Rachel’s hand moves fast, pushing her panties aside with one trembling finger, the fabric dark and clinging to her skin.
She wraps her hand around me, her touch firm, guiding me to her entrance. The feel of her fingers, the heat of her, nearly undoes me right there.
She lowers herself, slow at first, then all at once, and we both groan, the connection like a spark hitting gasoline. I’m buried in her, her warmth tight and overwhelming, and I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to come apart as her hips shift, adjusting to me.
She starts to move, riding me with a rhythm that’s all instinct, her thighs flexing against mine. Her flowy clothes sway with each roll of her hips, catching the breeze and baring flashes of her stomach and her waist.
My hands slide up, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric, feeling the weight of them, the way her nipples harden under my palms.
She gasps, arching into my touch, her head tilting back, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders like fire in the starlight. I press my lips to her collarbone, tasting salt and lavender, the faint pulse of her heartbeat under my mouth.
Our kisses are frantic, messy, all teeth and tongue, stealing air. Her lips are soft but fierce, like she’s pouring every ounce of her hurt and want into me.
A breeze sweeps across the rooftop, lifting her shirt higher, and my fingers graze a faint scar on her hip—a thin crescent, barely there, a mark of some fight she’s never shared. It hits me hard how much she’s carried, how strong she is, and I grip her tighter, like I can anchor her to this moment.
She rides me harder, her movements growing uneven, desperate. My hands stay on her breasts, thumbs circling, teasing through the fabric, and she moans my name.
The chair creaks under us, the stars blurring above, the distant hum of the town gone. It’s just her—her heat, her weight, the way she tightens around me. I’m barely holding on, every nerve on fire, and when she shudders, her breath hitching, I know she’s close.
I thrust up to meet her, matching her rhythm, and we hit the edge together, her gasp sharp against my lips as we shatter, clinging to each other.
She collapses against me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting, her pulse racing under my hands. The night air feels colder now, prickling my sweat-damp skin, but her warmth keeps me grounded.
Her hair brushes my cheek, carrying that faint lavender scent, and I can feel her trembling, or maybe that’s me.
I just crossed multiple different lines with my best friend’s sister.
And I can’t bring myself to regret a single one.
The question is: how many more am I going to cross before this ends?
Because it will end. Has to end. There’s no version of this where Jake finds out and doesn’t lose his mind. No version where this doesn’t complicate everything.
Chapter eight
Chapter 8
Marco
This diner smells like burnt coffee.
I’m halfway through my eggs when Theo walks in looking like he hasn’t slept. Cole’s already here, hunched over black coffee in the corner booth like he’s trying to disappear into it. The three of us in the same place before seven a.m. is rare enough that Linda, the waitress, raises her eyebrows.
“Somebody die?” she asks, pouring Theo coffee without being asked.
“Just hungry.” Theo drops into the booth beside me, stealing a piece of my bacon. “Morning, guys.”
Cole grunts. I don’t bother responding because Theo knows better than to expect conversation before I’ve finished eating.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Comfortable silence. The kind that comes from knowing someone since you were kids and understanding that sometimes words are unnecessary.
Theo breaks it first. He always does.
“So, the café investigation. Any leads?”
I finish chewing before answering. “Working theory is insurance fraud. Westlake Properties owns the building. The same company owns three other structures that burned in the past eighteen months.”
“That’s not a coincidence.” Cole’s voice is rough. Hasn’t been sleeping well either, from the look of him.
