And this is no longer friendly. It’s teetering the edge of something more. Something far too familiar and dangerous.
What am I supposed to do?
Pretend like it’s not turning me on?
Turn around and give in?
I want to.
God, I want to.
But then what?
Friends to marriage to sex to divorce—what the hell even is that?
I’m not mentally in a place where I can take the fallout. I can’t tie myself to him physically when I know there’s an expiration date. With no backup plan. No one else to warm my bed and take his place when he inevitably is gone.
His hands make their way down again, and he slides both palms into my sweats, cupping my cheeks.
My body moves before I can stop it, my ass lifting into him, that tingling sensation punching me in the gut.
Another moan slips out, and his chuckle skates along my spine, sending a chill over me.
I am so screwed.
My brain screams at me to stop this. My heart aches. But my body craves more of his touch.
His palms curl. His grip tightens.
My stomach dips.
His hands reach further, sneaking under the top of my underwear, anticipation building hot and fast.
I push into him harder, his firm cock pressing into me now.
I hold my breath as his fingertips inch closer and closer to where I’m begging for them.
He kneads tiny circles, closer. Slow. Deliberate. Tortuous.
I release my breath, a gasp slicing through the silence.
Just a little closer,I silently plead.
The thrumming between my thighs so strong it almost hurts.
Closer.
He reaches the top of my pubic bone, and a whimper spills out of me, desperate and mortifying.
He freezes.
No.
He pulls back, slow—painfully slow.
No. No. No.
The warmth of his skin slips further away from where I’m screaming for him to touch me.
