Page 38 of That Moment
Her bluntness makes me laugh; she’s always been that way, quick to speak what’s on her mind.
“Yeah, I know. They also say it’s never a good idea to mix the two: friendship and fucking.”
She swallows. “Right. Of course.”
I grab her jacket from the stool where she dropped it and hold it open. She turns and slips her arms in. My fingers linger at her shoulders a second too long, memorizing the feel of her under my hands, then I drop them and force myself to walk her to the door.
I breathe in a long, deep breath of night air. The lot is quiet, the distant highway a soft hiss. I open her car door, and she leans against it, looking up at me like she’s deciding whether to fight me or forgive me. She reaches her hand out, grabbing a handful of my shirt again and tugging me forward.
“Do you want to come over?” she asks finally, voice low and steadier than I am.
The question isn’t even a question for me. I lean close, so close my mouth brushes the shell of her ear. “Yes,” I whisper. The truth slips out before I can stop it. I swallow hard and make myself finish the rest of the thought. “But I shouldn’t.”
She goes very still for a second. A beat passes, then she smiles and shrugs, like she expected that answer all along and was hoping I’d surprise both of us.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
I help her into the seat and close the door behind her. She looks at me for one more long, searching second. The domelight spills over her gray tee, and my gut goes tight. There are four blunt smudges stamped high on her ribs and a thumbprint beneath the curve of her breast. My hands. I marked her up and then backed off like a coward.
Then, she turns the key, puts the car in gear, and drives away. Her taillights paint the bay doors red, then shrink and disappear into the dark.
I stand in the quiet with my fists clenched and my body still burning, jaw tight enough to crack, chest aching like I’ve already lost her.
“Fuck buddies,” I mutter bitterly to the empty lot, too late to matter.
I trudge back into the garage, walking over to the Mustang again. My palms still tingle with the memory of her skin. My mouth tastes like her. I press my hands to the cool hood.
Coward,I think.And maybe savior. I don’t know which one hurts worse.
Chapter 7
Adrienne
I’m supposed to be initialing page fourteen, but my brain is still caught up in the memory of last night.
The way his hands engulfed my waist like he owned the blueprint of me. That first tentative kiss… so soft, so careful, it was barely a breath. But the second I pulled him closer to me, he knew what I wanted, what I needed. Heat surged, his mouth taking mine, his teeth catching my bottom lip like he’d been starving for years. When he lifted me onto the Mustang’s hood, I knew he’d finally given in.
I replay the exact drag of his thumbs up my ribs, the sound he made when I tugged his shirt, the little curse he bit back into my mouth. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the way his stubble rasped my chin and the way I indecently pressed myself against his hard cock while I clung to his shoulders, begging him without a word to keep going. It wasn’t gentle by the end. It was greedy and hot and everything I’ve pretended I don’t want.
And then—his breath shuddering, chest heaving… I didn’t expect him to pull away like the kiss burned.
The pen stalls in my fingers. I’m not mad about the retreat, not really. I’m rattled by how much I wanted him to ignore everygood intention we’ve ever had. I wanted him rougher. Slower. Deeper. I wanted him to pick me up and carry me anywhere that wasn’t that line he’s always so good at toeing.
I try to focus, turning my attention back to the contract in my hand. It works for three sentences. Then I’m back under the garage lights with grease on my wrist and his voice low against my mouth, that rough chuckle when he teased me. And then, the exact second, his restraint kicked in, and he set me down like a gentleman who wanted to be anything but.
I sign my name too fast and swear under my breath, reprinting the page. My pulse hasn’t leveled since I woke up. Every muscle remembers him. Every nerve is a live wire.
Maybe I should be angry that he pumped the brakes, but I’m not. Wanting like that isn’t a crush; it’s a cliff.
I take a breath, cap the pen, and reach for the next contract. The reflection in the glass door catches movement, broad shoulders, a familiar gait, the brim of a familiar cowboy hat cutting a line across the top of the frame. I blink.
No. He doesn’t come here. He hates coming here.
He once told me our polished hallways make him feel like he’s tracking mud across a museum.
The shadow passes again, and my heart thuds in my chest like I’m about to witness a crime. I shove back from my desk, heels biting carpet, and step into the hall before I can talk myself out of it.
And there he is… In a tight T-shirt stretched across that chest I had my hands all over last night, a ring of keys hooked on one finger.He really shouldn’t be allowed to look this fucking good.But he does, and my body knows it before my brain catches up.
