Not letting his eyes, smirk, or handsome personal-bubble-breaking self affect me, I poke him in the chest, hard. “Allowing someone to apologize even if you don’t want to hear it. I get it, no talking about Sadie, noted. But at least let me apologize for being a shitty friend when you needed someone by your side the most.”
“Emma—”
“No. You listen here, mister.” I try to stand taller but I’m no match for his towering height. “I’m saying I’m sorry and you will accept that apology or I’ll . . .”
Errr . . .
What will I do? Kick him in the crotch? Give him a noogie? Purple Nurple to the rescue?
Although they’re all viable options I’m not afraid to do, I don’t think they’ll get the point across.
Leaving no space between us now, he presses his hands on my hips and with his lowered voice, he asks, “Or you’ll what?” His breath mixes with mine, the smell of my makeup wipes fills the space between us, and the firm grip he has on my hips is weakening me second by second.
Why is he so touchy? And why the hell do I like it so much?
AND why do I want him to touch me in other places?
Shit, this is your friend, your best friend’s ex. Focus!
“Or I’ll . . .” I look around and finally say, “Move out. Yeah, I’ll move out, leaving you without a tenant. Say goodbye to two dollars a month.” Crap, I wish I paid him normal rent right about now.
He bites his bottom lip, holding back a smile, and presses me into his body. Okay, I’m not an expert on friendship or anything, but this hold right here, with the way he’s looking down at me, like he’s about to gobble me up, I don’t think this is how friends act. Although, I might be old school. Who knows with my generation? We’re always switching up everything. Who knew you could eat chili from a Fritos bag by just dumping it in there? Millennials knew, that’s who.
But seriously, why does he look like he’s about to kiss me?
Ah, is he going to kiss me?
He can’t kiss me, that has to be against the rules, right? It’s against girl code at least, that’s for damn sure.
“You’d move out if I don’t let you apologize?” he whispers in what I can only say is a gravelly voice. I nod, my throat starting to clamp shut. “Well, I can’t be losing out on rent.” With another smirk, he nods at me. “Go ahead, babe, apologize.”
Is this some sort of trick? I don’t understand. Is something going to pop out of me if I apologize? Is this a hidden camera show? Punk’d for regular people?
Instead of apologizing, I really want to ask him why he’s holding me tightly, and why he’s casually licking his lips like I’m his second supper, and why for the love of all pheromones does he smell so freaking good?
“Uh,” I clear my throat and try to get my brain to formulate some kind of coherent sentence. “Thank you for this opportunity.” Thank you? You’re thanking him right now? No, don’t thank him, you idiot, he didn’t just present you with a royal scepter and make you queen of the night. He said you could apologize. Gathering my wits, well, what’s left of them, I try to recall how to form words. “On this day, this wintery day . . .” Why am I making this a speech?
Wait, is he . . . oh my God, he’s making small circles with his thumbs on my skin and wait a second . . . Yup, the results are in, my panties are getting wet. Christ! This is not happening. I am not becoming aroused by Tucker. No. Way. Not me. Not Emma Marks. Not turned on . . . oh shit, that feels so good. It’s been way too long . . .
“On this wintery day . . .” he presses, as his hands move up my sides. I swear to the cheese on my pizza last night, if he touches my boobs, there will be no stopping the feral howls that escape my lips.
Just finish your damn apology and get out of this little touch-and-feel play-by-play you’re having with Tucker Jameson.
“On this wintery day,” I continue, “I would like to apologize for not being a good friend when you needed me the most.” There, I said it, in one quick swoop, with no inflection in my voice whatsoever, but I said it and that’s all that matters.
“You’re sorry, huh?”
I gulp and nod.
“How sorry?”
Oh God, is this one of those questions where a guy asks you a question like, “How horny are you?” And they say, “Horny enough to eat my dick” while pelvic thrusting their jean-clad hammers in your face? Would Tucker ask me to eat his dick? Would I want to eat his dick? Why is relish popping up in my head from the thought of eating Tucker’s dick? Relish and celery salt, no, relish, celery salt, mustard and onions. Mmmm.
“Relish,” I mutter.
His brow pinches together. “What?”
Errr . . . how would he respond if I said relish dick? I’m going to lean on the side of thinking I’m crazy.
“Umm, relish in the moment,” I cover with a fist-pump of glory into the air. “I don’t apologize often.” Sheesh, that was close.
“Uh, okay.” Leaning forward again, he asks, “You didn’t answer my question, how sorry are you?”
Big moment right here.
Do I say sorry enough to relish your cock and munch down? Nom. Nom. Sorry enough to twist your nips if you like that sort of thing? Sorry enough to try my best at an oil painting of him stroking his erection while a parrot sits on his shoulder?
Probably not.
His thumbs continue to stroke my sides, making everything in my brain fuzzy . . . if you haven’t noticed already. I look him in the eyes, his gorgeous, smoldering eyes and say, “Very sorry.”
“Very sorry?” Okay, here it comes, the lewd question I’ve been waiting for. The suck-my-cock apology request. I cringe inwardly, waiting as he leans over to my ear, his lips mere millimeters away as he says. “Okay. Then I accept your apology on one condition . . .” Get the ChapStick ready, we’re turning into a phallic sucker tonight. “You have to do the dishes for the next week.”
Of course he would want his balls massaged too . . . wait. Dishes?
“You want me to do the dishes?”
He chuckles and kisses me on the forehead. “Nah, I’m just kidding.” He separates himself from me so casually that I feel like falling over from the sudden lack of support. How can he just switch moods like that? As if he wasn’t just inches from touching my breasts. “I wouldn’t make you do the dishes for a week. Two tops.” He winks and heads toward my door. When he turns around, he nods at my body and says, “By the way, don’t wear that shirt around the house, please. Your tits look far too tempting. Have a good night, babe.”
My tits look far too tempting? What the what?
“Wait,” I call out, my mind all sorts of confused. “Are we, uh, are we okay?”
He grips my doorframe and genuinely smiles at me. “Yeah, babe. We’re okay. Your apology wasn’t necessary but I appreciate it. That time of our lives is over. I want to move on. I want to focus on the present with you, on our friendship and the time together we have before you graduate.” He pauses and then says, so freaking thoughtfully, “Asking you to move in was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Having you in my life again means the world to me.” With one last look, he bids me goodnight and quietly shuts my door.