The Best Friend Zone

“Just what, woman?” His voice is low, distant thunder as he stands, crossing the tiny space between us. “Make the biggest goddamn mistake of our lives?”

I pinch my eyes shut.

Mistake.

That’s all I am to him?

“Believe me, I’m tempted,” he finishes. “I’ve been fighting like hell so I don’t fuck you blind ever since you moved in.”

I open my eyes again and catch his gaze in the shadows, this sexy, stern profile of masculine torment, staring out of the darkness like a statue being ripped apart by the soul held prisoner inside.

“You…you have?”

“Ain’t it obvious, Peach? Today’s been the worst,” he growls, barely an inch away from me now, his hand reaching up to slowly, tenderly caress down my face. “I’m not playin’ games. I know what just happened in the barn. I know what we did on the Ferris wheel. I know what I’d like to do every hot second I look at you, and I wish I didn’t know some of it when I see you twirling that body, moving like you were made to take every lovin’ inch of me.”

Holy, holy hell.

My legs are shaking. I feel like I’m melting in place, a candle under the roaring flame of his eyes, his words, that little hitch at the end of his sentence because he wants me that bad.

I feel like an ass now.

“Quinn, I…I know you never meant any harm. It’s okay—it’s good, even—to look at me like that. Because it’s the same way I’ve been looking at you, wanting and hoping.” It’s so hard to say these words.

Especially when his lips quirk up in a smirking, excited, almost proud smile.

What now? Do I just…ask him?

Jean-Paul was always the one to suggest sex. Literally.

We should have sex tonight, he’d say over dinner, an android who never had an ounce of game in his system.

I can’t see Quinn saying that. Nor can I imagine feeling obligated to agree.

Not like I had with Jean-Paul. Sex with him was a chore. Another task I had to complete before my day ended and I could finally sleep.

What would Quinn do if I just up and used Jean-Paul’s craptacular phrase?

“What’s the grin for?” he asks a moment later, his voice more even. “Is jacking myself off every night to you that funny?”

Pure angst and amazement rips through me so swiftly I shudder.

“No—God, no! Sorry. And what grin?”

“The one that showed up on your face a hot second ago, Peach. Like you have some sorta secret that just made you real happy.”

His voice is so smooth, so sexy, it curls my toes.

“I am happy, and…I do have a secret.”

“Yeah?” he rasps. “Your new gym? Gonna guess that’s what you’re smiling about.”

He doesn’t need to wink.

I almost die on the spot as he transforms into an even bigger tease.

“Dance studio,” I correct, trying to play along. “That makes me happy, too.”

“Too? What’s the other thing?” he growls, his eyes so bright.

I whimper.

Welp, it’s now or never.

Pushing off the porch pillar, I fall into his arms, stretch up on my toes, and plant my hands on his back to bring my face directly in front of his.

“You,” I whisper.

“Shit.” He stiffens slightly. “Tory—”

No.

We’re so done talking.

I stop whatever he was going to say with my lips, pressing them hard against his, begging for a chance.

He’s stock-still, and for an agonizing second my heart sinks.

Until his lips move beneath mine and his hands grab my waist, hoisting me up. He flings us both back into the chair, and I’m anchored to his lap.

The kiss we share is so hot, so reckless, we’re both gasping when our lips part.

He presses his forehead against mine, fingers skimming through my hair as we try to catch enough breath for more.

“Tory—”

“I want you, Quinn.” I cup the side of his face with one hand. “I’ve wanted you for years, and you know it. I’m not a kid anymore. We’re both grown adults with wants and needs and…and there’s nothing wrong with us acting on it if we both decide we want to. Can we just have tonight? Can we try?”

“Sure, but you should know, I have things going on in my life, things that—”

“Nope. Not taking no for an answer. I have big things happening, too, but right now the most important one is you.” I kiss him again, delving my tongue against his.

“Tory,” he groans, his hands reaching behind to squeeze me, a bulge I can’t ignore suddenly in his jeans, shifting up against my thigh. “Fuck!”

One simple word.

The walls come crashing down.

There’s no hesitation in his response, or in how his hand dives up my shirt.

The skin on skin contact nearly sends me over the edge, dangerously close to grinding on him again and coming in my shorts.

He devours my mouth, fingers working around to my breasts, spilling more hot breath against my tongue before he pulls out of the kiss.