Nothing but clenching fists and that strong clenching fucking jaw of his.
“I’ll try not to wince. Maybe keep the lights off, so he doesn’t see the blood.” I turn away from him. “Have a good night.”
“Don’t.”
It’s one simple plea whispered in a dark hallway, yet, it has the ability to stop me in my tracks.
“Don’t what?” I ask as I turn back around and walk toward him.
I don’t stop within the distance most would consider respectable. I press myself against his body, moving forward until I feel his back meet the wall.
“Don’t go in there? Don’t let him fuck me? Don’t give him what belongs to you?”
His eyes squeeze tight, and I miss the piercing blue stare immediately.
“Don’t what?” I hiss with anger this time.
“Just don’t.” His voice is low, full of something I can’t decipher, something he’s not willing to vocalize.
“Briar.” I cup his cheek, not missing the half a second he relents and tilts his head to increase the contact before stiffening again.
“Don’t do that either,” he snaps, pulling his face from my touch.
His glacial eyes meet mine in challenge. I told myself when I woke up this morning that I wouldn’t close my eyes tonight without putting all of my cards on the table. We’ve been dancing around each other for years, more so these last couple of months. I’m resolved to find out exactly what’s going on, even if it leaves me devastated.
“Briar,” I say again.
His chest is heaving against mine. I can’t ever remember a time when we’ve been so close. My fingers itch to touch him again. My tongue tingles to lick the rough scruff on his strong, stubborn jaw.
Without thinking of the repercussions, I jump, knowing he’ll catch me. I may not be sure of his feelings, but I know instinctively that he’s aware of my movements, predicting what I’m going to do seconds before they become actual actions on my part.
Just as I’d hoped, he catches me under my thighs. I don’t give him a second to question it or enough time to set me back down. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, digging my nails into his hair until they scrape his scalp, a little payback for the pain he’s caused me.
I press my mouth to his, obsessing over the sound of his breath hitching, knowing I’ll masturbate to the very memory of that sharp intake of breath for years and years to come.
I anticipate being shoved away when I sweep my tongue over the seam of his lips, but I’m ecstatic when his mouth opens. Now, this is what I’ve fantasized about. The brush of my tongue against his for the first time is nothing short of euphoric. I know for a fact that just this kiss, just the taste of beer on his pink tongue, would be better than anything the guy in the room down the hall has to offer.
We groan in unison, but the bliss only lasts for a flash.
“We can’t,” he pants against my lips.
“We are,” I assure him and dive back in.
Only this time, he’s unresponsive. His lips are no longer moving against mine. His tongue isn’t brushing mine. It’s locked behind the damn stubborn clench of his perfect jaw. Even knowing this, even rationalizing that our moment is over, I keep my mouth on his, praying for another weak second, another slip in his morals because opening my eyes and facing his rejection will be soul-crushing. It’s something I want to postpone for as long as I possibly can.
My world comes crashing down the second I hear my best friend say, “Oh shit.”
I don’t know how bad things are going to be until I pull my lips from Briar’s and turn my head. My brother is walking toward us while Zoe is trying to wiggle out of his hands. He releases her immediately, presumably, so his hands are free to pummel his best friend. I should let go of Briar, but I hold him tighter. If I’m not mistaken, his fingers clench the back of my thighs. Only then does it register why he’s clinging to me.
I was so wrapped up in the brush of his tongue on mine, I didn’t register the rest of our bodies. The ridge of his erection is situated right between my legs, the heat of it pressed against the thin, lacy material of my thong. From the feel of things, he wouldn’t be able to put me down without it being very fucking clear just how he feels about what’s going on.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Lynch threatens as he storms toward us. “How long has this been going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” Briar assures him.
“Says the dead guy that just had his lips on my baby sister.” The familiar vein in Lynch’s head is throbbing. It’s a testament to his anger level if I can see it in the dim light of the hallway.