling from the ceiling.

In unison, they both glanced down.

The front of her shirt and pants, mainly her pants, and mostly in the crotch region, was soaked through. It looked as though she'd pissed herself.

By inches, their gazes raised. Their eyes met. Donatello's shocked expression remained fixed for another beat before the corners of his mouth twitched. April's eyes closed slowly as she dropped her arms. She huffed.

They broke into sniggering. That turned into bubbling laughter. Donatello threw his head back and snorted. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm . . . ahahahah, snort!"

"You should be," she said around wiping her nose and bending slightly, laughing harder. She wagged her finger at him. "Completely inappropriate."

"Heehee, bathroom h-humor. Utterly unacceptable."

Together, still guffawing, snorting and chuckling, they stumbled into the kitchen where Donatello collected two towels from a drawer and handed them to her. She patted at the blotch of wetness but gave up with a shrug. She straightened up as he wiped at his eye under one lens of his glasses.

"Only one thing to do," she giggled and became suddenly serious. Donatello was the only one still laughing. But not for long.

"I have to strip."

"Heh, haha, huh." He glanced around and his laughter died back as her words sunk in and registered. He grew stiff and looked around as if trying to locate where he'd left a tool. "Huh."

Her fingers tucked into the waistband of her pajama pants. She moved her hands back and forth, the motion not lost on Donatello whose eyes were locked on her hands and face was decidedly pink. April bet it wasn't from the laughter.

"I sh-should . . . I should . . ."

"Donnie?"

His head snapped up, eyes at attention. "Yes?"

Her moment had arrived. It wasn't perfectly scripted. It hadn't gone exactly smoothly or the way she imagined, but it was here. It was real. And it was all hers.

"You should stay."

"Stay?"

She nodded. "I'd like that."

"Oh."

She slipped out of her pants in one long movement.

"Oh," he whispered, throat working as his eyes devoured the sight before him.

She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on tip-toe and raised her mouth just as he lowered his. She finally had the moment she'd waited for. She had him right where she wanted. All alone. All hers.

Perfect.

A/N: Just belted this one out - sorry for any spelling errors, I'll go over it in the a.m. I am just on an Apritello kick lately. Been bitten by the bug, I guess. Feels good.