The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(50)

Ivy grins with perfect understanding. “Because we pay attention to detail, like buying more than one pillow and a flimsy blanket to keep warm. As for the mattress, for as long as I can remember, every bed in our house has been a California king. I’m pretty sure my dad buys these babies in bulk.”

God bless Ivy’s dad. “I guess when you’re nearly seven feet tall, the largest mattress in production just looks normal.”

“Yeah. Dad loves his comfort and assumed his daughters would like the same bed.” Ivy’s expression turns inward, happy. “When we were little, Fi and I used to call them our Princess and the Pea beds.”

“The Princess and the Pea chick had a bed of mattresses stacked to the ceiling, not a big-ass mattress.”

Ivy’s brows rise. “And how do you know all these fairy tales, Mr. Grayson?”

“My mom read them to me when I was a little guy.” God, I can still remember the sound of her voice as she tucked me up in bed and told me those old stories. My brothers, as usual, had made fun of that nighttime ritual. I didn’t care. I had Mom to myself, and she made me feel like the most loved boy in the world. Throat thick, I run a finger along Ivy’s pristine white covers.

She’s silent for a beat, then leans into my arm. “Bet you were a cute little boy.”

I nudge her back. “I bet you were a cute princess.” I can just imagine little Ivy Mac with her button nose and messy hair.

“As a f*cking bug.” Ivy picks up the remote. She flicks through the channels, and I yell “Stop!” just as she squeals, “The Usual Suspects. Yes!”

We grin at each other. “Best movie ever,” we say as one.

Ivy sets down the remote and grabs her shake.

“I love Bryan Singer’s work,” she says. “And J.J. Abrams. I’m pretty sure I’d wet my panties if I got a chance to talk to one of them.”

Since “wet panties” can go two ways, my dirty mind chooses to think of sex. And Mac being wet. Clearing my throat, I discreetly adjust my dick, tucking the eager head back under the band of my boxers. “So you like guys with big brains, huh?”

Her lips curl but she keeps her eyes on the screen. “Big brains and big dicks. Yeah.”

I nearly choke, but manage to keep a straight face, because Mac, the little stinker, is definitely grinning now. “Honey,” I drawl as if my dick isn’t getting bigger by the second, “you’ve basically described me.”

Her mouth twitches, and she finally glances my way. Her eyes are alight with evil Mac mischief. “Oh, right. I forgot about your big…brain.”

“Don’t forget my big dick.” Please don’t forget about him. He’s lonely. And needy.

“You’re only allowed two dick brags a night, Grayson,” she deadpans before wrapping her plump lips around her straw and sucking.

My own lips part as I watch her work that thick vanilla shake up into her mouth. Fuck me standing, she’s killing me. I’m so hard now, I throb, my mind imagining how good it would feel if she’d lean over and take the tip of me into her mouth. Just suck it a little. Her tongue would be cold from the ice cream, soothing my heat. And then…

I clear my throat again, but my voice is rough. “So I’m cut off?”

“Yup.” She doesn’t even look my way, too entranced by the movie.

And I lean back, squeezing my eyes shut. “Cruel, Mac. Just cruel.”

“Drama queen.” She snorts, not even noticing I’m slowly unraveling next to her, and elbows my side. “Watch the movie, Mr. Big Stuff.”

Somehow I manage it. But then the movie is over. Mac turns off the TV, plunging us into darkness. And I slam into hyper-awareness. My skin is humming, tuned to Ivy’s every move. The syncopated rhythm of our breathing is overloud in the silence.

And then Mac shifts. My body tenses, expectation rushing through me. But she doesn’t turn my way. She’s wriggling around, her elbow hitting me in the chin.

“Sorry,” she mutters, and I realize that she’s taking off her bra from under her tank. Hell. Visions of her soft breasts swaying beneath thin cotton fill my head. My palms practically feel their firm weight filling them up.

I lie stiff as plank and try to regulate my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Fuck.

Ivy settles down into the bed once more and turns away from me. Moonlight ghosts over her slim shoulders, highlighting her skin and turning it silver. My fingers curl into the covers so I don’t reach out and touch her. My entire body throbs with a please, please, please.

What the f*ck am I doing here? Like some masochist, killing myself slowly. I shouldn’t be here. But the idea of leaving is as impossible as asking me to catch a pass and just stand still. Not happening.

Sometimes I think she might want me too. When her gaze glazes over and focuses on my lips for a brief, breathless moment. But then she’s treating me as old buddy Gray, and I don’t know. Maybe I’m just guilty of wishful thinking. But the want isn’t going away. It’s growing, drowning out reason.

Biting my bottom lip, I stare at her in the darkness, and contemplate the best way to broach the subject of wanting to lick my way down her body and not kill our friendship in the process.

“Gray?” Her soft voice wrenches me out of my haze, and my gut tightens.

“Yeah?” I rasp.