Page 63 of The Friend Situation

“You didn’t feel anything,” I say, immediately feeling stupid.

The realization is enough to drown me alive. I’m not used to being on this side of the coin, where I’m the one who feels something. My mouth gently parts, and I check myself, tucking my emotions back in.

We really are just friends. This is proof of that.

I force a smile.

“Please forget I said that,” I say in a hushed whisper.

Weston watches me fight an internal battle. He places his palm against my cheek. His thumb brushes against my lower lip as he studies it.

“You felt something?” he whispers, his voice a deep growl, as he meets my eyes.

“Yes, and I feel so stupid. I should go before I embarrass myself further,” I confess.

I fall into shock as he moves forward, gently brushing his lips across mine. I’m lost with him, my willpower dissolving like sugar in water. Together, we’re the perfect sweetness.

I pull him closer until I can feel the warmth of his body pressed against me. Our tongues entwine, and he threads his fingers through my damp hair, gently tugging. I hear a low growl in the back of his throat.

I moan against him, needing more—allof him.

“Weston,” I whisper.

His hand slides up my shirt, fingers brushing over my lacy bra and against my perky nipple. His touch is dizzying.

I know we should stop, but I don’t want to.

He takes my lip between his teeth and sucks and nibbles on it. We stumble over a line we shouldn’t be flirting with, yet the temptation is so addictive that neither of us pulls away. I want to take that leap with him, not giving a fuck about the consequences that follow. It’s a problem for future me andfuture usto worry about.

We will always be friends. Weston never breaks his promises to me.

Can we have our cake and eat it too?

We fall backward onto the bed, and he settles between my thighs, hard and rough, adding pressure to my sensitive bud as he peppers kisses along my neck and jaw.

“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters against my skin, capturing my lips again.

I buck my hips upward, feeling the strain of him against his joggers. The thin fabric of our clothes is the only thing between us. The friction of grinding against him drives me wild. I thread my fingers through his hair, knowing I could crumble under him just like this.

We’re tumbling, inhibitions gone, and a moan escapes me. I’m so wet for him, needing more.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, tracing the shell of my ear with his mouth.

My eyes bolt open. “No,” I mutter.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he repeats, almost pained as he presses his cock between my legs. “It’s not you. Do you feel what you do to me?”

“Yes,” I say, our mouths so close.

Weston places a gentle kiss across my lips, then forces himselfoff the bed. He stands to the side, watching me. His lips are swollen, and his hair is messy. Tattoos are splashed across his chest and arms. Weston Calloway is an archangel, beautiful and destructive.

I prop myself up on my elbows, sexually frustrated, ready to beg for him, but I don’t. We stare at each other for a long while, neither of us speaking.

This time, it went too far. We lost control.

“Do you need Viagra?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. “I swear I won’t poke fun.”

He bursts into laughter, glancing down at his rock-solid package. “No. My cock functionsperfectly.”

---