Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(12)

Nearly every time they hung out as a group, Russell spoke about women with such knowledge, he had to be experienced, whereas she’d only been kissed twice in her life—once by her intoxicated and immediately apologetic stepbrother—and both times severely disappointing. Common sense said that if Russell hadn’t shown any romantic interest in her after six months, he didn’t have any, and if she let her new awareness of him show now, she risked losing a friend. In addition to landing in a freshly fallen pile of rejection.

Abby moved away, throat tightening under the fear of that possibility. “Helping is the least I can do after forcing you to hang out with a gimp.” She lifted her chin. “And making you use her loofah.”

“I didn’t use it,” he responded too quickly.

She poked him in the chest. “You know you did.”

Russell snagged her wrist and drew her up against his side. When Abby’s head landed on his shoulder, everything inside her relaxed, the same way it always did when she put her head there. His strong arm curled around her, and the paperwork stacked around the room vanished into nothingness. Having her face pressed directly to his skin was a new experience. One she’d likely think about later. A lot. But just then, while the movie played in the background, she felt safe enough to let the pressure she’d been carrying around drop off like heavy stones . . . and allow exhaustion to overtake her.

ABBY WOKE UP by degrees. Her head was filled with churning cement, but as the heaviness of sleep wore off, allowing her to open her eyes in the partial darkness, she became aware of anticipation. Deep in her belly, between her thighs . . . expectancy hummed like a motor. All over, her flesh was sensitized and warm, in a way that told her minimal effort would be required to ease the discomfort. She’d woken up like this before, usually after watching a racy movie or catching Honey or Roxy making out with their boyfriends, like the hormonally charged couples they were. How could she not be affected by the sight of them going at it, like they might expire if they didn’t orgasm?

She could relate. It was how she felt at that very moment.

There was a fine layer of sweat on her forehead, a low pulse below her waist, taunting her hand to come closer. Her work skirt was tangled around her thighs, pressing her legs together, and she squeezed even tighter, a soft moan tripping past her lips. Abby shifted with the intention of yanking the skirt higher, reaching into her panties . . . and froze.

Holy shit. Someone else’s hand was already there. Not just any hand, though. A blunt-fingered, callused, man’s hand was molded to the juncture of her thighs. Gripping her hard . . . like he owned her.

This didn’t simply feel like another one of her fantasies. One of those sweaty, often confusing dreams where she imagined being held with such . . . possession. Sometimes more than just holding took place. Her limbs being pinned. Mouth being kissed hard. A deep voice ordering her to do . . . things. Intimate acts she knew all about but had never tried. Never had the opportunity.

Wait. Russell. Oh God. She’d fallen asleep beside Russell. Abby heard her thin, rapid breaths and forced herself to quiet down. Calming down was another story altogether. Instead of her need cooling upon discovering who had inflicted it? Oh, it was on a warpath now, blazing down her middle with a vengeance. Wetness rushed to the spot where his hand held tight, her body begging without words for his fingers, his palm, anything to provide friction.

This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He wasn’t even awake, probably would be horrified if he woke up and found his hand under her skirt. She should wake him up right now, laugh it off, wait until he left and finish herself off like a good, single lady. Her instinct should not be to move against him, tempt him and hope like hell he woke up needing sex enough to follow through, no matter that they were supposed to be friends. Only friends. Best friends.

Russell’s hold at the juncture of her thighs increased, that hand tugging her back into his hard body, releasing a rumbling growl into her hair at the same time. Abby’s pulse went haywire, making itself evident in every extremity, every private region of her body. And that was before his body even moved.

It started as a slow, unhurried roll of his hips, but it was so much more than that. The movement introduced her backside to his erection, full and long. Desire for her? Wow . . . yeah. Desire for her. She’d never had a man want her like this. Or if she had, none of them had ever done anything about it. Russell has never done anything about it, either, a stern voice whispered. Stop this now.

Abby slipped a hand down her belly, fully intending to remove his touch, much as it was going to kill her. Before she could reach her destination, however, Russell’s hand dragged up the front of her underwear, over her throbbing clitoris—oh God–and slid inside the material. Rough skin against smooth. His middle finger pressed against her entrance, and Abby winced, hyperaware of the dampness he would encounter, but his guttural groan at the back of her head assured her it wasn’t a bad thing. Not to Russell. He used the desire coating his finger to glide higher, higher, and find her clit, teasing it with lazy circles.

Abby turned her face and moaned into the pillow. Already she was starting to spasm, his touch so completely different than her own. Unexpected and perfect.

“How’d you get here, angel?” he muttered in a gruff tone, fueling her flaming body even more, when his asking why she was in her own room should have warned her he wasn’t fully awake. Wasn’t aware of his own actions.