Page 88 of The Right Kind of Wrong

She cursed the garage for not having a door directly into the house. They were wasting so much time during the extra ten second walk.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry that Blake would come to her senses either, a point that was driven home when she shut the door behind them.

Blake was on her immediately, feeling a similar, frenzied sensation spilling out now that they were alone. At least, that’s what Monroe dimly thought, from the way Blake dragged her hands up and down Monroe’s sides, pressing their bodies meltingly close together.

Monroe groaned. What else could she do?

Certainly not put a stop to things. They’d crossed that bridge already, and the only way out was through.

In Monroe’s defense, she’d tried. After their first kiss, she’d thrown all of her resolve into keeping them solidly on the “friends” side of their chemistry.

But right now, not her worries about Maisie or her concerns about her brother or her lack of focus on her art show could even come close to pulling her attention away from the beautiful woman before her.

Truthfully, she didn’t have the willpower to say no again. To hold herself back from a need that had only been growing, regardless of how hard she’d tried to tamp it down.

Blake seemed to be of the same mindset.

“Blake,” she husked out, as Blake’s fingertips slid underneath her tank top. She dragged them across Monroe’s scorched skin, alternating with gentle scratches that made her stomach clench.

It was . . . yeah. It was having the desired effect. If that effect was to drive Monroe delirious with want, that is, wondering how far things would go.

Blake’s lips were teasing across Monroe’s collarbone as one of her hands wrapped around Monroe’s neck and dug into the muscle. She leaned back and pressed a kiss on her skin before saying, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you again. A lot.”

“Fuck,” Monroe hissed, lengthening her neck to give Blake more access to—well, to what didn’t matter. Whatever Blake wanted. That was the name of the game.

And what Blake wanted was to guide Monroe backwards, across the room, until her legs hit the sofa and she fell back with a thump.

Blake stood above her, looking down at Monroe with a stare that she felt straight in her clit. She raked her gaze over Monroe’s heaving chest, and Monroe’s breathing was unable to find any sort of rhythm.

How could she with Blake looking at her like that? Like she was going to crawl on top of Monroe and devour her whole?

It was a side of Blake that Monroe hadn’t seen before, and she was a little dizzy with how much she liked it.

At least she was sitting down . . .

She inhaled quickly, and the smallest bit of space gave her the strength to say, “We don’t need to do anything, Blake. Especially anything that you’re not ready for.”

Their attraction was clear, but Monroe also wasn’t into the idea of them getting so lost in the moment that Blake did anything she’d regret later.

Fresh off of a divorce. Coming to terms with her sexuality. As much in need of a friend as Monroe was.

Instead of answering immediately, Blake stretched one of her shorts-clad legs over Monroe’s thighs. Then she did the same with her other leg, bracketing Monroe against the sofa when she slid on top of her with ease.

Right—because Blake was a dancer. A very athletic woman, overall. And Monroe was realizing just how much trouble that could cause her at this moment.

She felt helpless to do anything except wrap her arms around Blake’s torso, her fingers loosely holding Blake’s hips even as her hands were screaming to dig in and wrap themselves around Blake, pulling her closer.

The heat radiating off their closeness was indescribable. Monroe wondered if they would well and truly combust if she slid her hand between them, providing any sort of friction to spark their hips to life.

Blake looked at her again, dark eyes scanning Monroe’s face when she said, “You are so sexy, Monroe.”

Monroe blew out an exasperated breath. “You’re making it really hard for me to be good right now,” she pleaded, not caring about the whine in her voice.

In response, Blake rolled her hips against Monroe in a slow, controlled motion. “I don’t want you to be good.”

“Blake,” Monroe begged, moving her hands so that she could dig them into the sofa, willing her body to stay in her control.

It was the open, raw honesty in Blake’s voice that was driving her insane. Not that the next, controlled hip roll over her thighs and against her abdomen was helping at all.