Wednesday nights usually find them captured on the floor in front of her couch, swaying to pop ballads and evaluating the contestants’ style choices (because the fact that Sanjaya made it that far with that hair means that someone should be keeping tabs). And they’re usually about fifteen minutes in, the bitchy blonde girl hitting a bad note in front of her vocal coach, when Andy starts kissing her neck.

“You’re not paying attention,” she whines, although the break at the end of her voice gives her away.

“Oh yes I am,” he murmurs against her skin, sending vibrations through her throat. “I’m a multi-tasker.”

Kelly pretends to believe him, pretends that her eyes are still focused on the television instead of his palm flat against her stomach, warming through her silky top because he doesn’t usually go for under the shirt until someone starts crying.

And in hindsight she always gets annoyed with the distraction, but she quickly reminds herself that Andy loves American Idol, so the fact that he’s willing to totally ignore it to tease the hem of her skirt is actually quite flattering.

This is why she doesn’t protest as his other hand happens to find itself on her upper thigh, the strategic placement seeming less and less accidental the further it slides up her skirt.

This is why she places her hand over his, even as her eyes never leave the screen, because she knows he likes it when she’s in the driver’s seat.

This is why she finally hits pause on her TiVo with that cute little beep sound and turns to kiss him as the shapes cast blue silhouettes across his smirk in the dark. But she closes her eyes because seeing Simon Cowell projected onto her boyfriend’s face is a little creepy.

It’s not long before he’s propping himself up on either side of her hips. There’s a reason why they sit on the floor instead of on the couch cushions; they’d fallen off three times in the process of switching positions before finally picking a more gravity-friendly spot. Kelly could say he was annoying at work and impossible early in the morning while he’s singing loudly in the shower, or totally lame as he’s kissing Michael’s ass at after-work functions, but she couldn’t say he was impatient or selfish in the bedroom, hers or his.

Her fingers flex in the shag carpet (because she knows how much time he spends applying mousse to his hair and spiky hair is so last season so she avoids grabbing hold there) as his fingers press into her lace underwear (the hot pink always gives away any protests of this being unplanned, but she knows it’s his favorite color on her and well…). Andy tells her that her skin is like ginger bread cookies or cinnamon buns or chocolate swirl ice cream or any other dessert food that totally isn’t on the Atkins’ diet, but she doesn’t mind the cliché if the hum of those words always feel that good vibrating softly against her clit. His tongue presses hot against her and Kelly throws her head back, accidentally hitting the play button on the remote.

Her cry of “oh God” gets trapped inside the final long note of a Shania Twain song and they end up having to wait until the next afternoon to watch the rest of American Idol.