Page 11 of Cold as Stone
Then I see her.
She’s bent over, tugging something from under one of the booths, andfuck meif this isn’t the best view I’ve had all damn week.
Thick, round hips hugged tight in a pair of light-wash jeans that fit like sin. Thighs for days. The kind of ass that makes a man want to say thank you to the universe, buy her a drink, and then get on his knees just for the honor of worshipping it.
She’s soft in all the right places, the kind of woman built to be held. This woman’s full-bodied. Lush. Fucking breathtaking.
Her blonde hair’s up in a messy bun, little wisps curling down her neck, and she’s humming—actually humming—as she squirms further onto the booth seat, reaching under the table for something.
The sway of her hips, the way her shirt stretches across her back, the peek of skin above her waistband when she shifts…
Yeah. That’s a problem.
A veryhotproblem.
She makes a sound of triumph and pushes up, straightening from the booth with an empty bottle in her hand. It’s only then, as she turns toward the bar, that my brain slams the emergency brake hard enough to cause whiplash.
Because I know her face.
Even years later, with fuller cheeks and a confidence she didn’t used to wear, I know exactly who she is.
“Kya?”
Her name comes out strangled, like it’s been scraped over gravel. Like I haven’t said it in years, which I haven’t. Because why would I? She was Emma’s annoying little friend who used to follow us around like a lost puppy.
She was Emma’s friend.
She was a kid.
Kya freezes, her head whipping toward me, and I watch as her eyes go wide. For a second neither of us moves. The jukebox keeps playing, but everything else falls away.
This is not the same girl who used to hide behind Emma when I walked into a room. This is not the girl with the too-big eyes and the defensive walls who always looked like she was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
No.
This is a woman.
And not just any woman.
She’s all soft curves and unapologetic presence. And my brain—my traitorous, apparently malfunctioning brain—is noticing things about Emma’s best friend that I have no fucking business noticing.
Like her full hips and round belly that she doesn’t even pretend to hide. She has thighs that look like they could crush a man’s ego. And maybe his skull. And fuck if I don’t want her to try.
Her shirt stretches over full, heavy breasts in a way that should be illegal. No bra lines I can see, which only makes it worse.Or better. Her waist dips in, soft but strong, flaring out to hips made to hold a man’s hands.
Her skin has a warm glow to it, like she’s finally getting enough sleep or sun. Her cheekbones are a little sharper now, her jaw more defined. There’s a faint freckle near her lip I don’t remember, and a tiny scar above her brow. But her eyes? They’re still that same deep, soul-melting shade of hazel, only now there’ssteelbehind them.
Kya stands tall, chin lifted, shoulders relaxed like she finally fits inside her own body. She’s not hiding anymore. That’s what hits me most—her confidence and calm. The shrinking teen who knocked on my door in the middle of the night is gone, replaced by a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take it.
And fuck me, if that isn’t the biggest fucking turn-on.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Lee?” Her voice is different too, and hearing my name come from between those lips does something to me that it absolutely should not do.
I clear my throat, trying to get my head back in the game. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.” She sets the bottle down carefully on a table.
