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I groan as I move inside her, taking my time at first, then I fuck her on the kitchen counter. Because I can’t wait. Sure, I can wait to go down on her. Yes, I can wait to carry her to the bedroom. I can even wait for dinner. But I can’t wait for the breathtaking, phenomenal feeling of sliding in and out of this woman. This gorgeous, wonderful, sensual, bold woman. This sexual creature who wants me the same damn way I want her. Her hands curl tightly over my shoulders, and she grinds against me.

For a while, we’re nothing but murmurs and sighs, moans and groans, and the slap of flesh against flesh. We become a carnal thing, a man and a woman hungry with desire, each consuming the other.

Then she grabs my face, grips me tight, and parts her lips. “Take me there,” she says, her voice smoky and sexy, and pure vulnerability, too, as if she’s spoken her greatest, deepest wish.

I push in deeper, reaching the edge of her, then I stop and stare into her eyes. I see everything that’s seemingly struck me out of the blue, but now I’m sure has been there all along if I’d stopped to notice.

She’s the woman for me.

She’s the one I want.

I’m fucking my friend.

I’m screwing my roommate.

And more than that, I’m also making love to the woman I’m falling in love with.

But the more I think about the insanity and foolishness of me right now, the more I risk telling her everything. The more I’ll ruin us.

Besides, right now I have one job. To take her there.

“I will, baby, I will,” I say, then thread my fingers in her hair and bring my mouth to her ear as I fuck her hard and deep. She hooks her legs around my ass and pulls me tighter. I bury myself in her, fucking and thrusting until she screams so loudly that I know she’s on the cusp.

Then, she tells me. Because that’s what she does. She’s an announcer.

I’m so close.

Keep fucking.

Just like that.

Like I’d stop.

She rocks up into me as if she’s finding the perfect friction on my shaft, and soon she discovers it. She uncovers her pleasure, and an orgasm seems to blast through her. She trembles from head to toe. She shudders as she squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m coming,” she whispers in the faintest, most desperate whisper.

Then a louder one. “Oh God, I’m coming.”

Then an ear-splitting shout that rattles loose my own climax. It seizes me, crashing into me with the force of a storm, ripping through my body as I fuck her through my release, grunting her name, groaning barely coherent words. And as pleasure keeps rolling through me, I have to bite my tongue so I don’t say anything more. So I don’t tell her it’s never been this good. And it’s not just a scientific kind of good. It’s a whole new level. One I fear I’m already becoming dangerously addicted to.

But I don’t want to say that out loud yet, or ever. If I do, I could lose her, and that’s a risk I just won’t take.

Instead, we eat pizza.





22





I fold a slice and take another mouth-watering bite. After I chew, I roll my eyes in absolute appreciation of Josie’s talents. “I was wrong all the other times. This is now the best thing you’ve ever made.”

She laughs. “You said it’s what you missed most in Africa.”

“Oh, I definitely missed pizza with a ferocity.”

“Say the word, and I’ll make you a cherry pie, too,” she says. When I give her a naughty wink, she holds up a hand. “I meant the kind with fruit in it.”

“You do know there’s no way for pie to sound anything but dirty?”

We’re parked on the couch, half-dressed, after—no hyperbole—the best sex of my life. She fastened the apron again, and wears the cherry-patterned wrap and heels. She said she thought I’d get a kick out of her “post-sex” outfit. She was right. As for me, I’m in jeans.

“I do know that,” she says, then stretches across the couch to ruffle my hair.

The gesture both warms my heart and makes me think. Josie’s always been a toucher, so it’s not out of place. But it feels so . . . couple-y. So boyfriend-girlfriend. There’s a part of me that desperately wants that with her. That wants to just crack open my heart and tell her how I feel.

Because inside, I’m on cloud nine. I’m a happy motherfucker, just kicking back, eating pizza with the best girl I know. Our physical connection is mind-bogglingly good. We get along like two peas in a pod. She’s been my friend forever. Hell, we’re about to play a game of Scrabble before we go for round two.

But there’s the rub.

Because all this floating on a cloud of complete and utter dirty, sexy, fantastic happiness is just smoke and mirrors. It’s a trick designed flawlessly by the human body. Why, oh fucking why, does falling for someone have to be such a rush? Such a high?

But I know the answer.

There’s a reason for the release of those endorphins. Chemicals are in our system so falling in love will make us procreate. This rampant contentment swirling inside me is all just basic survival-of-the-species shit. It’s an illusion of brain chemistry.

And as long as I keep my head on straight, I can’t be fooled by risky feelings.

Even though a part of me wants to throw caution to the wind, to listen to this hammering in my chest, to just say, “Hey, it’s you and me, let’s defy the odds.” Fucking, eating pizza, and playing Scrabble.

Yeah, there’s no need for anything more.