Today she's got both of her hands wrapped around Keegan's bicep, and she's laughing up at him like they're auditioning for a Cialis commercial. They look so good together. It makes my stomach churn.
Not that my stomach gets to have an opinion on their combined beauty and perfection. I probably just ate too many macarons.
When Selah sees me, she flashes me a fake smile. “Keegan, someone left a package on your doorstep.”
His steps slow when he sees me and he pries Selah's hands off his arm.
I refuse to acknowledge her jab and focus on Keegan. Paying people like her any attention is a waste of time. I stand, tucking my phone into my back pocket.
“Hey, Glasses,” Keegan says, walking over to me.
There's something different in the way he's looking at me as his long legs eat up the distance between us. I shiver in response and mentally chide my body, something I've had to do hundreds of times over the years. You can't have a best friend like Keegan and not have physical reactions to his hotness periodically.
I blurt, “I brought macarons.”
I'm immediately annoyed with myself for feeling like I have to explain why I'm visiting my best friend.
But before I can say anything else, Keegan takes the box of cookies in one hand and reaches up to thread his other hand into the hair at the base of my neck.
What the ...
And then his lips are on mine, and he's kissing me.
Keegan is kissing me.
Holy shit.
Keegan. Is kissing. Me.
My mind stutters to a halt as I get lost in the sensation of his lips moving over mine.
The hand holding the box of cookies snakes around my back, pulling me closer. Instinctively, I rise up on my toes, plastering my body to his, and he's all hard lines against my softness. My fingers grip the fabric of his shirt, and he growls in response. GROWLS!
Now my panties are drenched, and I may or may not be trying to figure out a way to climb his body. He angles my head to deepen the kiss, his tongue moving against my lips, tracing the seam of my mouth and sending a flurry of sensations dancing along my skin. I whimper.
Confused, I tamp down my response. I don’t understand what’s going on here and until I do, I don’t dare let myself enjoy it.
Then there's a loud, obvious throat clearing from behind us.
I barely register it, but Keegan pulls back from me. Still holding me against him, his gaze on my face, he gives me the sweetest smile. My heart—my poor heart doesn't even know what to do with that smile.
“This is a treat. I didn't know if I'd see you today after Saturday night,” he says.
He saysSaturday nightin a way that implies something way more salacious than a movie and take out. Which is weird. Though—obviously—not the weirdest part of this interaction.
I try to roll with it and say something that doesn't make me sound as frazzled as I feel
“Sorry if I taste like cookies.”
Keegan's gaze darkens as it lingers on my lips. “You taste perfect.”
Gah. How does he do that? How does he turn the smolder on so effortlessly? Is it just genetic luck or did he take some kind of workshop?
I clear my throat. “I brought m-m-macarons,” I stumble, wishing I had access to a smolder of my own I could whip out.
His lips twitch into one of those half smiles of his. “You didn't have to do that.”
Behind him, there's another throat clearing. This time louder.
