Page 22 of The Stud Next Door (Frisky Business 3)
“Yeah.” I struggle to pull in a breath, my gaze hooked on that hypnotizing mouth of hers. “Did you?”
She smiles. “Yes, it was fine.”
“That’s good,” I whisper.
I should ask Jessa something about how my daughter did, or if she went to bed okay . . . but all I can do is keep staring at her mouth.
The words hang in the air for less than a second before I take a chance and close the distance between us. Jessa’s breath hitches, and I feel her hand grab at the front of my shirt, pulling me in.
And just like that, we’re locked together in a breathless kiss. Her book falls to the floor with a faint thud, no match for the pounding of my heart in my ears.
Her lips are warm and so unbelievably soft against mine, opening to my tongue with an eagerness that I feel right against my pants zipper. My hand slides up her neck to tangle in her hair, tilting her head to deepen our kiss and eliciting a whimper from deep in her throat. Her moans are sweeter than a goddamn daiquiri, and I’m drunk on the taste of her—
Oh my God. I’m drunk.
Ashamed, I pull away, our lips parting with a wet pop. My hand drops from her curls to clench the sheets between us. My eyes closed, I take a few slow breaths.
Jessa unknots her hand from my shirt and whispers, “Are you okay?” The concern in her voice is almost heartbreaking.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I manage to choke out. “I’m drunk. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“It’s okay,” she says softly, reassuring me.
She runs a hand through my hair, which does nothing to calm the tension in my jeans. Throwing off the blankets, she scoots off my bed and grabs her book from the floor.
“I’d better get going. Happy birthday, Connor. I hope this year is the best one yet.”
She pads away, her footsteps growing quieter until I hear the faint latch of the front door. I stand up too quickly, my head swimming for the moment it takes me to ground myself in the present.
I just made out with Marley’s nanny. I just made out with Jessa. And it felt incredible.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
8
* * *
JESSA
“Hey, Scar, remind me again where you want this box to go?” Maren calls out from down the hallway.
Scarlett’s mouth screws up to one side while she thinks, scanning the room. “Um . . .”
A small smile forms on my face. “Any day now, Scar. These boxes aren’t exactly as light as a feather.”
Scarlett shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t know. Just drop it in here, and we’ll figure it out together.”
Maren huffs loudly and grunts her way into the living room to join us, setting the box down with a loud thud. She wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and glares at Scarlett.
“Next time, if you’re going to be indecisive, you can carry the box full of old trashy tabloids. Why are you lugging those things around with you, anyway?”
Scarlett ignores Maren’s little jab and continues organizing flatware in the kitchen.
Maren looks at me, her eyes wide, and I get the message. Can you believe her? she’s trying to tell me, but I know better than to get between old friends. Especially old friends who are getting testy because of the stress of moving. And quite possibly hangry too.
But I’m about to move several thousand miles away, so I know a thing or two about that particular kind of stress.
“I’m hungry. Are you guys hungry?” I ask, keeping my tone light and chipper so it’s not obvious I’m trying to distract them.
“Starving.” Scarlett groans and throws herself across the olive velvet couch.
“I could eat.” Maren picks at a stray thread fraying the hem of her shorts as she agrees.
“So, what are we thinking? Chinese? Thai? Mexican? Pizza? I saw a place around the corner that looked pretty good.”
Both of their faces light up at my last suggestion.
Maren’s stomach growls, and she places her hands over her belly, a look of surprise sneaking across her face. “Okay, maybe I’m hungrier than I thought.”
“That pizza place is the bomb,” Scarlett says. “My old place isn’t far from here, and I’ve eaten there many times.”
I pull up the pizzeria’s menu on my phone and start scrolling. My mouth waters just reading the topping options. Moving’s harder work than you realize, even if you pay a couple of burly men to do most of the heavy lifting for you.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any white wine in that fridge, would you?” Maren asks, prodding Scarlett’s side and wiggling her eyebrows. Clearly, their small moving-related fight is over.
“Mmm, no, but I can have Caleb stop and pick some up on his way over.”
Maren and I exchange a look.
