Page 54 of Where She Belongs
When we reach the door, I pull the keycard from my pocket, sliding it into the lock. The quiet beep sounds unnaturally loud in the stillness between us. I step back, allowing Andrea to enter first, watching her move in that dress that’s been driving me to distraction all evening.
The suite is exactly as we left it this morning—my sofa bed still pulled out, my belongings scattered across it as evidence of our careful separation last night. A separation that suddenly seems ridiculous given everything that’s changed between us.
“Should I...” I gesture awkwardly toward the sofa bed, uncertainty making me hesitate. I don’t want to presume, don’t want to push too fast after everything that’s happened today.
“No,” she says with surprising force, then softens her tone. “I mean, I think we’ve moved beyond separate beds, don’t you?”
Something shifts in my chest—hope, relief, desire all tangled together. “I think,” I say carefully, taking a step toward her, then another, “that we’ve moved beyond a lot of things.”
I place my hands on her waist, gentle but deliberate, drawing her closer. Her palms come to rest against my chest, and I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding beneath her touch.
“You must be exhausted,” I murmur, though I’m hoping she’s not too tired for what I’ve been thinking about all day. What I’ve been wanting for longer than I care to admit.
“I am,” she says, and disappointment flickers until she continues, “But not too exhausted for this.”
She rises on her toes, pressing her lips to mine, and the world narrows to just this moment, just her. Her lips are impossibly soft, tasting faintly of champagne and something sweeter that’s uniquely Andrea. Unlike our previous kisses—the tentative exploration this morning, the passionate confession on the dance floor—this one feels different. Deliberate. The knowledge that there’s nothing stopping us now from taking this wherever we want it to go makes every touch more significant.
I respond immediately, one hand sliding up her back to cradle her head, the other pulling her closer. The kiss deepens as years of unacknowledged desire finally find expression. Her lips part beneath mine, warm and inviting, fitting against mine with a perfection that makes my head spin. A sound escapes me when her fingers thread through my hair, but I’m beyond caring about anything except how perfectly she fits against me, how her mouth yields and demands in equal measure.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I keep my forehead resting against hers, unwilling to create even an inchof unnecessary distance. “Andie,” I say, her name carrying every question I want to ask, every promise I want to make.
“This could ruin everything,” she whispers, but her eyes drop to my lips.
“Everything,” I agree, even as I trace her jawline with my thumb. Ten years of friendship. Countless shared moments. All the times I convinced myself that wanting her was impossible, inappropriate, insane.
“The twins’ birthday parties would be so awkward.”
That startles a laugh from me. “You’re thinking about the twins right now?”
“I’m thinking about everything we could lose.” Her hand comes up to cup my face, and I lean into her touch without meaning to. “You’re too important to lose, Gabe.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, because she’s right. She is too important to lose. This thing between us—this friendship, this trust, this absolute certainty that we’ll show up for each other—it’s the most real relationship I’ve ever had.
And I’m about to risk it all because I can’t stop wanting her.
“We could just...” Her voice trails off as my thumb traces her bottom lip. “Get it out of our systems?”
The suggestion sends heat coursing through me, even as something in my chest tightens. Because I know—with a certainty that terrifies me—that having Andrea once won’t be enough. That nothing about this will get her out of my system.
But then she shifts against me, and rational thought dissolves as she looks at me like she wants me as much as I want her, and I’m only human.
“Just once,” I agree, even though I know it’s a lie. “To get it out of our systems.”
When I finally kiss her, it feels inevitable. Like every moment since I met her has been leading to this. Her lips are soft against mine, tasting of champagne and possibility.
She makes a soft sound against my mouth that undoes me completely. My hand moves to cradle her head but encounters what feels like an armory of hairpins instead.
“Ow,” I mutter against her lips.
She pulls back with a breathless laugh. “Sorry. Tristy’s stylist used about forty hairpins to create this ‘effortless’ updo. I can feel every single one of them digging into my scalp.”
“Forty?” I raise an eyebrow, fingers hovering uncertainly near her elegant hairstyle.
“At least,” she says, her eyes dancing with amusement despite the heat between us. “Think you’re up for the challenge, Dr. Vasquez?”
The playfulness in her voice, the way she’s looking at me—half desire, half mischief—makes my heart turn over. “Oh, ye of little faith, Dr. Martin,” I reply, carefully extracting the first pin. “I think I can handle all forty of them.”
She tilts her head to give me better access, and I work methodically, one pin at a time, dropping each onto the nightstand with a tiny metallic sound. With each pin removed, a strand of her hair falls loose, curling against her neck, and the intimacy of the moment—of undoing her piece by piece—sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
