Page 66 of The Friend Situation

He’s too good at this.

Weston leads me to the elevator, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a suggestive grin.

“I wish you could see how you’re looking at me right now,” I say.

It’s like he wants to push me against this wall and fuck me on the ride down to the ground floor.

“Probably the same way you’re looking at me,” he mutters.

I stand straighter. “Let the games begin.”

“Be careful, Firefly. I play to win,” he says, looking so attractively casual as the doors slide closed.

Proof it’s not the suit.

It’s him.

Forty minutes later,I arrive home, my mind still spinning from being with Weston. The remnants of alcohol still dance in my bloodstream, and I can’t help but replay tonight in my mind.

I undress and place my jewelry in the box on my dresser. I slip into my bed, and the cool sheets contrast with the heat simmering inside me.

Weston lives rent-free in my mind, like an uninvited yet irresistible guest. Had he not stopped us, I would have surrendered every part of myself to him. I wanted to.

My hands drift down my body, longing for his touch. I imagine his lips trailing kisses along my neck and jaw, igniting every nerve.My fingers brush between my legs, finding my sensitive clit. It’s not the first time he’s been the focus of my fantasy.

My eyes shut, and my breath hitches as I dip a finger inside. His name hovers in my throat—a forbidden thought, an urging whisper. I increase my pace, need rising within me like a tide. That man drives me to lose all control as I imagine his lips on me.

The crest of my orgasm builds, and I’m on the verge of exploding, suspended in air. I’m so fucking close, my body nearly shuddering with anticipation. Right when I think I may fall over the edge, my phone rings and startles me.

The buzzing slices through the haze. Heart racing, I reluctantly roll over to see who it is.

It’s Weston.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the screen—hair in disarray, cheeks flushed. I need to come so bad, but I reluctantly answer.

“Yes?” I’mfrustrated.

In his darkened room, he lounges on his bed, the bourbon bottle cradled in his hand. “You look guilty as fuck.” He smirks, his gaze roguish. “Did I interrupt something?”

I lick my lips, feeling as if my thoughts summoned him from the depths of my desire.

“I was thinking about you,” I admit sarcastically, rolling onto my back. I squeeze my thighs together, nearly breathless.

He lifts his brow, his curiosity piqued. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Can I help you?” I ask, knowing he’s denied me for the second time tonight.

“Feel free to continue.” His voice is smooth, like the bourbon he sips. “I don’t fucking mind.”

It’s like he knew exactly what I was doing and timed it with precision.

A smile dances on my lips as I consider his invitation. “Would you watch?”

He picks up the bottle, pressing it to his lips as I slide my fingers between my thighs. I gasp, feeling how wet I am. My mouth falls open, and breaths escape me as I carefully work my clit.

“Carlee,” he growls as my breathing increases.

“I really was thinking about you,” I confess.

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