Page 90 of Buckin' Around

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Spence,” she breathes.

Chapter 22

Riley

Spence stands shell-shocked in his underwear and his undone button-down shirt as his jaw feathers.

I crossed a line.

I shouldn’t have, but I crossed a line.

And . . . now I’ve made it awkward.

Fecking hell, you absolute moron, Riley O’Malley. You couldn’t let a good thing keep on, could you.

My heart races, pushing against my ribs like if it can escape this humiliation, it will. Every eejit for themselves.

“I’m sor?—”

Warm hands cup my face.

He’s shaking his head.

Why is he shaking his head?

Is this the part where Spencer tells me I’ve ruined our professional, if somewhat arranged friendship with my big damn mout?—

Spencer’s expression changes, twisting between doubt and determination as he mutters, “Fuck it.”

His mouth crashes over my own.

Hands moving from my jawline and into my hair, he presses his warm, hard body to mine.

Oh, feck.

Holy Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Christ . . .

I melt into him as his tongue coaxes my lips apart, sweeping in and exploring. And I let him in. I let him hold me up.

I am powerless to do anything more.

Every fiber of my being unravels and rewires itself with his touch, his closeness. His hunger. I find myself needing him back, as much if not more.

My hands track up his chest.

God, he feels so good. Every toned muscle and chiseled angle is warm and pliable under hand. Strength that is soft and welcoming until it’s needed.

His heartbeat pounds into my palm as I trace my way up his neck. It’s then that his arm moves down my back and hauls me onto his hips.

My back meets the wall by the door.

My hands crawl into his hair.

Oh god . . . feck.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t want to breathe.