Page 62 of That Friendzone Feeling
There’sa gentle tug as he pulls the slider down the few inches to where it sticks.
“Hmmm,” he breathes.
Thefingers inside my dress graze one vertebra, then the next, as he moves them down to meet the slider.
Hepulls the dress toward him, tightening it across my chest.Iopen my eyes to find the cream fabric jumping where it sits over my heart.
Hemoves in closer.
“Ah.”Hiswarm breath drifts down the back of my dress all the way to the base of my spine.
Mybody wants to make a full-on shivery squirm, butIsqueeze my eyes tight shut and focus on holding rock-solid still.
Imight be able to control my movements, but there’s nothingIcan do about the fire in my center, the wetness in my underwear.Andhe’s now so close he might be able to smell me.
“There’sfabric trapped on the inside,” he says, as a finger or a thumb—who can tell anymore?—teases my desperate, hungry skin.
AllIcan do is keep breathing.IfIfocus on long, slow inhales and exhales,Imight be able to stop myself from quivering.
WhatIcan’t stop is the banging of my heart against the inside of my ribs, the rush of hot blood through my veins, and the throbbing at my core.
NorcanIstop imagining those hands all over me and those fingers inside more than the back of my dress.
Asudden swift, firm jerk of the slider knocks me from that impossible fantasy.
“Gotit,”Walkersays.
Buthe doesn’t move.
Slowly, the zipper releases tooth by tooth as he pulls the slider at an agonizing snail's pace down my back.
Eachclick is like a drumbeat in time with my thumping heart.
Inchby inch, cool air hits my freshly exposed flesh.
Thelower it gets, the more my clit vibrates.
Thenhe hits the outward curve at the base of my spine.Theend of the road.
Isense his eyes on me, the back of my dress open to his gaze revealing the clasp of my bra, the top of my tights.
Myhand clenches around the fistful of hairI’mholding.
AllIwant is forWalkerto slip his hands inside at either side of my waist, slide them around to my belly, and pull me back against him.
“Thereyou go.”Hisvoice is deep, husky, almost a drawl. “Alldone.”
Iclutch the front of the dress to my thudding chest, my feet rooted to the spot, my back still to him. “Great.Thanks.”
“You’rewelcome.”Theneed in his voice matches the need between my legs. “Seeyou in the morning.”
UnsurewhetherI’llbe able to hold onto my self-control ifIturn around and look at him,Ishuffle away toward my room.
AsImake my way along the hallway, my eyes land on the coat hooks inside the front door.
Onone of them isWalker’stweed jacket.Coveredin clear plastic.Andhanging on a dry cleaner’s coat hanger.
Well, fuck it.
