More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(39)

“I want to see you,” he whispers, and I close my eyes again, turning my head so I can bury my face into the pillow. “Come on, Mandy. Don’t be shy.”

I shift so I’m facing him once more and thrust out my arm, pushing the covers off the both of us. He immediately looks down, his gaze locked on my spread open jeans and the front of my gray-and-burgundy striped panties. He almost reverently traces the waistband of my underwear, his fingers barely touching my skin, and I hold my breath, waiting for his fingers to dive beneath the thin fabric.

But he doesn’t do that. Instead he grabs hold of my jeans and starts to tug them down, pulling them to about mid-thigh before I take over and shimmy them down my legs, kicking them off and onto the floor. He shoves the covers back even farther, until they’re bunched behind me and we’re both completely exposed.

“You have the longest legs.” He caresses the outside of my thigh.

“I hated them when I was twelve. I looked ridiculous.” I was taller than most of the boys in seventh grade, even Tuttle, until about midway through. He shot up, way past me, but his height did me no favors. I was still one of the tallest people in class, and my long legs just made me look gawky and weird.

“You were cute.” He smiles. “Adorable.”

“Stop.” I shove at his bare chest, letting my fingers explore all of that exposed skin. His shoulders and pecs, the spot in between them where the faintest bit of dark hair grows. His ridged stomach and the mysterious trail of dark hair that leads from the bottom of his navel and into his sweatpants. I still want to follow that trail with my tongue.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have the nerve to do it.

“You should take off your pants,” I suggest, and he shakes his head, the smirk on his face warning me he’s going to say something wicked.

“Take off your shirt and then I’ll take off my pants,” he murmurs.

Before I lose my nerve I sit up and whip off my shirt, then grab the covers and pull them over me. My least favorite body part is my boobs. I’m flat chested. I mostly wear a padded B cup when really I’m more of an A cup, though tonight’s bra choice is new and chosen just for Jordan. Unfortunately, I just…never got boobs. My mom isn’t gifted in the chest department either, so I was doomed.

And boys like Tuttle like boobs. The bigger the better. He may approve of my long legs, but he’ll be disappointed in my chest.

“Why you gotta go and cover yourself up?” He reaches for the comforter but I clutch it tighter, keeping it close. “Let me see.”

I shake my head. “No way.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t want to see the disappointment on your face.” When he frowns, I explain, “My boobs are really, really small.”

“I don’t care, Amanda. I don’t like you for your boobs.” He grins, and the sight of that smile steals my breath. All my brain cells too. “I like you for your legs.”

I nudge his shin with my foot. “Jerk.”

“Come on.” His smile fades and his expression turns sincere. “Let me look at you.”

“Fine.” I let him tug the comforter away from me and I close my eyes. I can feel his gaze on me, drinking me in, and he’s so quiet for so long I start to freak out. “Is it so bad that you’ll never be able to speak again?”

He chuckles. And when he touches my chest, his fingers tracing the edge of my burgundy lace bra, I nearly jump out of my skin. “You’re beautiful.”

The words I’ve longed to hear. I open my eyes and then he’s there, kissing me, devouring me. His hands are on my breasts, his thumbs brushing back and forth across the lace and driving me crazy. I pull him in closer and pour all of my feelings for him into that one kiss. I need him to know how much I like him. How much I’ve been holding back.

“Your skin is so soft.” His fingers fumble over the front clasp of my sheer lace bra—well, they call it a bralette because there’s nothing to it—and then it springs open. He pulls away so he can look down at my chest, carefully pushing away the thin lace so he can really see me.

I sling my arm over my eyes so I can’t see his reaction.

“So pretty,” he murmurs as he touches me. “God, Amanda, I’ve dreamed of this.”

“You have?” I drop my arm away from my eyes so I can look at him.

He nods, but he’s too busy concentrating on my chest. “Endless dreams. Always like this. With us in my bed and you letting me touch you.”

“I…” I hesitate. Decide to go for it. “I want to touch you too.”

He pulls away from me and kicks off his sweatpants, until he’s almost as naked as I am. I’m only in my panties. He’s just in his boxer briefs. I can feel him straining against the front and it seems…big. Extra large.

I don’t think I can deal with that tonight.

And then we’re kissing. It’s so much easier when we’re kissing. When we’re so wrapped up in each other, it feels natural to touch and explore and test barriers. He seems to have none, but I have a few. I’m scared and excited and want more, yet I don’t.

It’s confusing, the rush of emotions that fill me.

I end the kiss and my lips travel the length of his neck, nibbling on his skin and making him actually growl. I touch his stomach, tease the waistband of his boxer briefs, briefly skim my fingers along the front of them, and I feel his full body shudder to the very depths of my soul.