Page 56 of Where She Belongs
But when I look at her, seeing the way she watches me with hooded eyes and swollen lips, I know it’s already too late. This isn’t just about crossing a line—it’s about recognizing that line never should have existed.
Because Andrea isn’t just my friend or mentor or confidante. She’s the woman who makes me feel alive in a way no one else ever has, and if I can convince her to stay with me past tonight… maybe that’s enough. Maybe we can rewrite our story to include desire and need and want.
Because this isn’t just sex. This isn’t just getting it out of our systems.
This is my best friend trusting me with her vulnerability, her pleasure, her heart. And even if we’re pretending this is just physical attraction, just one time to satisfy our curiosity, I know the truth.
I’m already in too deep.
I’m already falling for her.
“Gabe,” she whispers, and in that single word, I hear all the uncertainty, the hope, the longing she’s been holding back. It disarms me, makes me vulnerable in a way I’ve never been.
Our lips meet again, slower this time, exploring. Her fingers weave through my hair, pulling me closer, and I can feel thehesitance giving way to need. This isn’t just a release for her or a conquest for me; it’s something far more dangerous. More real.
I trail kisses down her neck, her collarbone, taking my time, savoring the taste of her skin. Each soft sigh she gives is a revelation, a note in a symphony I never knew I needed to hear. My hands trace the curves of her body with a reverence, as if I’m memorizing every inch of her.
I pause, looking up to meet her eyes. They’re half-closed, her breathing shallow, but there’s a spark of clarity in them. A question. An invitation. A fear.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice rough with restraint.
She doesn’t answer immediately, and in that pause, a thousand thoughts race through my mind. What will this mean for us? Can we ever go back to how things were? Do I even want to?
As we finally make it into the bedroom and tumble on her bed, the word she utters is like the breaking of a dam.
“Yes.”
I slide her dress down her legs, hearing it slide to the floor as I unbutton my shirt and shrug it off my shoulders. Suddenly I have too much clothing and all I want is the feel of my skin against hers, her lips, her hands, on mine.
I kiss a path up her legs, her thighs, the fabric feeling so soft against my fingers, her skin warm and soft beneath it. She’s trembling now, whether from anticipation or doubt, I can’t tell. Maybe both. I take my time, not rushing, letting her feel every moment, every touch.
Her hands clutch at the sheets, at my shoulders, as I reach the apex of her. I look up one last time, seeking her face in the soft morning light. She’s biting her lip, eyes closed, a mix of tension and surrender in her expression.
I breathe her in, the scent of her arousal making my head swim. Gently, I kiss her through the fabric of her panties, feeling the heat of her, the wetness.
She gasps and her hips lift slightly, meeting me. My hands slide up her sides, then down, taking my time as I hook my fingers around the waistband and slowly pull them down.
Every movement is deliberate, unhurried. I want her to feel the weight of what we’re doing, the significance of each touch. I want to remember her like this—every detail, every reaction—because I know this could change everything.
I kiss her inner thighs, left then right, so close but not quite there. Her breathing is ragged, her body taut like a bowstring. I can feel her impatience, her desire, but I hold back, letting the tension build.
When I finally touch her with my tongue, it’s soft, almost hesitant. She lets out a broken moan, her hands flying tomy hair, her fingers digging in. I explore her slowly, learning what makes her sigh, what makes her whimper. Her taste is intoxicating, the sounds she makes like music.
With my mouth and my tongue, I take her to the edge and pull back, then take her there again, teasing, stretching out the moment. Her hips move against me, her body pleading for release. I’m lost in her, in the way she responds to me, in the sheer intimacy of it all.
“Gabe, please,” she begs, and I can hear the desperation, the need to let go.
I give her what she asks for, what she needs. My tongue works in circles, in strokes, finding a rhythm that matches her breathing, her pulse. Her body arches, her thighs trembling around my head. She cries out, once, then again, her hands clutching the sheets as she unravels.
I stay with her through it, holding her gently, kissing her tenderly, until the last waves of her orgasm subside. She lies still, her chest rising and falling, her skin glowing with a sheen of sweat.
I move up beside her, propping myself on one elbow. She turns to face me, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy. For a moment, we just look at each other, saying nothing. The silence is heavy with meaning, with the unspoken questions of what comes next.
She reaches out and traces a finger along my jaw, then pulls me down for a kiss. It’s slow and deep, and I can still taste her on my lips. When we break apart, she rests her forehead against mine.
“I’ve never...” she starts, then pauses, searching for the right words. “This is different.”
I nod, understanding exactly what she means. Different can be terrifying, especially when we have so much to lose. But different can also be wonderful.
