Page 46 of No Hope of Rescue

All I can do is shake my head, and this is permission enough. He dips his head again and devours me, pulling me close, lifting me to my tiptoes as my legs turn boneless, his tongue probing deeply. He tastes good, smells good, like pine and musk.

I push back with my tongue when a welling of liquid warmth between my legs makes me want to share this with him. I move his large hand to my crotch. I know he can smell me. His nostrils flare, and he comes in again, a hand at my throat, the other between my legs, squeezing.

I’ve been thinking about this moment, wanting this for so long, that I can hardly breathe now that it’s happening. But there’s so much at stake. I put a hand on his shoulder and push him back.

His face in the warm light is flushed, lips full.

“Are you sure we want to do this?” I whisper. “We’re business partners.”

“Let’s forget about the business part of that right now,” he says and gathers me up in his arms.

“I don’t want this to change anything,” I try again, not sure who I’m trying to convince.

“I do.”

I’m weightless as he lifts me, my arms around the back of his neck, my body stretched against him, his heart thudding hard against my throat.

In a second, he bends slightly, slips an arm from around my waist under my knees, and carries me like a child.

I bury my head in his neck, only aware of his strong steps toward the bedroom. There’s a kind of delirium setting in, where I can’t believe this is happening and all memory is jumbled, tossed about. The feeling of the skin of his chest under my fingertips, soft but stretched over hard bone and muscle, unleashes a collage of firsts—a laugh, an angry kick at a flat tire, lifting a little boy to a slide, our arms brushing against each other, his ass. His face, his arms, his legs, throat, hair, smell. Just all of him.

With a knee on the bed, he lays me down in the covers and turns on the light by the nightstand.

Propped up on elbows, I watch him start to unbutton his shirt. I swear I can feel heat from his skin. Somehow, I find my voice and try again. “Promise me this isn’t going to going to change anything. Our friendship.”

The sudden grin is familiar but swift, and it fades with every word as he straddles my hips. “Oh, it’s going to change some things,” he says, and leans down to kiss me again, grasping my hands, entwining our fingers. His shirt falls open, the skin dark and warm underneath.

The moan I hear is my own, and it makes me shiver. Breaking away, he straightens and unbuttons my blouse before pulling it down over my shoulders, tugging until it slips off. He reaches around and unhooks my bra, and the release is exquisite. He rubs a hand over each breast and around my rib cage, where the elastic gripped. I shiver again.

See me.

I try hard not to be self-conscious. He lets me do just that. His weight on my hips is delicious, and his gaze, so appreciative of my body, makes me tilt my hips. He feels me move under him and pins me harder between his thighs.

“Gotcha, Riley.” And then softly, “You’re so beautiful.”

Just hearing those words fall from his lips creates a pulse between my legs. I sit up halfway and finish unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the collar open and sliding it down around his shoulders. They’re broad and his deltoid muscles are striated. Every move engages some other part of him in an exquisite chain reaction. He reaches down for his tank top, arms crossed, grabs the hem, and pulls up. Heat from his body radiates as I touch his chest with my fingers. His heart pounds and there’s a flutter in his neck, a pulse that reminds me I’m doing this to him.

He pulls me against him again and slides his hand under my jeans, then my panties, rocking them down to a point to where I can spread my legs. Using both arms to support himself, his head dips again as his pelvis presses against mine. The pressure in my groin is almost overwhelming as his lips touch mine so tenderly, and then our breaths slide into the same pattern. I link fingers behind his neck as a tremor runs the length of that hard body, and I pull him down on top of me.

Chapter Thirteen

Brock Weston

Cognitive dissonance is a weird thing, even when you recognize it. On the one hand, I’m thoroughly conflicted, confused as to why Riley is suddenly in my imagination and why I haven’t felt this way before. Competing with this is the fact that I’m completely clear about one thing: somehow, I’ve always seen her this way.

I’ve just been running away from her . . . and from myself.

Maybe that’s why I feel so at home finally, lying in bed, her warm arm stretched across my chest. The lamp on the nightstand glows yellow. With a hand tucked under my head, I watch as she sleeps while a faint smile tugs her lips. The same tug pulls at my lips, and I lean over to kiss her on the cheek as she surfaces from sleep.

“Oh—my breath,” she says, covering her mouth.

“Don’t care.” I lift her hand away, kiss the top of it, and then lean toward her and kiss her on the mouth. She tastes of cotton and sleep and a muskiness that’s us. I take a deep breath and smell her hair, her skin—lilac and powder, baby oil and vanilla, and, somehow, stone. How have I not noticed this about her before?

She rolls out of bed and pulls on her lacy tank top, flips her golden hair out, and goes to pee. When she returns, she shivers and slides back under the covers.

“Cold bathroom. Spoon me?”

Rolling over, she scoots her butt against my crotch. My prick starts to harden.