Page 25

TWENTY-FIVE

The kiss was not a fluke.

So much so that we’ve both been in a dazed silence since leaving the bar to head home.

I’m hyper-aware of the small point of contact where Ryan’s hand rests on my lower back, guiding me into the house. When he breaks away toward the kitchen, I feel the loss of his touch.

I head to the living room and sink into the deep cushions with a long exhale, hoping to release the tension I can’t shake. Without the audience and the guise of practicing, I think we’re both at a loss for how to navigate this. I know what I want, but I’m so far out of my comfort zone that I’m frozen, battling the voice in my head telling me this is a bad idea.

Unlike after our kiss in Florida, I want to keep kissing him. Okay, I wanted to keep kissing him then, too, but I was more steadfast in my conviction that I couldn’t . Tonight, though, taking a risk doesn’t hold quite as much fear.

But with Freddie as our only witness, I’m not sure how to make that happen. I scratch his fluffy head until he gets tired of the attention and curls up in his favorite corner of the sofa.

Ryan steps into the room and hands me a cold bottle of water, but it does nothing to cool the heat coursing through me.

“Want to watch something?” I blurt, still buzzing with energy and not ready for the night to end.

He nods, surveying the couch with much more concentration than is needed to pick a seat. He finally eases down, his movements overly controlled, into the cushion next to mine. His back is unnaturally straight, and the apprehension radiating off him is palpable, filling the small space between us. Is he battling the same internal war as me? The thought that maybe he didn’t like the kiss flits through my mind, but I quickly dismiss it.

It was a great kiss. Perfect, even. The chemistry between us is undeniable, not even his tendency to overthink could convince him otherwise. We fit together like pieces of a puzzle, like we’ve been kissing each other all our lives. His lips applied just the right amount of pressure, firm yet gentle. His tongue moved with purpose, each stroke sending an electric zing straight to my… I shake my head, trying to clear the direction of my thoughts.

I shift in my seat, sneaking a glance at Ryan. He’s still sitting perfectly straight, his eyes fixed on the blank television screen. I lean my head onto his shoulder, testing the waters to see how he’ll react.

He tenses for a brief moment before finally relaxing, his arm opening to pull me snugly into his side. Reaching for the remote on the coffee table, he asks, “What do you want to watch?”

“Whatever. You pick.”

He toys with the fabric of my jersey, his fingers tracing the number 19 embroidered on the sleeve in slow movements. I burrow closer, resting my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Which is quicker than his relaxed state suggests.

Physical touch has always been part of our friendship, something I never thought twice about. It was just another thing that might seem strange to some, but for us, it was normal. Status quo. We’ve probably been in this exact position countless times before, but now, there’s something different—and it doesn’t feel as innocent as it once did.

We’re like two magnets, constantly pulled toward each other. When he’s in the same room, I can’t help but want to be close to him. Based on how often he initiates contact—soft forehead kisses, an arm draped around me, those tight hugs I love so much—I can only assume he feels the same.

As much as my brain tells me to create some distance, my body is helpless to resist.

Ryan puts on a true crime documentary, and we both fall into a silence that feels too heavy to be amicable, lacking the easy comfort we’re used to. His fingers occasionally sweep up and down my arm while I absentmindedly play with the hem of his shirt, my mind filled with thoughts I’m trying not to examine too closely.

The buzz of energy still hums faintly in my veins, but the warmth of his body pressed against mine and the steady drone of the reporter’s voice slowly pull me toward sleep. Just as I’m on the edge of unconsciousness, Ryan shifts beside me, reaching for his water on the coffee table. The movement jolts me back to awareness. I stretch my arms overhead, and a yawn escapes before I can stop it.

“Let’s go upstairs.” He takes a swig of his water before handing me my bottle. His eyes linger on mine for a brief moment, and then he takes another sip.

“Will you sleep with me?” I ask before fully thinking it through.

Water spurts from his mouth as he coughs, droplets dribbling down his stubbled chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, staring at me with his mouth slightly agape.

“Not like that,” I quickly backpedal and mimic the sound of snoring. “I meant that kind of sleep.”

“Um, yeah, okay, sure… sounds good,” he rambles, then clears his throat.

We take Freddie outside one last time before heading upstairs. Ryan trails behind as I climb the three flights of stairs. On the last set of steps, I glance back at him, but he doesn’t notice. His brow is furrowed, eyes focused on the stairs without really seeing them, lost in thought. Once we reach the third-floor landing, he heads to his room with a promise to change and meet me in mine. A few minutes later, I’m brushing my teeth when he joins me at the other sink, catching my eye in the mirror with a small smile.

Without a word, we finish our bedtime routines and settle into bed. Like our sleepovers in Florida, we naturally gravitate toward each other, Ryan holding me from behind. His chest is snug against my back, though he leaves a small gap between our lower bodies. One arm cradles my neck while the other drapes over my side. But tonight, I can’t seem to get comfortable. My body hums with anticipation, hyper-aware of every point of contact between us. I’m guessing he feels it, too, his fingers restlessly playing with the edge of the sheets in front of me.

His breath fans across my hair, bringing me back to hours earlier when it brushed against my mouth. My tongue runs across my bottom lip, wetting the suddenly dry skin.

Still wrapped in his arms, I shimmy around until I’m facing him. I adjust, trying to find a comfortable position, but it’s impossible. He’s too still, which only adds to the tension coiling through my body.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I tilt my head up and press a soft kiss to his jaw, causing him to suck in a sharp breath, a hiss escaping as he exhales. I pull back slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes, obscured by shadows, look like endless black pools filled with a mix of curiosity, uncertainty, and… hunger.

The light seeping through the window casts a subtle glow over his features, highlighting just how handsome he is. I brush back a few unruly wisps of dark hair that have fallen across his forehead, the strands silky against my fingertips. I trace the strong line of his nose, leading down to his lips, which are slightly parted. His lower lip fuller than the top.

It’s not just his good looks that make my chest ache and desire flame—it’s him . Simply him. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to fool myself into believing I didn’t see it before. That I didn’t feel it.

I bring my lips to his. At the contact, a low, deep sound escapes from his throat as he pulls me tighter, my hands seeking any warm skin I can reach. Limited by his T-shirt and sweats, I settle for the back of his neck, playing with the soft hair there.

I lick across his bottom lip, and he immediately parts for me. My tongue meets his, tasting the faint mint of toothpaste.

We part enough for him to catch my bottom lip between his teeth. He tugs greedily as his hands run down my side, finally settling on my hips. His grip tightens, pressing deep enough that I feel a twinge of pain. I’ll likely have purple imprints in the shape of his fingertips, and I like that idea more than I probably should.

It makes me feel needed in a way I’ve never felt before.

Like, to him, I’m vital.

Like he’s a drowning man, and I’m the air filling his lungs.

Like he’s starving, and I’m the only thing that can sustain him.

The intensity in his gaze, the way his hands cling to me like I’m the only thing tethering him to this moment—it’s intoxicating. The sheer weight of being wanted like this sends a thrill racing down my spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps littering my skin.

I break my lips from his and press kisses along his jaw, down his neck. The groan rumbling from his throat makes me squeeze my legs together. When I return to his lips, he eagerly grips the base of my skull, chasing my mouth.

When I finally pull back, lightheaded and breathless, I struggle to slow my heartbeat. “I’m kissing you again.” Smooth, Hannah.

But he doesn’t seem to mind my fumbling words. He doesn’t give me an inch of room, still holding me tight, eyes blown like he’s struggling for control. “Please don’t stop,” he rasps against my mouth.

I whimper. “I never imagined you’d be the begging type.” My lips tip up against his so he can feel my smirk rather than see it.

“Only for you, baby.” He brings his mouth back to mine in a rough kiss.

Before I can process his movement, he flips onto his back, pulling me with him so I straddle his hips. His hard cock feels wildly perfect against my clit. Giving me pressure exactly where I need it.

He grips my hips tightly and guides my movements, rocking me against himself, using my body to pleasure his own. A shiver wracks through me as the sensation builds, close to overwhelming me.

Can I really come like this? It’d be a first, but I’m almost certain the answer is yes. We’re dry humping like horny teenagers, and it might be the best sexual experience of my life. I push aside the sadness of that, focusing instead on the feeling building in my core.

The sounds I’m making are obscene, but I’m past the point of playing it cool. I run my hands along his abs and chest but rather than skin, I’m met with cotton fabric. I clutch the fabric of his shirt. “Take this off.”

He tugs it off before I get the last word out. His body is all sculpted muscle. Running my hands from his chest to the indents of his abs, I finally get my fix of warm, masculine skin. I take in the sight of his body beneath mine. My mouth waters when I see the angry red head of his cock peeking out from the band of his boxer briefs.

“Hannah, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to embarrass myself.” His voice is a deep growl. He emphasizes his point as he pushes his hips up to meet mine.

He grabs the back of my neck and brings me down to him, fusing our lips together once more. His hands roam, moving down my sides, until he squeezes my ass, still clad in my sleep shorts.

I no longer need his encouragement, my hips grinding against him, chasing something that’s just out of reach.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long. You’re fucking perfect.”

We share a breath before his tongue caresses mine. He breaks away to speak more words against my lips. “Feel how wet you are. It’s all for me, isn’t it?”

I can only manage a jerky nod in response. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so turned on; I’m creating a wet patch on my cotton sleep shorts. I lick his lip, wanting to hear his words but also not wanting to lose our connection.

“Fuck, Hannah. You feel so good.”

I do feel good. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt better. And this isn’t even the real thing. How right will that feel? Does friendship somehow make sex better?

I don’t have time to think about it any further because Ryan’s hands are back on my hips, pulling me tighter to him as his hips roll in a brutal rhythm.

“Just like that, baby. Are you going to come for me?”

I manage some version of “yes,” barely coherent, but it’s all he needs. His encouragement continues, his voice low and rough, until everything else fades away. My body tightens, every muscle coiling in anticipation before the release hits me like a wave.

The intensity of my orgasm takes me by surprise, stealing my breath and leaving me trembling. My core clenches and spasms, every sensation heightened. Ryan continues to move me over his hard length, his rhythm slow but deliberate, drawing out every shiver of pleasure.

My gaze meets his, and the look in his eyes steals the breath I’ve only just caught. His expression holds a mixture of desire, awe, and something I can’t quite name.

He looks at me like I’m his favorite view. One he has no intention of looking away from.