Chapter 13

13

L IZ

He flicks his eyes to me.

"You don't believe me?" he asks.

"I do believe you."

How come I've never heard of that before?

I'd love to ask him that, but it would look weird, and he'd know I talked with my friend about him.

However, he must know people in love to gossip in this town.

"It happened a long time ago," he says, putting the bandage on my knee, not looking at me. "And I did a lot of this. It was much worse, actually."

I can only imagine.

He studies the result.

"Good. You'll be fine," he says, straightening somewhat, although not pushing my legs off.

I have no intention of moving them either.

"How was it?" I ask, watching him rest his hand on my leg. "Your life in the military?"

A smile tugs at his lips.

"Brutal. But I loved it. I was younger, so it fit me."

A few moments pass.

The house smells like hot chocolate and fall.

"Are you sure you don't want a hot drink?" I say, picking up my hot chocolate from the table.

"No. I need to go, anyway."

I take a sip and think of ways to make him stay a little longer.

"Thank you for your help. I didn't think you'd show up. And I never expected you to do this either, to be honest."

"I had to come back," he says. "Otherwise, I would've lost sleep."

I can't tell whether he's joking or not.

He probably is.

"I, um… You know you have a reputation," I say, leaning back into the pillows with my fingers wrapped around my drink.

"No kidding? I do?" he says, amused.

"Yes."

He tilts his head to the side and lifts an eyebrow, a smile slowly creasing his lips.

"You know a lot about me," he says.

"It's impossible not to. And that's precisely why I need to stay away from you."

He laughs quietly, tilting his gaze down as if thinking about something.

"Nothing says more about staying away from me than this."

Slowly moving his hand up between my legs, he makes my skin react with a flurry of goosebumps.

"We can be friends," I say, and he chuckles, entertained.

"Sure… We can be friends."

"You've never been friends with a woman?"

"I'm friends with women all the time."

"Not real friends, though."

He moves his eyes to me. They're sharp, in focus, and tinged with rare, exquisite candor.

"Do you think we can be real friends?" he asks.

"See. That…"

I point my finger to him before lifting my drink to my lips again and taking a sip.

"What your question says to me is that you've never been real friends with a woman."

"Have you been real friends with a man?"

I have to think about it for a second.

"No, but we could give it a try, considering the circumstances," I say.

He mulls over my proposal.

"No matter what we are to each other, people will believe what they want to believe," he says.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. Yes, it does."

"Why?"

"Because they'll give you a hard time," he says.

"Because of your reputation?"

He nods.

"And the fact that you'll go out with other women?" I continue.

He searches my eyes before answering softly.

"Yes."

"So you'll see other women?"

"Will I be seeing you?"

"No."

"Then, yes. I'll go out with other women."

"We can't see each other. We both agreed it wouldn't do us any good."

"Correct."

"Then we can't be friends either," I say.

"That too."

A soft chuckle rolls off my lips, unable to hide my disappointment.

"I'll miss you," I say humorously.

And seriously and sincerely at the same time.

"I'll miss you too," he murmurs.

Shifting slightly, he slides his hand up my body.

"Good night," he says, leaning toward me as if ready to kiss me good night.

My hand already hovers over the coffee table before sliding my drink down.

I push up while he moves even closer, and my arms go around him. My robe falls open, and cold air rolls over my chest.

His arm loops around my waist, his hand slipping up my robe before stopping at my hip.

Tingles rush across my skin, heat pooling between my legs.

Maybe we can be friends after all.

Adding this notion to the mix removes the last layer of resistance, introduces the idea of trust, and makes the possibility of kissing him something I wholeheartedly want to indulge in.

It's only a goodbye kiss, I say to myself, and the fact that we've openly discussed our options and not made a game out of them makes me entrust myself to him.

So I wind my arms around his neck and let him pull me into him.

We aren't even going for a kiss on the cheek.

He straight out brings me to him, and despite everything we said, we lock lips and feed on the warmth flowing through our veins.

I don't let go of him, our lips connected in a sensual exploratory kiss.

He is warm and steady against my chest, not going all aggressive on me. Not having one of those fits some men had in the past when they rushed and ruined everything.

Our breaths become one, our lips moving slowly as our tongues keep touching, creating electrical storms.

Things happen smoothly as I press my bare chest against his dress shirt.

His muscles shift as he moves his arms and brings me straight on top of him.

My robe is completely open.

And I am completely open as he lies back against the couch with me on top of him, straddling him, naked, my bathrobe barely clinging to my shoulders, my hair sliding across my back.

My hands drop to his neck while my head is tilted down, and we keep kissing, fully reveling in the sexual storm approaching us quickly.

As much as getting involved with him is not a good idea, I'm too curious about experiencing pleasure to end it all now.

I wish I had more strength, climbed off, gathered my bathrobe, and invited him out.

I wish I didn't feel bad about ignoring my own words.

We will still not be more than this, but I have zero time to think about it as his hands slip under my robe, moving slowly from my backside to my shoulders.

My robe finally falls, and his head tilts up while my face tips down, my hands sliding closer to his cheeks.

Fervor and deep curiosity fuel the kiss that we are sharing.

I knew he was a good kisser. And he is not even trying.

He doesn't rush me or pull ahead of me.

He probably doesn't want to scare me, but I have no fears. I feel him hard and follow my instinct, a terrible decision as I grind my center against his groin.

Tearing my lips away from his, I murmur, "We shouldn't do this." And then I let my hands glide to his shoulders.

"I couldn't agree more," he says, kneading my chest and lowering his mouth to a nipple.

The consistent moans inching up my chest tell the voice in my brain to shut up.

I'm so wet I could ruin his fancy pants.

He roughly sucks on a nipple, his hands giving me pain.

The harder he does it, the harder I grip his shoulders, the harsher my nails sink into his back.

Just as I teeter on the edge, he reaches down, unzips his pants, and pulls out his erection.

I don't have time to gape at it when he nudges me up and holds it before pulling me down to fill up my center.

A puddle forms between my legs as he slides in. It feels like heaven. I can't look at him right now to search for a connection or a meaning.

My back is curved, my chest pushed out, my hands latched onto his shoulders.

I roll my lip between my teeth as the last remnant of embarrassment crumbles.

He feels so good he shouldn't be the important man he is.

He shouldn't be more than some random guy I picked up at a bar or met at the library.

The stranger I ran into by accident.

The man who looked all right when the circumstances worked in our favor as we exchanged a few words and realized neither of us had had sex in a while.

The man who showed up at the right time when we didn't ask any questions, yet we both knew that his place was somehow nearby.

The man who invited me inside for a cup of coffee, where we started fucking in the hallway before having the chance to take our clothes off.

The man who made the simplistic approach possible because we knew we wouldn't run into each other again.

That's how good David Moore feels.

Like there is nothing on the line.

As if nasty complications aren't looming in the distance, and there are no hard feelings and icky issues to deal with in the aftermath if we happen to meet again.

I grind on him, his hands guiding me while gripping my waist.I'm so turned on I might come without him touching my clit.

The lubrication is so good, and he is so hard, the chiseled tip of his erection rubbing every bit of sensitive trail inside me.

I'm in peril with this man, yet I choose not to think about it.

As I finally push back all these thoughts, I remember Rain's book.

That's the thing with these little books.

They outlast our feelings and stories, floating in the collective mind, carrying their little bits of naughtiness across time and space.

I'm channeling some sex goddess, moving my hips, enjoying every bit of pleasure, still trying not to put out more than what I've already let out.

My breaths are ragged and shallow, and he can tell how much I like it by how harsh and passionate my moves become.

I take him deep, with hunger, reveling in the hardness filling me up to the brim.

And then I open my eyes and look down, covered in sweat and smelling like sex and a hint of shampoo.

With his head pushed back and his shoulders pressed into the couch, he looks at me through long dark lashes, a smile tugging at his lips, sweat glistening on his upper lip as his gemstone gaze cuts through my soul.

That is his power right there.

He knew that sooner or later, he'd have me riding his hard, chiseled length, all sweaty and hungry.

He seems pleasantly surprised, as if he didn't think I'd have it in me.

He listened to his instincts. And his instincts were right, while my intuition was completely off, lolling around, not paying attention.

Part of it hinted at what might happen while the voice of reason gave me some good advice, but I ignored it and all the signs, so here I am.

My tits bounce like wild horses as I rock my body on top of his.He palms and squeezes them hard, tilting his hips, penetrating me harder.

Sweet moans tear off my lips.

"You're good," he drawls. "Filthy like a perfect harlot," he says, sending me straight over the edge.

Who knew him talking dirty to me would do me in?

The tension spikes as my hands claw at his shoulders.

He pushes his hips higher, and my rhythm increases, chasing that perfect moment.

I couldn't be happier with the outcome.

Shudder after shudder of long–repressed desire rams through me deliciously, satisfying, while my lungs pump air like this is the end of me.

I'm right past my high when his eyes darken, his pupils enlarging, his focus gone.

He grabs my hips and goes alone on the last foot of our journey.

Disconnected from me, enjoying my body, my throbbing, and my dripping wet center.

And it doesn't take him long before, showing perfect control over his body, he rams into me a few more times and pulls me up seconds before coming.

My butt falls into a seat next to him while he wraps a strong fist around his hardness and slides it up and down until the motion becomes a blur.

He blasts his load, his eyes closed, his chest jerking up and down, his lips parted, his warm release landing on his pants, my coffee table, and the rug.

None of that matters.

Slumped back, I watch this beautiful man, who is still hard with his hand still moving up and down and his chest still heaving, having a moment of delight in my living room. With me here, witnessing it all, partly responsible for his pleasure.

And a part of me would love to know what he had in mind when he was taking that wild trip with his eyes closed.