The Best Friend Zone

“Get the fuck down here,” he orders.

“Hmm, I don’t know. Need a good reason to shimmy down when I’ve worked so hard to get up here…and I’m not seeing it,” I say, my sarcasm echoing through the barn.

He makes a flustered sound, muttering a few rapid fire curses under his breath. “Can’t we just talk without me worrying you’re gonna break a leg?”

“I’m not going to fall.”

“I’ll be convinced when you’re standing on the floor next to me,” he snaps. “Now get down here.”

Just to prove I’m totally in control—and to show off, let’s be real—I do a cartwheel drop on my way down, whipping around the silk as the world spins.

“Shit, now you’re just trying to give me a heart attack.” He grasps my waist the instant I’m in reach. “This was a bad idea.”

“What?” I ask, panic in my voice.

He can’t mean us, right?

“These silk ropes,” he growls, shaking his head. “Seeing you flippin’ and twistin’ around without a net or even a mat…it scares the living shit out of me, Tory.”

For a second, I frown, actually feeling a little bad.

Then I remember I’m still mad at him for the asshat move that sent me into an early anger-workout.

Untwisting my leg from the silk, I let him lower me to the floor.

“I know what I’m doing, Quinn,” I say. “I wish you’d just trust me.”

He looks at me silently, grasping the fact that I’m not just talking about the stupid silks.

The look he gives scolds fiercer than a spanking, before he flattens me against him, covering my mouth with angry lips, delving deep with his tongue.

Holy hell.

I’m instantly caught up in the kiss that reminds me who’s in charge, sapping my will to fight with tongue, with teeth, with so much passion I can’t fight.

Is this what gets taught to secret agent men in the FBI?

How to make a woman delirious and fully captive with a kiss that’s too perfect for life?

Oh, wait, I can think of other things. Mainly where I want this kiss to lead.

His bed, mostly. Or mine. Or the couch. Or right here on the floor.

I’m not particular about where it happens, I just want it.

And later, after I’ve wrung every snarly drop of passion from his balls, after I can think again, I’ll get my answers from Quinn Faulkner.

Promise.

18

We Goat the Beat (Faulkner)

Whatever.

So maybe Peach knows what she’s doing on those silk ropes, and I’m the fool who’s trying to tell her otherwise.

Maybe I’m also the idiot with my head up my ass, missing a compass to point the way back to common sense.

Not when it comes to her.

I always knew once I’d kissed her, claimed her, dragged her to my bed that we’d be shattering the only world we knew—the friend zone.

And as soon as I laid it to waste, I’d want more, and that’s exactly what happened.

Having her again—morning, noon, and night—is the only coherent thought in my head.

And it’s the one craving I can’t have. Not like the way we’ve been going.

That rope around the goat is a grim reminder what’s at stake.

Someone was up to no good, no two ways about it.

Just like the camera taken out of commission at Granny’s place.

Although it’s pure torture, I rip my mouth off hers before it’s too late.

Before the need to haul her back to my cave for another round of the best goddamn sex of my life wins over any rational thinking.

You’ve seen that dumbass meme about two wolves inside a person?

That’s me right now. One wolf wants to go monk mode so I can focus on this Pickett shit and nothing else. The other just wants to spend all day seeing how many times I can fill Tory Three Names till she’s got triplets.

I release her with a reluctant growl and huff out a breath.

She eyes me coyly. “Do you really want me to go back to Chicago today?”

“No,” I huff out, taking a step away from her, needing space between us. “But you should go back. What I want ain’t relevant.”

She walks over, picks up a water bottle, and takes a long drink.

“I told you I will. Someday.” She faces me with her blue eyes lit. “I’m done being told what to do.”

I try not to glare, to avoid launching into a wild-eyed lecture about how awful, how dangerous the Pickett brothers were.

Bart and Jake both had rap sheets a mile long. Small-time petty drug dealing when they were young, car chases, armed robberies, and even if it was never in his official record, I know Jake Pickett was beating on his girl.

I know it too well.

Just like I know his dickless snake of a brother won’t hold back any atrocity on Tory if it means killing me.

They’re the devil’s twins. Two gargantuan freaks who live, breathe, and shit pure evil, inside and out.