If It's Only Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 6)

“It’ll still be that, won’t it? Even if you try to make a go of it?”

She swallows and cuts her eyes away. “There’s a really good chance I’m not good enough. Most people aren’t.”

I cross the small kitchen and take her chin in my hand, guiding her to meet my eyes. “I believe in you.”

“You haven’t even read my stuff.”

I shrug. “I’d love to, if you wanted me to. But even without reading, I have faith that you can tell an amazing story. You grew up with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other. At this point, it’s probably written into your DNA.”

She studies my face and then her gaze shifts from my eyes to my mouth, and the energy in the room changes. The tension between us becomes a palpable thing.

“If we weren’t just friends,” I say softly, “this is when I’d kiss you.”

Her breath catches. “Is it?”

“Yeah, but that would only be the beginning. Once I tasted you, I’d want more, and I’d end up lifting you onto the counter so you could wrap your legs around me.” I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and skim my fingertips down the side of her neck. “Then I’d kiss you here because I know how much you like it.”

Her lips part and her pupils dilate. “You were always good at figuring out what I like.”

“Because figuring out what turns you on turns me on. But once I started tasting you, I’d be greedy for more, and I’d end up with my face between your legs, licking you until you were begging me to fuck you.”

Her chest expands on a ragged inhale. “But we are just friends.”

For now. Nodding, I skim a finger over her bottom lip. “I’m gonna be the best fucking friend you’ve ever had, Shayleigh Jackson.”

“Hmm. I guess that remains to be seen.”

I allow myself one last touch before dropping my hand and stepping back to give her the space she needs. “Well, it’s Friday night and your best friend is here to celebrate your completed dissertation. What do we do next?” I smile to cover the truth that I’m terrified she’s going to ask me to leave.

She looks to the living room and then back to me. “Before you got here, I was about to watch a movie. Do you want to watch it with me?”

I grin. Little victories. “Sounds good. What are you watching?”

“The Princess Bride. It’s one of my comfort movies. Is that okay? If not, we can—”

“It’s great.” She could tell me she planned to watch a documentary on drying paint, and I’d be game. I doubt I’ll be able to keep my attention on the screen anyway. I’m just glad to be spending time with Shay.

We both sit on the couch, keeping a friend-appropriate distance between us, and she pulls her feet up under her as she starts the movie.

I watch her posture go looser and looser and her eyes get heavy. We’re not even thirty minutes in when she falls asleep. She shifts in her sleep and leans against me, using my arm as a pillow. Her neck’s at an awkward angle, and her body’s torqued. I hate to imagine how knotted her neck will be if she stays like this long, so I grab a pillow, put it in my lap, and guide her to rest her head on it.

Then, like any friend would, I spend the rest of the movie watching her sleep. Totally reasonable friend behavior.

After the credits roll, the TV cycles into a screensaver, and the sudden quiet startles her awake. She blinks up at me. “East?”

“Hey.”

“Have I been sleeping long?”

“Movie’s over.”

She rubs her eyes but doesn’t jerk away from me, so I’ll consider that a win too. Slowly enough so she can stop me if she wants to, I cup her face in one hand and trace the line of her jaw and the shell of her ear.

“Was it as good as the first dozen times you saw it?” she asks sleepily.

“I enjoyed every minute,” I say, though I didn’t waste a minute looking at the screen once she was sleeping in my lap. She stretches her arms overhead, arching her back, and my gaze snags on her hard nipples pressed against the image on her thin T-shirt. There’s a real possibility I’ll get a semi from the sight of Shakespeare’s face from here on out, and that’s just screwed up.

“I should go to bed,” she says.

“If you want.”

Silence pulses around us, thick with sexual tension. “And you should probably leave.”

“If you want me to.”

“I don’t,” she whispers.

I take that as my green light and hold her gaze as I skim my hand down her neck, across the swell of her breasts and the peak of each nipple. She leans into my hand and moans softly at the light friction.