Page 52 of Best Part of Me

I choke on my beer. “Excuse me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Get your mind outta the gutter, Maverick Mendes.Poker stick.”

“Ah, right.”

I watch her shove the marshmallow onto the end of the stick with such concentration her tongue darts out to the side of her mouth, and I inhale a sharp breath. I force myself to look away and pay attention to the s’mores I’m making before I burn something.

We roast the marshmallows, top them with Hershey’s chocolate squares, and smash them between graham crackers. I sit on the chair and pull her into my lap, resisting the urge to turn this into a sexual escapade. But it’s difficult because I can’t stop thinking about how she’s in a skirt, and the last text I sent her said something along the lines of how we’re positioned now.

Camille reminds me of a funny story from when we were kids. About how Rosie lit about a hundred firecrackers and tossed them onto Jones’s bed, which resulted in a huge round burnt spot on his mattress. Their dad had gotten so angry, but not their mom. She had to bury her laugh so Jack didn’t see.

We’re at least four beers in and probably twice that many s’mores between us before Cammie settles in my lap, her head lolled against my chest. She’s relaxed and dancing her fingertip along the neck of the beer bottle. Even that small movement is turning me on. But I resist while I hold her tight and chug another beer.

“Hey, Mav?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“How do you think I’d react if Rosie told me she had a thing for Jones?”

The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, but I suppose it’s valid.

“I don’t know. I think you’d first think she’s fucking crazy. This is Jones we’re talking about.” I chuckle with the beer bottle pressed to my lips.

“Heyyy,” she says, slurring the word and propping herself up in my lap to look at me over her shoulder. “Jones is sweet.”

I shake my head and crack open another beer for her. When I hand it to her, I say, “Jones is my best friend. He’s a good guy with good intentions.”

“Heisa good guy.”

“But it’s Rosie. She’d never be interested in Jones.”

“But what if she was? Just for argument’s sake.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

She tips her beer back, taking a swig. “I’d like to think I’d be happy for them.”

I brush a finger underneath her chin and hold it. “Hey, are you trying to validate what we’re doing here?”

She flattens her lips before saying, “Maybe.”

I sigh, my exhaustion from the day, from these scenarios, burrowing into my body. “We don’t have to. Because Jones is never going to find out about us.”

She peers over her shoulder at me, her eyes focusing on mine, and it sets fire to my skin. “You’re right. Because when we go home, I’m quitting you cold turkey.” She scoffs.

I slide my hand against the smooth skin of her thigh, slipping it underneath the fabric of her skirt, and she shivers at my touch. “You sure about that?” I challenge.

Even though she better be sure. Because that’s the plan. And I won’t be touching her like I am right now once we’re back home.

“For someone who can’t seem to keep their hands off me, I should be asking you the same question.”

I narrow my eyes at her and glide my fingers to her front, agitated when they find the barrier of her panties. I tug the fabric between her pussy, and she gasps. Tethering my free hand around her neck I draw her face closer to mine.

“You’re right, Sunshine. I can’t keep my fucking hands off you. So cold turkey is the only way I know how to do this. If you got another suggestion, I’m all ears.”

Shoving her panties to the side, I trace my finger over her pussy, where she’s already soaked for me. I grind against her ass, impatient, but the repercussions are real and raw.

“Cold turkey it is,” she mumbles. “Because I think I might be falling in love with you.”

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