The Twin Bed

A Roommates Don’t Do That Bonus Scene
by Aurora North

What Happens After Lights Out

It’s Thanksgiving in Portland. Jenna’s childhood bedroom. A twin bed that was never meant for two. Her mother is twenty feet down the hall, and Lexie just promised she can do better than Derek Palmieri.

The twin bed was a crime against ergonomics.

It was also, Jenna informed me as she pulled me down onto it, “character-building.”

“You’re using my line against me,” I said. My back hit the mattress — the narrow, creaking, clearly-designed-for-a-single-teenage-girl mattress — and the frame protested with a sound that was audible from space. “And this bed is going to announce us to the entire house.”

“Then don’t move.”

“You’re on top of me.”

“That’s the plan.”

She was straddling my hips in the dark of her childhood bedroom, her weight pinning me to the mattress, the moonlight through those faded floral curtains painting her in silver and shadow. She was wearing my flannel — the one she’d stolen so long ago I’d stopped counting it as mine — and a pair of cotton shorts, and her hair was down, and she was looking at me with the expression that had been ruining my composure since the first time I’d seen it on this face: the one where her blue eyes went dark and her mouth curved just enough to be a dare.

“Jenna.” I put my hands on her thighs. Felt the muscle tense under my palms. “Your mother is twenty feet away.”

“Then I guess you’d better keep me quiet.”

The challenge landed between us like a match on dry grass. I felt it in my chest, in my stomach, in the sudden liquid heat that pooled between my legs. Nine months of this woman and every single time she said something like that — casually, like she hadn’t just detonated my entire nervous system — my body responded like it was the first time. Pavlovian. Instantaneous. Devastating.

I pulled her down by the flannel. Kissed her. Felt her mouth open under mine — soft, warm, the taste of Karen’s apple pie and the wine we’d had at dinner still faintly on her tongue. She kissed me back slowly, deliberately, the kind of kissing that was a conversation rather than a prelude. Her hands framed my face. Her thumbs traced my cheekbones. She kissed me like she had all night, like the house wasn’t full of people, like the twin bed wasn’t a structural liability.

I slid my hands up her thighs to her hips. Under the shorts. Her skin was hot, smooth, and she wasn’t wearing underwear, which I discovered at the exact moment my fingertips reached the crease where her thigh met her pelvis and found nothing but Jenna.

“No underwear,” I said against her mouth. “In your childhood bedroom. In your mother’s house.”

“I planned ahead.”

“You planned to seduce me in a twin bed during Thanksgiving.”

“I planned to let you seduce me. There’s a difference.”

“There’s no difference.”

“There’s definitely a difference. One of them lets me blame you when this bed collapses.”

I rolled us. The bed screamed — a long, agonized creak that echoed off the walls of a room still decorated with a Fall Out Boy poster and a volleyball participation trophy — and Jenna clapped her hand over her mouth and I froze with my body between her legs and my elbow braced on the mattress and we both held our breath.

Nothing. No footsteps in the hall. No knock. Karen Miller slept like the dead, apparently, or was choosing strategic ignorance. Either way, we had approximately one more roll before this bed filed a noise complaint.

“Don’t. Move,” Jenna whispered through her fingers.

“I have to move. The entire point of what I’m about to do to you involves moving.”

“Then move quietly.”

I kissed her neck. Found the spot below her ear that made her breath catch every single time — nine months of mapping this body and I had the coordinates memorized, the atlas of every nerve ending that made Jenna Price fall apart. She tilted her head to give me access, and I felt the vibration of the moan she was suppressing in her throat, the one she was trapping behind closed lips because her brother’s childhood bedroom was across the hall and her mother was at the end of the corridor.

The suppression was doing something to me I hadn’t expected. Every sound she swallowed, every gasp she caught between her teeth, every tremor she controlled — it was making me want to destroy her self-control completely. I wanted to take her apart so thoroughly that no amount of maternal proximity could keep her quiet.

I unbuttoned the flannel. My flannel. The flannel she’d claimed so early in our relationship that it had become hers by squatter’s rights. I opened it slowly, one button at a time, and she lay beneath me in the moonlight watching me with those dark blue eyes, her chest rising and falling faster with each button.

No bra. No underwear. Just the open flannel and the cotton shorts and Jenna, spread out on the twin bed of her childhood bedroom like a gift I didn’t deserve and was absolutely going to unwrap.

“You’re beautiful,” I said. I said it every time and I meant it every time and the way she reacted never changed — the slight flutter of her eyelids, the press of her lips together, the color that rose in her chest. She still wasn’t used to hearing it from someone who meant it.

I put my mouth on her breast. Took her nipple between my lips and sucked gently, and Jenna’s back arched and her hand flew to her mouth again and the sound she made behind her palm was the most erotic thing I’d ever heard. Muffled, desperate, the whimper of a woman trying not to scream in a house full of people who knew her name.

I switched to the other breast. Teased the nipple with my tongue — slow circles, then a light scrape of teeth, then the flat of my tongue pressing firmly — and Jenna’s hips rolled against me, seeking friction, and the bed creaked and we both froze again.

“This is impossible,” she breathed.

“Nothing about this is impossible. You just have to be creative.”

“Creative how?”

I slid down her body. Slowly. The mattress was narrow enough that my shoulder pressed against the wall on one side, and the movement was less a graceful descent and more a controlled slide between Jenna’s legs and the edge of the bed. But I got where I was going, which was between her thighs with my face level with the waistband of those cotton shorts.

I pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help, and the bed made a sound like a dying animal, and we both held still for three seconds before I continued. The shorts came off. My flannel was open. And Jenna was naked in front of me on the twin bed in Portland, Oregon, with moonlight on her skin and a Fall Out Boy poster watching from the wall and her mother sleeping twenty feet away.

I kissed the inside of her thigh. Felt the muscle quiver under my lips. She was already wet — I could see it in the dim light, the shine of arousal on her inner thighs — and the scent of her hit me like a drug, the familiar, intoxicating chemistry of the woman I loved.

“Lexie.” Her voice was barely a breath. “Please.”

I put my mouth on her.

The taste of her flooded my senses — salt and sweet and purely Jenna, the taste I’d become addicted to, the taste that had rewired my brain so completely that the memory of it could make me wet in the middle of a workday. I licked her slowly, a long stroke from her entrance to her clit, and felt her entire body tense beneath me.

She grabbed the pillow. Pulled it over her face. And the sound she made into it — the muffled, broken, desperate moan — was so hot I felt my own arousal pulse between my legs.

I sealed my mouth around her clit and sucked. Gently at first, then harder, varying the pressure the way I’d learned she liked — the way that made her grab whatever was nearest and hold on. Her hand found my hair. Gripped. The other hand pressed the pillow against her face, and the sounds she was making into it were getting louder, more frantic, the cotton muffling what would have been screams.

I slipped two fingers inside her. She was soaked — hot and tight and clenching around me the moment I entered — and I curled my fingers upward and found the spot and Jenna’s hips bucked so hard the bed frame cracked against the wall.

We both froze. My fingers still inside her. My mouth hovering over her clit. The silence stretched like a wire.

Then, faintly, from down the hall: nothing. Silence. The blessed, beautiful silence of a household that had consumed enough pie and wine to sleep through a minor earthquake.

“Keep going,” Jenna whispered. “Don’t you dare stop.”

I didn’t stop. I fucked her with my fingers — slow, deep strokes that pressed against her front wall with each thrust — and licked her clit in time with the rhythm, and Jenna bit down on the pillow and made sounds that weren’t words anymore. Her thighs closed around my head. Her hand in my hair tightened to the point of pain, the good kind, the kind that told me she was close.

I added a third finger. Felt her stretch around me, felt the gasp she couldn’t suppress even through the pillow. My tongue fluttered against her clit — fast, light, the technique I’d learned made her come hardest — and I could feel the trembling in her legs, the rhythmic clenching around my fingers, the unmistakable build toward the edge.

“Lex — fuck — I’m going to —”

I pressed my fingers deep and curled them and sucked her clit and Jenna came with the pillow crushed against her face and her body bowing off the mattress and the twin bed protesting with everything it had. I felt every contraction around my fingers, felt her thighs shake against my ears, felt the flood of wetness against my palm and my chin, and I held her through it — gentle with my tongue, steady with my fingers — until the aftershocks subsided and her body melted into the mattress.

I didn’t pull out right away. I kept my fingers inside her — still, just pressure — and kissed her inner thigh, her hip bone, the soft skin below her navel, tasting the salt of her sweat as I worked my way back up. She was trembling in the aftermath, tiny involuntary shivers running through her body, and every time one hit she clenched around my fingers and made a sound like she was being ruined all over again.

“Too much?” I asked against her stomach.

“Not enough.” Her voice was wrecked. Hoarse. The voice of a woman who’d been screaming into a pillow. “I want — Lex, I want to come again.”

I looked up at her. In the moonlight I could see the flush spreading down her chest, the way her nipples were still tight and swollen, the glassy look in her eyes that meant she was past the point of self-consciousness. Past the point of thinking about Karen or the house or the noise. She was just hunger now. Pure, trembling, open-mouthed hunger.

“Say it again,” I said. I moved my fingers inside her — a slow curl, deliberate, pressing against the swollen ridge of her G-spot — and watched her eyes roll back.

“Make me come again.”

“Louder.”

“The bed —”

“I don’t care about the bed.” I pulled my fingers almost all the way out, then pushed back in — deep, firm, the kind of thrust that made the mattress shift beneath us. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your mouth on me again.” She was breathing fast, her chest heaving, the flannel spread open around her like wings. “I want you to fuck me with your tongue and your fingers and I want to come on your face, Lexie, I want — fuck —”

I’d started moving again before she finished. Three fingers buried inside her, my thumb pressing firm circles on her clit from above while I crawled back up her body to kiss her. She tasted her own arousal on my mouth and moaned into the kiss — not quietly, not carefully, but the full-throated, desperate sound of a woman who’d stopped caring who heard.

“Shh,” I whispered, and she bit my lower lip hard enough to sting.

“Don’t you shh me. You asked me to say it.”

I grinned against her mouth. Twisted my wrist so my fingers hit her at a new angle and she gasped, sharp and involuntary, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks I’d have to explain in the morning.

I fucked her faster. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room — slick, rhythmic, the unmistakable soundtrack of what we were doing — and Jenna’s hips were rolling to meet each thrust, grinding against my palm, chasing the friction on her clit with single-minded desperation. The bed was a lost cause now, creaking with every movement, and we were both past the point of pretending the mattress wasn’t staging a mutiny.

“Right there,” she breathed. “Right — don’t stop — right there —”

I pressed my forehead against hers. Watched her face from inches away. This was my favorite part — not the sounds, not the wetness, not the way her body gripped my fingers like it was trying to pull me deeper. It was her face. The way her expression crumbled when she was close, all pretense stripped away, her brow furrowed and her mouth open and her eyes half-closed and her whole self reduced to this single, overwhelming sensation of being fucked by someone who loved her.

“Come for me,” I whispered.

She did. Her second orgasm was different from the first — longer, slower, a rolling wave instead of a sharp peak. Her body undulated beneath me, her hips grinding in circles against my hand, and she pressed her face into my neck and made a sound that was half sob, half moan, her teeth grazing my collarbone, her nails raking down my back. I felt her pulse around my fingers in long, deep contractions, felt the fresh flood of wetness coating my hand, my wrist, the sheets beneath her.

I kept my fingers inside her through the aftershocks. Kissed her temple. Her cheekbone. The corner of her mouth. She was shaking, full-body tremors, the kind that came from two orgasms in the span of minutes in a bed that was too small and a house that was too full and a love that was almost too much to contain.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice barely working. “Okay. That was —”

“Better than Derek Palmieri?”

She laughed — a broken, wrecked, gorgeous sound. “Better than anyone. Better than anything.” She turned her head and found my mouth and kissed me, and the kiss was slow and messy and tasted like her and like wine and like Thanksgiving. “Your turn. And I’m not asking.”

* * *

She pushed me onto my back. The bed creaked and we didn’t care. She pulled my shirt over my head, unclasped my bra, and then she just — looked at me. The way she looked at me was different from anyone who’d ever seen me naked. It wasn’t just appreciation. It was study. Jenna learned things the way she learned everything — with her whole attention — and nine months in, she was still discovering new things about my body and cataloguing each one.

“What?” I said, self-conscious under the scrutiny.

“I’m memorizing.” She traced a line from my collarbone to my breast with one fingertip, light enough to raise goosebumps. “This room. This light. You, like this.” Her finger circled my nipple and I shivered. “I spent seventeen years sleeping in this bed imagining someone looking at me the way you look at me. I just didn’t know it would be you.”

She lowered her mouth to my breast. Took my nipple between her lips and sucked, and the sensation shot straight to my core — a direct line, a closed circuit between her mouth and the aching, swollen heat between my legs. I bit down on the inside of my cheek and fisted the sheets and stared at the ceiling and tried to think about anything other than how good her mouth felt.

“Don’t hold back,” she murmured against my skin, her breath warm and damp. “I can feel you holding back.”

“Your mother —”

“My mother can handle knowing her daughter’s girlfriend has orgasms.” She bit my nipple — gently, then not gently — and the sharp sting melted into pleasure so fast I gasped out loud. “There. That’s what I want.”

She kissed her way down my body. Took her time. Jenna Price had never done anything fast when she could do it thoroughly — it was the event planner in her, the woman who color-coded timelines and built contingency schedules for contingency schedules. She applied the same meticulous attention to taking me apart. She kissed the curve under my breast. The dip of my waist. The ridge of my hip bone, where she pressed her lips and hummed against my skin and the vibration made me squirm.

She hooked her fingers in the waistband of my underwear and pulled. I lifted my hips. The bed protested. The underwear disappeared somewhere in the dark — off the edge of the twin bed, onto the floor of Jenna’s childhood bedroom, another piece of evidence we’d have to find in the morning.

She settled between my legs. I could feel her breath on me — warm, deliberate, close enough to be a tease and far enough to be torture. She pressed her lips to my inner thigh and I felt my hips try to move toward her mouth on their own, my body abandoning any pretense of patience.

“Jenna. Please.”

“Mmm. Say that again.”

“Please.“

“I love hearing you beg.” She spread me open with her fingers — careful, reverent, studying me the way she’d studied everything about this relationship from the beginning. “I love that I can make you beg. You’re the most composed person I know and I can do this —” She ran one finger through my folds, feather-light, barely touching. “— and you fall apart.”

“If you don’t put your mouth on me in the next three seconds I’m going to —”

She put her mouth on me.

Whatever threat I’d been constructing evaporated. Her tongue was hot and wet and she pressed it flat against my clit and I saw stars — actual, vision-dimming, thought-destroying stars. Jenna had been a fast learner from the very first time she’d done this, but nine months of practice had turned her into something devastating. She knew exactly how much pressure I needed. Exactly how fast. Exactly when to back off and let the tension build and when to bear down and shatter me.

She licked me in slow, broad strokes — base to tip, covering everything, tasting all of me — and then narrowed her focus to my clit, circling it with the tip of her tongue in tight, precise patterns that made my thighs shake. I buried my hand in her hair — that light-brown hair, loose and messy, falling across my thighs like silk — and tried not to pull too hard and failed.

She moaned against me. The vibration radiated through my clit and up my spine and I bit the pillow and tasted cotton and tried to remember how to breathe.

“Fingers,” I managed. “Jenna — I need —”

She slid two fingers inside me without breaking the rhythm of her tongue. I was so wet there was no resistance, just the slick, perfect slide of her inside me, curling upward to press against my front wall the way I’d taught her months ago in our apartment in Brooklyn with the door locked and the Sonos playing loud enough to cover us. She hadn’t needed much teaching. She’d learned my body with the same focused intensity she brought to everything, and now she played me like she’d been doing it her whole life.

She fucked me with her fingers and ate me out and the twin bed was screaming and I didn’t care. I didn’t care about Karen or Jason or the volleyball trophy or the creaking frame or anything except Jenna’s mouth on my clit and Jenna’s fingers inside me and the orgasm building in my belly like a thunderstorm.

She added a third finger. I was so wet it slipped in easily, the stretch burning for one perfect second before dissolving into fullness, pressure, the sensation of being completely filled by the woman I loved. She curled all three fingers and pressed and her tongue flattened against my clit and bore down and I grabbed the headboard with one hand and her hair with the other and came so hard I forgot my own name.

The orgasm ripped through me in waves — not a single peak but a series of them, each one cresting higher than the last, my body convulsing around her fingers while she kept her mouth on me, kept licking, kept fucking me through it with patient, relentless precision. I was making sounds into the pillow that weren’t human. My back arched off the mattress. My thighs locked around her head. And still she didn’t stop — she eased off the pressure on my clit but kept her fingers moving, slow and deep, drawing out the aftershocks until every nerve ending in my body was sparking.

When she finally pulled her mouth away I was gasping. Trembling. Wrecked in the way only Jenna could wreck me — thoroughly, methodically, with the focused attention of a woman who believed I deserved to come until I couldn’t think straight.

She crawled up my body. Kissed me. I tasted myself on her mouth, on her chin, and the taste combined with the tenderness of the kiss made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the orgasm.

“Good?” she asked, the smug edge in her voice barely concealed.

“You know it was good.”

“I know. I want to hear you say it.”

“It was — Jenna, you’re —” I pulled her down and kissed her properly, deep and slow and grateful. “You’re incredible. You know that.”

She was quiet for a moment, her body draped over mine in the narrow bed, her heartbeat rapid against my chest. Then, softly: “Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to do that. That I get to make you feel like that.” She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at me, and the moonlight caught the wet shine on her chin and the softness in her eyes and the combination almost broke me. “A year ago I didn’t even know I could want this.”

“And now?”

“Now I can’t imagine wanting anything else.”

* * *

We should have slept. It was past midnight. Karen’s Thanksgiving leftovers were in the fridge and the house was silent and the responsible thing — the adult thing — was to close our eyes and rest.

But Jenna’s hand was tracing patterns on my stomach. Slow, idle circles that drifted lower with each revolution. And my body, apparently, had not gotten the memo about responsibility.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“That.” I caught her hand an inch below my navel. “The slow drift south. You’ve been circling for five minutes.”

“I’m just touching you.”

“You’re strategically touching me.”

She grinned in the dark. I could see it — the flash of teeth, the dimple that only appeared on the left side. “Maybe I’m not done with you yet.”

“We have already established that this bed cannot handle additional activity.”

“Then we’ll be very still.”

She kissed my neck. Sucked lightly on the spot where my pulse hammered. Her hand slipped free of mine and continued its descent — past my navel, over the curve of my hip, between my legs. I was still swollen, still sensitive, still slick from before, and when her fingers found my clit I hissed through my teeth.

“Too sensitive?”

“No.” Yes. The first touch was almost painful — that raw, oversensitized aftermath of a hard orgasm — but Jenna knew that. She kept her touch light. Barely there. Just the pad of her middle finger drawing lazy, featherlight circles that sent sparks through my nerve endings without overwhelming them.

“Like this?” she whispered.

“Like that.”

She kept going. Patient, gentle, rebuilding the arousal from the ashes of the last orgasm with the skill of a woman who had learned that the second time was always more intense. The sensitivity that had made me wince at first contact was now working for her — every nerve ending amplified, every touch registering at twice the normal intensity. I was wet again already, or still, the slickness gathering between my thighs as her finger circled and circled.

“I want to try something,” she said against my ear.

“What?”

“I want to be on top of you. Not — not fingers. I want to feel you.”

My breath caught. We’d done this before — grinding, scissoring, whatever you wanted to call the act of pressing our bodies together with nothing between us — but it hit different every time. It hit different because of the way Jenna said it. Like it was still new. Like she was still amazed that her body wanted this.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “Yeah, come here.”

She shifted on top of me. The bed protested — a long, slow groan from the frame — and we both ignored it. She straddled my thigh, her wet heat pressing against my skin, and I slid my thigh up to press between her legs and felt her arousal coat my skin in a warm, slick stripe.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh.“

She rocked her hips. Ground herself against my thigh, her clit dragging against the muscle, and I pressed upward to meet her and felt her shudder. I slid my own hand between us — found her hand, guided it between my legs, and pressed her fingers against my clit while I gripped her hip with my other hand and helped her set the rhythm.

We moved together. Slowly at first — the bed could barely handle slow — and then faster, harder, Jenna riding my thigh with increasing urgency while her fingers worked my clit and I fucked myself against her hand. The room filled with the sounds we couldn’t suppress anymore: the wet slide of skin on skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed, our breathing — ragged, broken, synchronized.

“I can feel how wet you are,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “On my thigh. I can feel — Lex —”

“I know.” I gripped her hip harder. Pulled her down against me. “I can feel you too.”

She leaned forward. Changed the angle. And suddenly we were aligned — clit to clit, wet to wet, her body grinding directly against mine with nothing between us. The friction was electric, intimate, overwhelming. I could feel every fold of her pressed against me, could feel her clit sliding against mine with each roll of her hips, could feel the mingled wetness of us coating both our thighs.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “Lexie.“

“Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. She rode me — there was no other word for it — her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles that pressed her clit against mine with each revolution. Her hands braced on my shoulders. Her hair fell around us like a curtain, blocking out the moonlight, reducing the world to this: her body on mine, our wetness between us, the twin bed surrendering beneath us.

I grabbed her ass with both hands and pulled her tighter against me. Changed the angle slightly, tilting my hips up, and the pressure on my clit doubled and I heard myself moan — loud, uncontrolled, the sound of a woman who’d forgotten they were in a house full of people.

Jenna kissed me to muffle it. Kissed me hard, her tongue in my mouth, swallowing the sounds I was making while she ground against me faster and faster. Her rhythm was breaking down — losing its precision, becoming frantic, desperate — and I could feel the tension building in her body, the trembling in her thighs, the way her breath came in sharp little gasps against my mouth.

“Together,” she whispered. “Come with me.”

I slid my hand between us. Found her clit where it pressed against mine and rubbed — tight, fast circles, my fingers slipping in the wetness of both of us — and Jenna’s hips stuttered and her back arched and she came with her face buried in my neck, her body shaking, her clit pulsing against my fingers. And the sensation of her coming — the heat, the wetness, the trembling, the sounds — pushed me over the edge after her. I came with my hand between us and her body on top of me and the twin bed giving one final, catastrophic creak that we would hear about from Jason at breakfast and would refuse to explain.

We lay there. Panting. Tangled in each other and the sheets and the open flannel and the wreckage of what had once been a neatly made twin bed. The pillows were on the floor. My underwear was somewhere in the dark. Jenna’s shorts had migrated to the far side of the room like they were trying to escape.

“We broke the bed,” I said.

“We didn’t break the bed.”

“Listen.” I held still. The bed was making a sound — a slow, constant creak, like a ship settling in water. “That’s the sound of structural failure.”

“That’s the sound of a bed that’s been through something meaningful.”

I laughed. She laughed. And the combined vibration of our laughter made the bed creak louder and we laughed harder and I pressed my face into her neck and breathed her in — sweat and sex and the vanilla body wash from Karen’s guest bathroom and underneath it all, Jenna. Just Jenna.

“I love you,” I said. “In this bed. In this house. In this stupid little room with the Fall Out Boy poster.”

“I love you too.” She kissed the top of my head. “And for the record, I’m never taking that poster down. It witnessed something important tonight.”

“Multiple important things.”

“Three important things.”

“The poster didn’t consent to any of them.”

She pulled me closer. The twin bed forced us into a configuration that was less sleeping arrangement and more Tetris solution — her leg between mine, my arm across her waist, her chin on top of my head. We fit. Barely. The way we’d always fit: not perfectly, not neatly, but with a determination that made perfection irrelevant.

“Jenna?”

“Hmm.”

“Your mom is going to know.”

“My mom already knows.” She yawned against my hair. “She put us in the twin bed on purpose. She’s either testing us or she’s rooting for us, and knowing Karen Miller, it’s both.”

“Strategic maternal deployment of insufficient sleeping surfaces.”

“She wrote the book on it.”

I closed my eyes. Felt her heartbeat against my cheek — slowing, steadying, the rhythm of a woman settling into sleep. The house was quiet around us. The moonlight shifted across the faded floral curtains. Karen’s pie was in the kitchen. Jason’s daughter was asleep across the hall. And somewhere in this house — in the walls, in the beams, in the rooms that held every version of Jenna Price — the newest version was holding me, and I was holding her back, and the twin bed held us both, barely, creaking once more as we settled, and then going quiet.

Derek Palmieri never stood a chance.

He didn’t have what we had.

He didn’t have this.

Want more Lexie and Jenna? Read their full story.

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