The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(51)

“Is it weird that I’m glad you’re here?”

My heartbeat slams against my chest. Please, please, please.

“No. I’m glad I’m here too.”

“It kind reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d have sleepovers with my best friend. I never wanted it to end because it was so fun. You know?”

Hope crashes in my chest, so potent I almost hear the shards of it clatter against my ribs. “Yeah.” Fun. This is fun. Rolling onto my back, I press my fists against my eyes. Sleep. Just go to f*cking sleep and this torture will end.

But Mac rolls onto her back too, her warm, bare shoulder touching my arm. And all the nerves in my body engage, focusing on that small stretch of skin-to-skin contact. I breath slowly in and out through my nose.

Mac’s voice is soft and thoughtful in the dark. “Our family has always been so private. I don’t have many true friends. I know a lot of people, and I like talking to them. But none of them really know me.”

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I finally answer her. “You don’t trust easily.” I know this because I don’t either. Everyone knows a version of me, but the whole person? Not really.

“I don’t.”

The sheets rustle and I know Mac has turned toward me. In the dark, her doe-shaped eyes gleam like onyx beneath the line of her bangs. Aside from my mother, no one has ever looked at me that way, like I’m special. It’s like a surprise tackle, knocking me off feet and onto my head. My head spins. But I hold her gaze.

Mac’s smile is soft, almost shy. “But I trust you, Gray.”

She’s giving me a gift, I know this. And it fills me with warmth even as it punches through my heart. Because I’m even more lost now. It takes me a moment to answer, and my voice is as unsteady as my thoughts. “I trust you too, Ivy.”





Sixteen





Ivy


I don’t remember falling asleep. But I wake slowly, my senses coming back online in stages. It must be dawn because pale light stretches through the windows, and everything is slightly hazy, as if the world can’t decide between night or day. I’m not an early riser, so I don’t know why I’m awake now.

Especially since I’m so comfortable and so very warm, tucked into the protective curve of Gray’s body, with his arm securely around my waist. We’re locked together, his legs curled under mine, his nose burrowed in my hair. I can’t help closing my eyes again and letting my weight fall back onto him. The rhythm of his breathing and the rise and fall of his broad chest lull me. He feels too good. Perfect.

But a new set of realizations hits me. That my tank top has ridden up in my sleep and is now twisted high on my torso, exposing the underside of my breasts. That Gray’s huge hand is on my bare belly, and with every slow breath I take, the tip of his pinky finger grazes my hip bone. That slight tickle grabs all my attention, and has my body slowly tensing with awareness. I lay as still as I can, staring at the wall, muted gray in the dawn. Like the uncoiling of a string, my senses move outward to Gray’s body against mine and the fact that he too has gone unnaturally still.

Side-by-side we lie, his soft breaths stirring my hair. And his hand resting on my belly. Except it isn’t at rest. His fingers shift, a slight caress as if he can’t help but test the texture of my skin. It’s the tiniest of movements, and my heart stutters at the touch, every nerve in my body focusing on that one spot.

When I don’t move, he strokes again, the same hesitant exploration. Heat flares over my skin. My heartbeat is a drum in my ears, and I struggle to keep still. Because I don’t want him to stop.

He doesn’t. Slowly, his pinky skims over my skin. His touch is so soft, I might have missed it. Only all of my awareness is on him and the progress he makes. He keeps going, and when he grazes the edge of my panties, my thighs clench, my clit tightening as if he plucked it.

As if my continued stillness is a sign of permission, his touch grows bolder. Gently, he draws his fingers over the sensitive skin on my stomach, down, then up. Behind me, his body is rock solid, his breath stilted as if he’s holding it.

And I lie there, pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. A slow tremble is working its way through me as heat licks between my thighs. With each delicate pass over my skin, he covers more ground. I close my eyes, focus on those fingers, how they tickle along my side, trace my panties, then trail upwards over my ribs.

I want to arch my back, push against the large swell of his cock that’s growing hard against my ass. His fingertips graze the underside of my breast, and I stop breathing. My nipples draw tight. He hovers there, just under my breasts, barely touching them.

My mind races. What are we doing? We’re crazy to do this. Everything will change. I should stop this. But I don’t want to.

I hear him swallow, feel the rapid thump of his heart against by back. My teeth sink down on my lip. It’s torture staying still, not begging him to go higher. Because I want him to. So f*cking badly my breasts ache. And I want him to go lower as well, stick those long fingers of his under my panties. But I can’t. Somehow, by silent agreement, we’re both pretending this isn’t happening. If we don’t talk, don’t acknowledge it, we can do this.

And so I lie still, breath short, body aching, waiting.

Then he moves, sliding his fingers over the curve of my breast, up toward my nipple. I bite my lip harder, willing myself not to whimper. God, but my nipple throbs, waiting for that touch. But it doesn’t come. The bastard traces under it, slowly stroking my skin, teasing me.