Neither of us says another word. Blood rushes hot and thick through my veins, as the backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm. His pulse thrums, quick and visible just beneath the golden skin of his throat. I want to lick that spot, put my mouth there and suck. I want him. I want him so badly that I’m going up in flames.
A quiet, pained sound escapes me as his knuckles drift toward my inner arm, just to the side of my breast. I’m shaking deep within myself, an increasing tremor that spreads outward, until my breath comes in choppy pants that I fight to control.
What am I doing? This is Drew Baylor. Nothing good can come of this. I need to be strong. I need to stop this. To walk away.
I twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing him more.
His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain. Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.
His skin is hot, as if he’s burning up from within. My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned, the cotton of his shirt tickling the back of my hand as I go. He holds so still, when he shivers it’s an earthquake. My questing thumb finds his nipple, and he stops breathing altogether. The little nub of his nipple beneath my thumb turns me on so much, I bite my lip to keep from moaning. Oh, but it’s getting to him too. He swallows audibly, those little tremors within him growing stronger.
I press down hard.
With a choked cry, he stumbles forward, his forearm hitting the wall beside my head as he braces himself. Warm breath caresses my cheek, the sound of his panting filling my ears.
Shaking, Baylor stands there, so close that his heady scent and vivid heat envelop me. I draw that crisp, clean scent in, and grow lightheaded. Unable to resist, I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. He grunts, his hips jerking as if pulled on a string. And then he retaliates.
His long index finger curls around the strap of my top. For a moment, he simply runs his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, each pass drawing closer to my breast. Then he tugs, sliding the strap over my shoulder by agonizing degrees.
Oh, God. My lids flutter. I want to close my eyes but can’t. I’m stuck staring at his rapidly beating pulse, all of my awareness centered on the progress of my strap as it scrapes down my arm, peeling the top over the curve of my breast, which has grown heavy, aching. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conscious of my breasts, of my body.
The top slips further, exposing more skin.
Hurry, I want to cry. I’m shaking by the time the edge of my top catches on the hard bead of my nipple. Stuck.
We both seem to hold our breaths. Beneath my palm, his heart beats fierce and strong. I can feel his stare, covetous and hot. I want him to see me. I want to be exposed to him.
The sound of laughter drifts up, and the deep bass of music has the walls buzzing. Anyone could find us here, see him pulling down my top. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Baylor shifts his weight, sheltering my body from view with his own. That small gesture, his consideration, breaks my resistance. Biting my lip, I arch my back at the very second he tugs again….
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The Friend Zone, Book 2 Game On series excerpt
Have you read Ivy and Gray’s story? Here’s a small preview:
4:13 am. Text to Gray Grayson from unknown source.
Unknown: Mr. Grayson, my father tells me he lent you my car. I don’t really care if he’s going to sign you or not. As said agent’s daughter, I know football players and their ways. So let me be clear. There will be no shenanigans taking place in it or you’ll answer to me. You want to hook up with one of your women, do it in a bed and not in my car.