His hands move to my hip, then lower, and his fingers dig into the curve of my ass, centering me on top of him like he's anchoring himself. I arch into him, chasing friction, and there it is—he's hard and hot and undeniable, pressing into me through his thin cotton briefs.
And God…this.
This doesn't feel like making out with someone I shouldn't. This feels like finding the thing I didn't know I needed.
His mouth trails from my lips to my jaw to the base of my throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses that leave me trembling. His teeth scrape my shoulder, peeking out from his shirt, and his palm covers my breast, his thumb circling over my nipple through the fabric.
The sensation makes my entire body jolt, and I gasp, clutching his side.
I've never felt this way before. No guy has ever made me feel this way.
It's not just physical. It's a full-body yes. My heart. My skin. My mind, even as it flickers with a single warning:He's your friend.
But I don't stop. I don't think.
Not when Brandon's breathing my name like a secret. Not when his hand slides beneath my shirt and slides it off. Not when he caresses my bare skin, setting every nerve ending on fire.
I bite my lip, barely holding in the cry that rises when his thumb brushes my nipple again—this time with nothing between us.
He groans beneath me as his hips lift to meet mine, and my brain short-circuits. There's no space left for logic. No air for guilt.
Just heat. Need. Him.
“So fucking perfect,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and reverent, and my whole body responds to the sound of it.
His palm continues to skim my breasts, his fingers touching skin that's never been touched by him before. And it's too much and not enough. My hips start moving instinctively, chasing every bit of pressure and drag I can get.
He feels big beneath me. I assumed he probably would be. He's tall, built, and his body is pure perfection. Why wouldn't every other part of him be the same? I rub my clit against his erection, rolling against it, seeking more. The fabric is soaked between my thighs. My body is alive in a way that feels dangerous—like, once this line is crossed, there's no turning back.
His fingers find the edge of my underwear, and his hand slips just beneath the waistband to palm my ass. I gasp, clinging to him.
I'm so close it's dizzying.
“I'm going to come,” I whisper, my breath hot against his ear.
He groans, low and urgent, thrusting up to meet my movements, and it sends me over the edge.
It's not gentle. It's not quiet. It crashes through me like a storm as his name leaves my lips.
I bury my face in his neck as my body clenches around nothing and everything all at once.
His final thrusts bring me down and cause him to erupt, a sharp gasp against my skin. His hips rock with pleasure as he loses control, his release hot between us.
We collapse into stillness, bodies tangled, breath shallow, sweat cooling on flushed skin.
I can feel his heartbeat. Fast. Wild. Matching mine.
I don't open my eyes. I don't speak.
Because I know, the second I do, it'll be real.
I stay wrapped around him, my cheek against his chest, the scent of sex and his skin mixed with mine. Safe. Wanted. Completely undone.
And then—a bang on his front door.
“Stella? Brandon? Are you two in there?”
My mother's voice carries through the front door.
