Page 29 of I Almost Do

“Tell me all the things you never did. Do you want to burn everything pink in your bedroom? We’ll do it,” he says.

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“I want to donate it to a women’s shelter.”

“Good girl. What else?”

“I want to learn to drive a car.”

“Done.”

“I want a pet. Dad didn’t like animals inside the house. But I want one.” There’s heat building behind my words as I begin my list.

“Keep talking,” he says, his mouth against the thin skin at my temple.

“I want to travel.”

“Do it.”

“I don’t want to be a librarian. I want to write smutty romance novels that nobody will ever take seriously.”

“So fucking hot,” he breathes.

“I want to kiss you.”

He holds still for a moment and doesn’t say a word. Then his mouth is on mine, his large body pinning me to the wall. He tastes of chlorine and toothpaste. And the feel of his tongue stroking against mine, his lips as they explore, his stubble that scrapes against my tender skin, it all ignites a maelstrom of sexual longing inside me.

He eats at my mouth, his hand moving to the back of my head to tilt me first this way, then that. I reach up to stroke across the vaulted expanse of his back, exploring the satin skin with my fingertips, exultant that his mouth is on mine.

The door at the end of the hall swings open. There’s a murmur of words, then the sound of the door snicking shut again. It’s Sasha keeping some member of the staff away from us. I’d forgotten, for just a moment, where we were. That Sasha is right there at the end of the hall in full view.

James eases back a little, his expression troubled as he says, “This is a slippery slope. We’re friends, Clarissa.”

Ouch.

He steps away and rubs the back of his neck. “We can’t be more than that. Not for a long time.”

It’s almost worse that his expression is so gentle and kind.

This is his reminder—no catching feelings.

Too damn late.

12

When the Party's Over

James

Clarissa is a torment. She’s not even trying. She just is. It’s not just that I love the feel of her touching me, it’s that she’s become necessary for me to function.

Knowing she wants me to touch her too? It’s torture.

After the incident outside the locker rooms, I’ve pulled away from her. I’m sure she thinks it’s because I don’t want to kiss her or touch her or, in her words, “catch feelings.”

The truth is worse. I don’t just want to kiss her—I want to own her. I don’t just want to touch her—I want to tease her until she begs me to give her an orgasm. I want to watch her wrap that innocent mouth around my cock. I want to rut on her like an animal until she’s shaking from how hard she comes.

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