Page 49 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
My first thought is clear and rational.No. Not again. I can’t do this.
I let it ring out, watching his name disappear from the screen with what should be relief but feels more like regret. I’ve been good all day—went to coffee with Cole this morning, had a perfectly lovely time, told him I liked him, and then I came homefeeling like maybe I’m finally making smart choices for once in my life.
But now a text follows.
Liam:Come over. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I stare at the words, hating the immediate flutter low in my stomach, hating that one part of me remembers exactly how it felt last time—his hands, his mouth, the way he made everything else disappear until there was nothing but heat and want and the feeling of being completely alive.
I pace across my bedroom, bare feet silent on the carpet, telling myself I’m smarter than this. Liam Murphy is a player, a bad idea wrapped in a devastating smirk and the kind of confidence that should come with a warning label. He’s everything I know I should avoid, everything Maddie’s been telling me to stay away from.
But here’s the thing about bad ideas—they’re magnetic in a way that good decisions never are. And I’m not sure if it’s the chase, the chemistry, or the fact that he doesn’tneedme that keeps pulling me back like I’m caught in some kind of gravitational field I can’t escape.
My phone buzzes again.
Liam:Please.
That single word shouldn’t have the power to undo all my resolve, but it does. Because Liam Murphy doesn’t say please. Liam Murphy doesn’t ask for anything—he just takes what he wants with that easy confidence that makes people want to give it to him.
Me:If you’re just bored or lonely, you can call another girl.
Liam:Promise you I don’t want anyone else.
My heart flutters. That little challenge hooks me harder than I want to admit. I throw on jeans and a sweater, swipe on lip balm, and grab my jacket before I can talk myself out of what is definitely going to be another terrible decision in a string of terrible decisions.
Maddie is fast asleep and won’t know if I borrow her car because I’ll be back before she wakes up. I take her keys and leave.
The drive to his apartment feels both eternal and too short, my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary while my mind wars with itself. I should turn around. I should go home, delete his number, stick to the original plan.
But I don’t turn around.
He’s leaning against his doorway when I pull up, hair still damp from what must have been a recent shower, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The sight of him hits me like a physical thing—his casual, effortless attractiveness that he wears like it’s nothing special.
That slow, knowing grin spreads across his face when he sees me. “Hey, Trouble.”
The nickname slides through me like liquid heat, dangerous because it’s his and his alone, because no one else has ever called me that and made it sound like a promise and a threat wrapped up together.
“Don’t look so smug,” I say as I walk up his front steps, but there’s no real bite in it. We both know why I’m here.
“I’m not smug. I’m pleased.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
Inside his apartment, it happens fast—the door clicking shut behind us, his hands already tangling in my hair, my back pressed against the wall before I can even catch my breath. He kisses like it’s a competition he’s determined to win, all heat and no hesitation, and I let myself drown in it because this is what I came for, isn’t it? This feeling of everything else falling away until there’s nothing but his mouth on mine and the way my body responds to his touch like it’s been waiting for this moment all day.
His hands roam, feeling the lines of my body through my clothes, and I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. We stumble toward the couch in a tangle of reaching hands andbreathless laughter, clothes coming loose in the dim light from the kitchen.
Every touch feels electric—the scrape of stubble against my neck, the heat of his mouth when he whispers my name, the way his voice drops to something rough and low that makes my pulse skip. This is what I’ve been trying to forget all week, this feeling of being completely present in my own body, aware of every nerve ending, every point of contact.
“I’m so happy you’re here.”
I shut him up with a kiss, and he makes me gasp when he enters me.
“Pretty eyes up here, Trouble,” he demands, pointing at his own. “I want to watch you.”
I can’t even keep my eyes open as I breathe hard with every thrust.
