The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Of course he is.

You don’t get a neck like a barrel and a shrunken head below unless you’re popping ’roids like bubblegum.

I also know West and his sense of honor. I nibble on his ear before saying, “I’m not a virgin, West. You don’t have to worry about that. I’m a woman who knows what she wants, and when she wants it. And in case you’re getting mixed signals...” I grind against the front of his pants. “I want you. Right here. Now.”

He goes stock-still, and I pray harder than ever that I’m not going to drown in my own recklessness. Not going to fail at tasting this sweet, bewildering thing I’ve wanted for so long, even when I told myself ten thousand times I was over him.

Yeah, I’m not over anything.

And I’m not about to run from what I’ve ached for all these years even when I swore I didn’t.

His kisses return like a slow, beautiful burn.

They land on the side of my neck, my cheek, my forehead before they finally find my lips.

Euphoria makes me so weak in the knees I’m barely holding myself up, my hands clenching to his shoulders.

In seconds, a fever I’ve never known ignites like a prairie fire.

This isn’t about saving myself from a dizzying adolescent crush.

It’s about saving him.

I think of what Faye said about his time in the Army, the shock and sorrow and loss.

For just one sunny autumn evening, I want to make Weston forget everything that hurts.

Everything except for this glorious moment with us.

I want to help him remember how to live as a man who savors the touch of a woman’s hair and the fire in her lips.

Panting, I rip off his flannel shirt and then roll up his t-shirt, adoring the warmth of his skin, the hardness of his muscles.

When he gives me the hungriest look yet and his gaze drills through me, I arch into him with a fierce whimper.

It’s so flipping on.

The next few minutes become a maniacal game of unchained kisses and wandering hands, digging nails set on working off our tops.

Then, breathing hard, we both pause to drink in what’s been exposed.

God, he’s buff.

All bronze muscle crisscrossed with a cascade of shadowy military tattoos and birds of prey, topped with a thicket of dark-blond hair carpeting his chest.

When I catch his eyes, they’re barely human, lit with this violent hunger.

I shudder.

“Beautiful. Your looks could dismember me, Shel.” His voice comes low, husky, feral.

“...I thought the same about you,” I admit.

“Bullshit,” he snarls, reaching out and cupping one breast in each hand. “I don’t have these.”

His other hand joins in, and his thumbs find my nipples and press with just the right pressure.

For the dozenth time today, I’m a dead woman walking.