Page 97 of The Score We Never Settled

“Behave, Layla Jean,” he reprimands me lightly. “You know I’d fuck you in a second.”

He kisses me again, and I pull away slightly to get my next thought out before I chicken out or drown it in the sea of my self-doubt.

“Then why don’t you?”

A hum of appreciation rumbles in his throat, but he remains annoyingly composed. “Because I want you fienin’ for me. I want you to realize it’smeyou want and not the idea of you getting off just to get off.”

I’ve never thought that.

Well, I mean the latter.

However, I could understand his hesitance about being a one-night stand for me while he maintains his, what, moral compass?

Bullshit.

My hand resting on his chest lowers just a fraction, and I feel Briggs’s body break out in a shiver of need, and I take silent joy in the idea that I can still control his emotions and headspace in the same way.

His kisses get a bit more frantic and destitute, tasting me in long strokes of his tongue while I feel his cock twitch in his jeans against my upper thigh.

How long can he go on doing this before he breaks?

I’d love to find out.

Like an idiot.

However, to my utter exasperation and lack of any release from a man in over two years, Briggs suddenly pulls away and puts some distance between my mouth and his because of his damn height. But his body pressed firmly into mine doesn’t move.

“Thank you for comin’ tonight,” he murmurs. “You made the night tolerable.”

I bob my head while attempting to catch my breath when I’m able to finally say, “You’re welcome. Just makin’ sure you don’t terrorize that kid.”

Or fight with your father in front of your sisters.

“Mhm.” He leans down again and places a firm kiss on my lips once more before he adds more distance between us, releasing me from his hold, and I’m immediately cold and restless. “Until next time, Layla Jean.”

He turns, and waltzes off my porch to his truck, leaving me in this turmoil of wanting to call out to him to come back and accepting the fact that this is probably for the best.

The best.

What the hell is the best, misery?

I’m screwed.

Again.

26

BRIGGS

“I thoughtyou said a couple of friends.”

Tucker Hale doesn’t smirk or smile, just extends a hand for me to bro-hug it out with him, and I return the gesture because it’s been years.

Years since I’ve seen him.

Years since we’ve talked.

But Tucker isn’t the guy who constantly needs to check in on folks. If you text him, he’ll respond. If you need him, he’ll come. And, if you stare too long at pretty curly-haired brunettes, he’ll call you out.