Page 8 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

She winks at me and leans up to press a chaste kiss on my cheek. “I sure do.”

I crane my neck and watch that beautiful ass sway on her walk over to the kitchen.

Goddammit.

Yoga pants should be illegal. They’re one giant cocktease—especially on that woman.

She reaches up to grab a mixing bowl from the top shelf, but her fingers barely brush it. “Ugh, being short sucks. Why did Bash and Jameson get my dad’s height and not me?”

“I’ll help you with that.” I set the mug onto the kitchen island on my way over and move to stand behind her.

The bowl that’s just out of her reach is well within mine. My chest presses against her shoulders, and a barely audible whimper slips from her as I reach around her to set the bowl on the counter. “Here you go.”

I step back, and she turns to face me with her bottom lip pulled between her teeth.

Sweet holy hell…

“Thanks, Flynn.”

“I’m gonna go change now.” I practically race down the hallway to my bedroom while pressing my cock down with one hand.

Down, boy. Not her. Not ever.

I tug on a pair of jeans because the gray sweatpants I normally wear around the house will only emphasize my massive dick and what she does to it. With any other girl, I might try to advertise what I’m packing, but with Rach, it just feels dirty.

Wrong.

Abhorrent.

So do all the things I want to do to and with her.

Maybe a hypnotist could do something to my brain to get me to be able to forget how I feel about her. God knows I’ve tried everything else. Even praying to the big man upstairs for help and guidance, a way to move on. One hasn’t presented itself yet, though. Or if it has, I’ve been too busy looking at Rachel’s ass in her tight spandex pants to notice it.

I tug a T-shirt on over my head and quickly run the towel over my hair one more time before I wander back out to the kitchen.

Powdered pancake mix floats through the air like dust and covers my counters. Smudges of the wet, sticky batter mar Rachel’s perfect cheekbones and forehead.

The laugh that erupts from my chest booms around the room, making her jerk her head up to look at me. “How the hell did you make such a mess in two minutes?”

She lifts her slim shoulders and lets them fall while whisking the bowl in front of her. “The bag just exploded?”

“Exploded?” I walk over and find the bag of pancake mix ripped to shreds. “It looks like a chupacabra got this.”

She tosses her head back with a ringing laugh that echoes in my ears and has my already-straining cock pushing against my zipper even more. “A chupacabra? I like that.” She grins. “You know”—she elbows me playfully in the stomach—“you’re funny when you want to be, McAllister.”

And I always seem to want to be when I’m with her.

Mostly because that laugh is always like a jolt to my system. What I imagine a line of cocaine hitting my bloodstream would feel like. A rush of pure joy and adrenaline.

She’s like a drug to me, only without the negative side effects. Except for the fact that I’m alone because I can’t imagine being with anyone but her…and she’s off-limits.

And the longer we live next to each other and the closer friends we’ve become, the harder it is to keep going on like everything is normal. When she first arrived, I was still able to date and have a good time with other women. But the more I got to know Rachel, the less enticing other women became until I had stopped actively pursuing anything.

It’s pathetic.

It’s wrong.

It’s unhealthy.

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