She cocks her head. “Dr.Philagain?”
I shrug. “Mom couldn’t afford a therapist. No insurance.”
“I should not laugh at that,” she says, rolling her lips inward and widening her eyes.
“Yeah, that’d be a little inappropriate.”
“Dr.Phil, though?” she whispers.
We both snicker. Moments later, our laughter ebbs, and I loose a low sigh, letting my gaze roam over her lovely face.
“My childhood was noisy. Mom worked a lot, so before I was old enough to stay home by myself, I stayed with aunts while she was gone. Never a dull moment at their houses. Between my cousins and the assholes they dated, it was always loud, chaotic. And even at home ... yes, my mother loved me enough for two parents, but her track record with men was fucked.”
I briefly glance at the tablet before returning my attention to her. Curiosity brightens her eyes. Curiosity and a sympathy that should sear like acid against my senses, my pride. But it doesn’t. It’s a soothing balm.
“I told you basketball saved me when I was a kid. And that’s true but not the whole of it. Aslan, Lucy, and Edmund. Peter, Caspian, Reepicheep. They all offered me a place of escape. Gave me a land to travel to where I could get away from the noise, the fighting, the loneliness. I read the Chronicles of Narnia—all seven books—countless times. But it wasThe Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobethat I connected with most. Here were these ordinary kids who people looked at and saw nothing special, but all it took was stepping through a wardrobe to unlock their destiny as kings and queens. I desperately wanted to believe I was destined for more than what was around me, what I saw. That I couldbemore. I saw myself in Edmund. The lonely, scared fuck-up becoming great. Narnia not only was my safe space; it challenged me to dream big.” I swallow past the fist of emotion lodged in my throat. “I get your reasons for hesitating about going into this”—I sweep ahand toward the tablet—“full time. But, sweetheart, you’re someone’s Narnia.”
You’re mine.
I don’t voice those words, but they echo in my head, my chest.
Silence falls between us—and with it, a tissue-fine tension. My palm tingles with the need to stroke that smooth, beautiful skin. To relish all that soft contrast against my hard.
It’s a bad idea. Especially given how pulled tight my flesh is over my bones. How raw and exposed I feel, like a nerve bent on snapping. Given how much I crave it.
So I surrender to it.
Of course I do.
She doesn’t flinch away from me as I trail my fingertips over her temple, tickle the dark, short strands there. Doesn’t move as I cup her cheek or run my thumb across that sharp-as-glass cheekbone.
“You should have everything you want,” I murmur. “I’d give it to you if I could.”
A bolt of—fuck, I refuse to name it—somethingflashes in her eyes. And thatsomethingfists my dick and squeezes. Electrical currents sizzle up my spine, transforming me into a living conduit of desire, of need. A jagged, ravenous growl rolls up out of my gut, climbs up my chest, and claws up my throat. I lock it down; I have to. This inconvenient lust for my friend is my problem, my issue, not Miriam’s. But goddamn, for a second ... in those eyes ...
Time to back away.
To retreat, regroup—
She bites my palm.
And I snap.
One second, I’m on the couch, and in the next, I’m on her.
My mouth crushes hers, and the small part of my brain not yet drowning in a lust-induced haze warns me to gentle, to ease back just a little. That I might be hurting her. But then her hands tunnel into myhair and grip the strands, jerking on them, sending tiny nips of pain skittering along my scalp, and that small part shuts the fuck up with an “As you were.”
Fuck, her taste. It explodes on my tongue. Her own unique scent mixed with coffee and a hint of peppermint, as if she’d been sucking on the candy before I’d arrived. Now, I try to suck that flavor from her, my tongue, lips, and teeth taking, conquering.
I let that growl that I’d contained only moments earlier loose, directly into her mouth, letting her swallow it. And she does; she claims it and gives me one in return. Releasing her, I slam one hand on the couch arm and the other on the cushion behind her head. I shift, lifting, and press one knee next to her hip and set a foot on the floor, effectively caging her with my body, arching over her.
Angling my head, I dive deeper, take more, silently demanding she open wider. Give me more. I’m so fucking hungry for her. I’m beginning to suspect that even if she surrendered everything, it still wouldn’t be enough. I can’t ever be satisfied.
Not until I’m buried inside her in every way possible.
Still, she opens for me. Arches up into me. Whines for me.
For me.
