Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(68)

We talked every night or texted or both and he still calls every day and texts me a million times. I refuse to answer him and I think our friendship is over and then I talked to Scott tonight and the conversation didn’t go as I planned and I don’t know.…”

My skin prickles. It’s more than Beth being so close to me. It’s more than the need and attraction raging in my body. Beth is on the verge of telling me something. On the verge of stepping outside her wall. I urge her on. “You don’t know what?”

“Everything was so much easier in Louisville,” she says softly. The sadness in her voice is hard to miss. “I miss easy.”

“After my game, I’ll drop you off.” I hate the thought of it, but I’m determined to win her over. “Then afterwards, we’ll go to dinner and then maybe a movie. What do you think?”

I hear her swallow. “I think I’d like that.”

I inhale. The clean, full intake of air feels as if it’s the first breath I’ve taken in days.

“Sometimes,” she says, then pauses. It’s a heavy pause and her struggle for words makes me want to comfort her. “Sometimes I just want…”

What does she want? I know what I want: for her to trust me, for her to feel what I feel.

But what I really want right now is for her to be okay. I extend my arm across the bed in Beth’s direction, careful not to touch her. “I’m here if you need me.”

One heartbeat. Another. Beth stays so perfectly still in the darkness that part of me wonders if this entire evening was a dream.

Her body scratches against the comforter as she moves. One inch in my direction. A hesitation. Then another inch. My blood tingles with anticipation. This moment is huge—no doubt. I’m asking her to lean on me and Beth is actually considering it.

Come on, Beth, you can trust me. Finally, in a swift movement, she lays her head on my chest and curls the rest of her body around me.

Needs slams into me and if her hand shifts down three inches, she’ll know. I want to touch her, but do I dare? Her breath tickles my chest as she whispers, “I like you, Ryan.”

I close my eyes and celebrate the words. She likes me. “I like you too.” A lot.

I want her, but I refuse to let my lower body make the decisions. Slowly, purposefully, I wrap one arm around her and lay my other hand on my stomach right next to hers. This is my best attempt at friends-who-date touching.

Parts of me want to caress the warm blush that appears on her beautiful skin when I look at her with desire. Those same parts imagine me placing a hand on her chin and tilting her head up so I can kiss her. Those parts are currently trying to talk “logic” to my brain.

Kissing could be good. I loved kissing her full lips and I loved her soft moans. I could kiss her until she forgets Isaiah. I could kiss her until I forget that I’m a virgin. My grip on her shoulder tightens. She’s killing me. I’m killing myself. “Sandy Koufax was left-handed like you. He was the youngest pitcher inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.”

“That’s possibly the most screwed-up thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she mumbles.

True, but it keeps my mind off kissing her.

“I’m not the one that talks in code.”

“You have me there.”

Beth’s body relaxes and molds into mine.

The silence stretches from seconds to minutes to longer and I wonder if she fell asleep. Part of me wishes I could sleep. Then I wouldn’t fantasize about touching her or kissing her or touching her some more. But then I also want to stay awake. I like this—holding her.

“Ryan?” she whispers.

“Yeah?” I whisper back.

“Can I stay? I set your alarm for four so I’ll be back before Scott misses me.”

I absently rub my hand up and down her back and she shifts closer to me. “Yeah.”

Beth nuzzles her head against my chest like a cat curling into a ball for sleep. Her arm presses into me and I let myself cheat for one second when I bunch her hair in my hand and kiss the top of her head. I could tell myself that friends who date do this, but it’s way too late and I’m way too tired for lying.

Beth

THIRTY MINUTES OF observing Ryan squirm on the couch across from Scott was enough to atone for allowing Ryan to drag me to the marathon game at the ballpark. Scott finally let me go with Ryan only after he threatened to kill Ryan if he returned me with any marks on my body.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever admit it to Ryan, but this has been my best Saturday since being sentenced to hell. On the drive into Louisville, Ryan explained baseball. Most of it I knew, but Ryan somehow made it interesting. The sport came alive when he described a game that’s more than a bat and a ball and some bases. He said it involved teamwork and trust.

As I sit on the bleachers and watch the game, I appreciate the gracefulness of his team’s movements. A network of signals and glances and unsaid understandings.

What I really find amazing is Ryan. The raw intensity in the way he moves. The strength of his broad shoulders and the power that explodes from his body when he throws the ball. Ryan is a force all his own. A force that pulls me in. An attraction that curls warmth into my body. He possesses a simple touch that’s strong enough to hold me together yet soft enough to make me shiver.

We’re friends. Just friends. I sigh. Even as a friend, he deserves better than me. He seems hell-bent on liking me. Hell-bent on dating me.