Page 55 of Plays Well With Others

Since the day I moved her couch, I’ve thought about kissing Rachel countless times.

Hell, I’ve run this scenario in my head and tried to erase it from my mind too.

But not once did I imagine I’d kiss her for the first time under the bright fluorescent lights of her kitchen while she was wearing a mustache apron and smelling like vanilla and chocolate chips.

There’s a first time for everything, and I am here for it. But like in a game of football, it’s a good idea to read the coverage. And Rachel’s a lot shorter than I am.

I back her up to her kitchen counter, grab her hips, and lift her up onto it, next to the mixer.

There.

It’s a two-fer. She’s perfect kissing height, and I can kiss her likethis—between her legs.

After I nudge her thighs, I settle into the V then I cup her cheeks and drop my mouth to hers.

My head spins.

Her lips. Her absolutely delicious lips. Her incredible mouth. She’s warm and pliant. She parts for me easily, inviting me to kiss her deeply. As I seal my mouth to hers, I press my hard-on against her center. A groan escapes me as I kiss her. She matches mine with one of her own, a soft, unbearably sexy sound that I eat up with another hot kiss.

A kiss comprised of lips and teeth and tongue. Of my hands holding her face. Of our bodies seeking each other.

I try to get closer, needing to feel her against me. I kiss my best friend thoroughly, with a hunger that surprises me. With a fervor that drives me to grind my cock against her while I explore her sweet mouth. She tastes like cookie dough and pent-up lust.

I’ve never thought cookies were sexy till now.

But they’re a goddamn aphrodisiac. I clasp her face harder. I want to consume her. I want to do everything to this woman. Touch her, caress her, fuck her, please her.

Say filthy things to her all night long.

Yeah, I’d really like to tell her the truth about my dirty heart.

Images of her spread out on the bed snap before my closed eyes. Me eating her, tying her up, smacking her ass, marking her.

I’ve got to slow down so I don’t bust a nut right now. I tap the brakes, downshifting into a slow and sultry kiss, a dirty grind. She wraps her legs around me, hooking her ankles on the waistband of my jeans.

I kiss the corner of her lips, then flick my tongue along their seam. We indulge in another impossibly sexy kiss, then I break it and meet her lusty gaze, taking a few seconds to catalog this brand-new view. Her messy hair, her swollen lips, and the glimmer in her eyes.

It’s a woozy look, and I’ve never seen it before.

Maybe that should be a stop sign. A reminder to ask her questions about friendship, and ground rules, about expectations and what happens tomorrow.

But when her questing hand grabs my chin, tugging me close, I don’t have a single question I want to ask.

“Gonna take this off you,” I tell her as I play with the ties of her apron.

She reaches for the hem of my Henley. “If I can takethisoff you?”

She’s coy, a little flirty with her tit for tat, but her voice rises in a question. Chased by nerves. Like she needs the reassurance that I want her to strip me naked.

“Take it off,” I tell her.

She smiles, but then she tries to hide it, pursing her lips as she grabs the fabric and tugs up. I help her along, tossing my shirt on the floor.

“God, Carter,” she says on a shudder, then she lifts her hands in front of my pecs.

But she doesn’t touch. She just stares. Everywhere. With wandering eyes, and trembling fingers, and so much eagerness that I want to just let her do whatever she wants to me.

Since she wants to.

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