A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(29)

Her long, shiny hair is in a loose, messy braid thing, cascading over her bare left shoulder, her smooth legs extending from a pair of bright white lace boxer shorts as she sits cross-legged on the couch. She’s tugging at the hem of a gauzy white tank top as if it’s too tight, even though it’s, uh, flowy.

As she scoots closer to the arm of the couch to make room for me, I drop onto the beige corduroy furniture with an “Oomph,” quickly taking note of Abby’s visible cleavage, the delicate smell of her perfume, the sneak-peaks of skin in her crochet top, and, well… her.

My dick stiffens, and I quickly adjust myself and my gym shorts.

Shit. This is gonna suck.

I give her a nod in greeting, spread my legs to get comfortable, and sink lower into the broken-in cushions, clasping my hands in front of me on my lap to cover my boner, even though what I could really use right now is a pillow.

“Showtime, heads up,” Cubby says, pitching me a beer from the cooler like he’s lobbing a football through the air. I catch it easily, tap on the top before twisting the can cap off, and toss the cap behind the couch before taking a swig. I struggle with the urge to pound it all down in one breath when Shelby jumps up and clicks off all the lights.





Abby

I can hardly breathe when the lights go off. Caleb is sitting so close, and I’m wearing so… little.

His head is tipped back, and I hungrily observe the thick cords in his neck work as he swallows from his beer bottle. It’s obvious he hasn’t shaved in a few days, the stubble on his neck and chin casting a dark shadow over his already seemingly unhappy features.

He lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth, casting a quick glance over at me, his eyes flickering down over my chest, and I swear I hear him grunt grumpily.

As soon as the lights are turned off and the movie begins, my body is on high alert. Every tiny movement, from his shallow breathing and occasional discontented grumbling, to the heat his imposing body is emitting—sends a tide pool of awareness through my nerve endings, and I’m unable to concentrate on the big screen television in front of us.

Self-conscious in what I consider skimpy shorts and a sheer top, I feel his dark eyes on me, lingering on my legs and arms from under the brim of that ever-present ball cap.

His enormous bear-sized palms rest on his steely, athletic thighs, and every so often he runs them up and down the length of his athletic pants, like they’re sweaty and he’s trying to dry them off.

Feeling him regard me now under that gray brim of his hat, I take a deep breath and angle my head to face him. Trust me, it takes every ounce of courage I possess to turn toward him. Every bit of nerve. This small act that might be so frivolous to some—but not to me. To me it’s an act of bravery.

What I want to do is get up and run. Run out of the room, out of the cabin, and go home. Because I’m scared. Scared shitless, pardon my French.

Having been caught staring, Caleb jerks his jet-black eyes back to the television, and he feigns interest while casually letting his hands—the ones so tensely resting on his knees—idly slide to the couch on either side of his legs, palms flat on the cushions.

Inches from my legs.

Inches from my bare skin.

His chest heaves in and out like his breathing is labored, and I automatically wonder if:

1. He’s as nervous as I am.

2. He’s as out of practice as I am. And by “out of practice,” I mean inexperienced.

3. He’s trying to make a move but doesn’t know how.

The thought softens my resolve and I coax myself into motion.

My arms, which have been crossed in self-preservation during the movie so no one can see my breasts, now slowly lower, uncrossing themselves of their own volition.

I gingerly finger the hem of Jenna’s lace sleep shorts, and from my peripheral view, watch as Caleb’s solid fingers begin gently massaging the corduroy couch cushion. Slow, slight circles with the tips of his fingers. The sight of those fingers tensely stroking the fabric is kind of driving me insane as I imagine them on my skin—can’t help but imagine them on my skin—when all he’s doing is stroking the couch, for crying out loud.

I hold my breath and exhale before letting my own hands slide down from my bare knees, limply thumping down onto the corduroy fabric next to Caleb’s.

Our hands are so close—almost touching—and from the corner of my eye, I can see and feel Caleb’s fingers inch closer to mine, tap-tap-tapping nervously on the fabric, as if debating, before closing the space between our hands and sliding his hand, inch-by-inch, over mine.

I let out the breath I’d been holding with a sigh.

His hand is warm, and coarse, and I can feel rough callouses on my knuckles as he skims them with the pads of his fingers. His feather-light touch isn’t soft, but is almost enough to make me sigh again—and I would have, were our immature friends not present.

He holds perfectly still, gauging my reaction and breathing deeply, stoically staring at the TV in a trance.

With my heart fluttering in rapid palpitations within my chest, I flip my palm over, giving Caleb leave to trail his fingers over the sensitive pads of my palm.

He obliges.

He obliges, and I fight the urge to tip my head back and lean it against the back of the couch in a euphoric haze. I bite my lower lip and glance around the room at our friends; they are none the wiser.