The Best Friend Bargain

Then up the stairs.

Into his room.

It still smells like him. Like us. Like the fresh lingerie.

Forest presses the door closed. He uncaps the bottle of vodka, takes a swig, passes it to me.

It’s strong like this. Not my taste. But, hey, I’m not letting my best friend drink alone. “What happened?”

“Some bullshit.”

“Bullshit how.”

“I’ve been stupid, Skye.”

“What?”

He sets the bottle on his desk. Turns his body toward mine. “I don’t care if she’s jealous.”

He…

“I don’t want her anymore.”

“Forest—”

“I need to kiss you again.” His hands go to my waist. “A real kiss. One that isn’t for her. Or the camera. Or this guy you like—”

“I don’t—”

“Come here.” He presses one palm into my lower back. Pushes my body into his.

He looks down at me with those dark eyes.

But they aren’t full of love or need or affection.

They’re hazy.

Really hazy.

He’s drunk.

“Skye.” He holds my body against his. “I need to make you come.”

“Forest—” I press my palm into his chest. To push him away. But my palm refuses to push. He feels too good. Warm. Hard. Safe.

“I need to taste you, Skye.” He brings one hand to the back of my head. Knots his fingers through my hair. “You have any idea how often I think about that? I dream about you. About kissing you, touching you, making you come.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Tell me you don’t want that, and I’ll go.”

I shake my head. “I…”

His fingers brush the hem of my skirt. “Tell me you don’t want to come on my face. I’ll leave. Right now. If you don’t want that—if you don’t want anything from me—I’ll go.”

God yes. Right now. Right here. I don’t care who sees. “You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“You’re only saying this because you’re drunk.”

“No.” He tugs at my hair. “I’m saying it because you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Because I’ve spent the last two weeks fucking myself to the thought of you.”

“You did?”

He nods yeah.

My heart thuds against my chest. I… He… No. Not like this. “Ask again when you’re sober.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not—”

“No.” Finally, I push him away. “I don’t care what Mackenzie said to upset you. Or why you felt the need to get this plastered. I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry you can’t get over it, but this—” I swallow the nerves that rise in my throat. “You don’t use me to prove anything.” I take a step backward. “You don’t use me.”

“Skye. It’s not—”

“No.” I turn and march out of the room.

I expect him to chase me. To apologize. To at least send a text.

But he doesn’t.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Forest

Fuck, it’s bright in here.

Why is it this bright?

I close my eyes, but there’s still too much light flooding my senses.

I stumble to the bathroom. Brush my teeth. Piss. Shower.

After three glasses of water, a handful of NSAIDs, and a cup of very shitty coffee, the pounding in my head fades to a dull throb.

Last night comes into focus.

Mack telling me to get over myself.

Too many glasses of wine with vodka chasers.

Skye blushing in Oliver’s lap.

Skye looking up at me like I hang the moon.

Skye pushing me away, staring at me like I’m the scum of the Earth.

Fuck.

So much for not fucking up the relationship that matters most.

I down another glass of water. Hold my breath to keep my nausea at bay. Force myself to eat a slice of unbuttered toast.

Holden is up in his room. It’s quiet. He must be asleep.

As soon as he wakes up—

That’s too much.

I find my phone. Scan it for clues to Skye’s mood. No new texts, emails, calls.

Nothing on her blog.

But on her Instagram—

A picture of us. Her sitting in my lap in that sheer black lingerie.

It’s cropped at the nose. Her eyes aren’t visible. But those berry lips—

Fuck.

I try to think of an appropriate apology. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I drank too much. Let myself get carried away.

You’re wrong, Skye. It’s not about Mack.

It’s about you.

I want to fuck you.

Skye, the things I want to do to you. It’s all I can think about. The taste of your lipstick. The feel of your mouth against mine. Your soft thighs against my hands.

I want to kiss you for hours. Like we’re back in high school, making out because we’re so enamored with each other’s bodies. Because we’re too nervous to do anything else.

It’s not about Mack. It’s not about her wedding. It’s not about this ruse.

It’s my cock. He’s a demanding mother fucker. He wants every inch of you.

He wants your perfect tits, your delicate hands, your pretty lips.

I know I shouldn’t say this. I should keep it to myself. Keep things normal.

So I won’t.

But, fuck, somehow I need to make this clear. I need to explain. Yeah, I was drunk and stupid and jealous.

Maybe I have something to prove. Maybe I’m not over her. Maybe I’m an angry mess.