All the Right Moves (All The Right Moves 3)

“We should probably go back inside. It looks like they’re done bitching at each other.” I nod toward the large sliding glass door to the living room, where our friends are dispersing, the fun having come to an abrupt halt.

“Do you, um…” She clears her throat nervously.

“Do you want to watch a different movie or something,” I ask, at at the same time she says, “Are you up for another movie?”

Abby laughs nervously as we walk to the sliding patio door, and I watch as she begins twisting a finger on her right hand, presumably the spot in which she normally wears her ring. Reaching around her, I slide the door along its track just wide enough to squeeze through, and we both shiver again as we step over the threshold into the warm, cozy living room.

Abby runs her hands up and down her bare arms. “Brrr, I didn’t realize how cold I was until we came back inside. I’m kind of glad they built a fire.”

“Here, grab a blanket,” I say, grabbing a fuzzy blanket from the couch and holding it open.

“Thanks,” she says somewhat breathlessly and beams up at me with her beautiful, smiling blue eyes, before stepping into my open arms—into the blanket. My heart swells with pride, because I’ve finally done something right.

My arms fold around her, encasing her in the thick wool, and linger on her shoulders before she eases herself away and down onto the couch.

“Do you want anything from the, uh, kitchen?” Self-consciously, I stuff my hands inside my hoodie. Abby’s eyes go to the pocket, then back up to my face.

She nods slowly with a shy smile. “Water, please?”

“Water? That it?” What I don’t say is, I’ll gladly get you anything you want. “Okay. So, uh, want to find us a movie while I’m grabbing drinks?”

I disappear into the kitchen and take a deep, steadying breath with my hands flat on the counter before going through the motions of filling up two glasses with ice water. It takes me less than ten minutes, but in that time, when I return to the living room, I note that Abby has nervously smoothed out her braid, climbed out of the blanket, pulled the coffee table back to the center of the room, and repositioned herself on the couch.

I stand motionless under the barn beam arch, hesitating at the threshold of the room, and survey Abby lounging dead center on the sectional. Do I walk over and sit down next to her? How far from her do I sit? Or should I sit in the recliner on the other side of the room to give her space?

Shit.

As if she senses my indecision, she takes pity on me and pats the couch.

“Am I hogging all the room on the couch? Sorry, I’ll scooch over.” Abby makes a show of repositioning herself for me on the sofa, but in reality it looks like she’s only moved over a few inches.

Which is just fine by me.

Cecelia: So the two of you just watched a movie?

Abby: Yeah. We watched that chick flick, Pitch Perfect. He’d never seen it before.

Cecelia: NEVER SEEN IT?! Was he living under a rock?

Abby: I don’t know, but watching him try not to laugh was better than watching the actual movie.

Cecelia: Did he do anything besides hold your hand during the movie? Like, oh, I don’t know… touch you inappropriately?

Abby: NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He was a gentleman.

Cecelia: Well THAT’S boring!

Abby: Okay, now you’re starting to sound like Jenna. Stop.

Cecelia: TAKE THAT BACK ^^^

Abby: You’ve been living with a boy too long ;)

Cecelia: Ugh. Sorry. Matthew is corrupting me with his hockey locker room talk. Let’s blame that one on him.

CHAPTER 14

ABBY

Have you ever had one of those dreams that was so vivid, it felt like reality? Have a dream that felt so good, you were content basking in it, slipping in and out of reality in a drunk-like state, oblivious to your actual circumstances, and just giving in to your senses?

Yeah. I’m having one of those dreams now.

“Mmm, that feels good,” I moan in a low, groggy, sleep-filled voice that hardly sounds like my own, stretching lazily and rotating my hips against the hard erection pressed into my ass crack. I slowly become cognizant of a wide, warm palm resting lazily at my waist—that same, solid palm grazing the flat expanse of my stomach beneath my tank, fingers traveling down to the waistband of my lacy white sleep shorts.

My breathing becomes labored, eyes rolling briefly back as I rotate my hips again, savoring the foreign sensation grinding against my butt crack. My arms come up, stretching to grasp the back of the head nuzzled in the crook of my neck. The lips against my throat emit a low, almost painful groan as the hand roams up my torso, and the large palm runs over my breasts before giving one nipple a gentle squeeze while he grinds into me from behind.