Page 111 of That Friendzone Feeling
Hetrails his hand down my back, over my butt, then pulls my thigh against his dick, which is already hard again.
Igroan with frustration. “That’snot helpful.”
Ishove him away and roll onto my back, my center throbbing with need for him all over again.
“You’reno fun,” he says, pushing himself up and sitting on the edge of the bed.
Thebeautiful expanse of his back is a magnet for my hands, butIuse them to grab my phone and check the morning emails instead.
“I’lljump in the shower.”Hepeers at me over his shoulder and quirks an eyebrow. “Acold one.”
Ifollow him with my eyes as his tall, solid, muscular form walks naked toward the bathroom and disappears through the door.
Theonly good thing about not having time to pin him to the bed is knowingIcan pin him to it later.Orto anythingIlike.
Whoknew life could be this good?
Andthere aren’t any urgent emails to deal with, also always a good thing.
Myarm stretches halfway back to my nightstand to put the phone down, but something makes me pull it back.
Icheck my texts, likeI’mexpecting to find something new whenIknow there won’t be.
Myeye—and ifI’mhonest with myself, my heart—is drawn toSara’sname.
Iopen our messages.Thelast two are from her.Onefrom last week, asking, “Areyou around?”Andanother from a couple of days ago, saying, “Iknow you’re busy.Maybecall me when you can?”
Atthe timeI’ddismissed them as unimportant.ProbablyjustSarawanting to tell me about her fabulous life and how much greater than mine it is.Butfor some reason they read differently now.Almostlike a cry for help.It’slike my eyes are open to that for the first time.
Ipush myself up and prop the pillows behind my back asIhit call.
Sarapicks up after one ring. “Oh, thankGod.Ithought you weren’t speaking to me or something.Ithought maybeI’dpissed you off.”
There’sa tremor in her voice.Notan overreactive one, a real one.
“Issomething wrong?Hassomething happened?”
“Ijust really need to talk to you.”Shesounds close to tears with relief. “I’veneeded to talk to you for months.Iwas desperate to see you whenIwas inNewYorklast week.”
Theguilt for dismissing her messages as self-serving drama gnaws at my gut.Thissounds like an actual problem.
“Whereare you now?”Ineed to put this right. “Ican meet you if you like.”
“I’minLondon.”Hervoice cracks. “Fora month.”
“Shit.Sorry.”Apang of guilt hits my stomach hard.Ipull my knees up to my chest under the duvet.Walker’sright—if we’re late for work, we’re late for work.Somethings are more important.Andmy life is going pretty damn well right now, so perhaps it’s timeIshared the goodwill. “Ihave all the time you need.Tellme what’s going on.”
Thesound of the shower being turned on comes from the bathroom.
“I’mhere for four weeks becauseI’mplaying a series of concerts atTheQueen’sColiseumHall.”Shepauses and swallows. “Themost prestigious classical music venue inEurope.”There’sa loud sniff. “TheBritishNationalPhilharmonicis my backing group.Thereare few bigger honors.”Shetakes a deep, shaky breath. “ButIdon’t want to do it.”Thelast two words dissolve into sobs.
“Oh, myGod,Sara.Why?What’shappened?”
Shecries uncontrollably for a minute, pulling at heartstringsIthought had long since been severed.
“Hey,”Itry to sooth her. “It’sokay.Whateverit is, you can tell me.”
Hersobs slow. “Nothing’shappened.Ijust don’t want to do this anymore.”Shesounds nasal, like she’s holding her nose with a tissue. “I’vewanted to stop for the last couple of years.”
