Page 2 of The Wrong Move

Taking the next step with Byron is not about being brave. It’s what I fear most.

While I can see it happening and wish for it, I could also lose my friend.

Even worse, it could mean nothing to him.

Three years later…

I need to see you.

I stare for too long at Byron’s message on my cell. Since returning from college, Byron and I have hooked up a couple of times, but I noticed something different about him.

He is handsome, wealthy, and has all the fame of an elite athlete. He is a somebody at college, and arrogance comes with the territory. Only, it’s new for him.

I have to finish my art piece. You’re welcome to come here.

I wait for a response, but it doesn’t come.What is his problem?

My freshman year differed from his. While he worked his ass off in the gym, I required a more calming environment to paint. Byron thrives on adrenaline, whereas I prefer the stillness of serenity. And now he is messing with my creativity. I let out a long breath, pick up my brush, and stare at the postcard my mother gave me with an image of an Italian coastline. Her great-grandmother was from Southern Italy, and while she hasn’t had the chance to travel there, she has hope that my art will lead me there.

Adding dashes of pink to the bougainvillea flowers dotted on the canvas, I allow my mind to drift, and a sense of freedom sinks in. Time passes effortlessly, and each stroke conveys my joy. I’m transported to a time and place of comfort. With every brush stroke, I hear the village and Italian voices carried along the streets.

The door of my loft is slightly open, the chatter distracting. Byron’s voice breaks through the calm as it echoes up the stairs, then the door clicks shut behind me. Before I have a chance to drop my brush in the water and turn, my hair is swept away from my neck, and his mouth is on my skin.

“I’ve missed you, Gigi.”

I laugh. “You only saw me a few days ago.” When we spent half the day having sex.

“I need you,” he murmurs, trailing his lips along my shoulder and pushing the straps of my dress aside. “I want you, Gi.”

Dropping my brush, I let out a long breath while staring at my almost-finished art.

I want you.

For years, all I wanted was for Byron Hendricks to pick me out of all the girls who would line up just to spend a few seconds with him. And when we graduated from high school, he did. We spent the day together, telling each other our hopes and dreams for college. Then we ended up at his parents’ house, made out in the pool, and finished the day in the pool guesthouse.

Byron was my first. I know I wasn’t his and won’t be his last.

We hooked up almost every day before we went our separate ways to college. When I returned each break, Byron would reach out to me. And like today, whenever I am home, he can’t get enough of my body. We are not together, and I’m not fool enough to think he is celibate between semester breaks, even though I choose to be. All that matters is that when I’m home, he chooses me.

His large palms slip inside my bra to squeeze my breasts. I groan and tilt my head to rest on his shoulder. Reaching up, I rake my fingers through his silky hair, imagining how he looks since I haven’t laid a single eye on him yet. Byron’s other hand slides along my hip, grasping to slide the material of my dress up to my waist. Sliding his hand inside my panties, he finds my clit and works it until I’m moaning his name.

Oh God.

Spreading my legs, I roll my hips with his fingers inside me, and warm pleasure spreads through every inch of my body. His vivid heat surrounds me, reminding me it’s summer despite the air conditioning being on in the loft. His scent is woody, with a hint of orange, and I breathe him in until Byron fills my senses with his whisper, touch, and smell. Hot air caresses my ear.

“Come for me, Gigi.”

He sucks at my neck near my shoulder like he hungers for me.

My lids flutter, and my knees buckle as I come for him. “Byron…” I moan when he doesn’t let up. “I want you, too,” I whisper.

He removes his fingers. My clit pulses. My upper thighs are wet from his fingers powering in and out of my pussy. Byron spins me so his face is inches from mine. His beautiful blue eyes darken as though he is absorbing my words in a deeper way than what is happening in the moment.

Something about his eyes rings a warning bell in my mind. His breath is minty—no hint of whiskey or beer. I don’t have time to dwell before my bra is wrenched down and my ample breasts bounce free.

A growl sounds from his throat. “These are mine.”

“What?”

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