It takes all my resistance not to run my hand up her thigh, under her skirt, and across the panel of those white see-through bikini panties. But I don’t have to touch her to verify she’s turned on beyond any and all reason. I know in the little murmurs she makes, in the way her arms slink around my neck, in how her fingers curl into the ends of my hair. Most of all, the confirmation comes in the way she tries to rock into me. Her hips shift, move, seeking me out, and briefly my restraint snaps.
I move quickly, wedging myself between her thighs, thrusting once against her. A sexy cry escapes her lips. Her hands fly to my ass. The restraint breaks once more as she parts her legs for me, making room, inviting me to dry hump her on the couch.
Oh hell, do I want to RSVP to this offer. If I do, in a few more seconds her legs will be wrapped around my hips, and I’ll want to be fucking her. Friends or strangers, how could I not want to fuck her? She’s hot, she’s ready, and she’s raring to go.
I want to tug off those panties, sink into her heat.
But she’s my best friend, and I can’t do that.
Somehow, my common sense grabs the steering wheel, wresting control from my dick.
I break the kiss and jump away from her, standing in seconds. I need air. I need space. If I stay a second longer I’ll push the both of us too far, and I don’t want her to know the battle that just waged in my head. I give my best casual shrug, then say, “I don’t even have to ask if that got you wet.”
She blinks.
She scoffs.
She sits up and straightens her spine, squaring her shoulders. “I bet you’d like to know, cocky bastard,” she says, as she smooths out her shirt, adjusting it, then her skirt.
The moment is awkward. We were on the precipice of dry humping, but now we’re tossing zingers, and I’m still aroused to painful levels. This can’t happen again. We’ve conducted the test; she won’t feel uncomfortable pretending to be with me, and that’s all there is to it. Onward and upward, and the show must go on.
A family show. Not fucking porn.
She gets up and slips around the corner into her bedroom, and I use the break to adjust myself, take a deep breath, and imagine a locker room full of hairy men.
Fuck, I want to gag.
But it works. My erection fades away.
She returns, and when she bends over to grab her purse, I can’t help but notice she’s wearing the black lace thong now.
I look away so the grin on my face doesn’t reveal my complete cocky bastard-dom.
CHAPTER NINE
“So how about those Mets?”
As the elevator doors spread open on her floor, I guide the conversation away from that practice session on her couch. The final practice session. No more kissing rehearsals. Too dangerous.
“They’re having a good season,” she says as she yanks her purse strap higher on her shoulder, not entirely taking the bait.
“Good pitching will do that for you,” I say, pressing the button for the lobby and wondering when was the last time that we talked about baseball to cover up an uncomfortable moment. She’s a hard-core fan, due in no small part to the fact that she regularly crushes it in her fantasy baseball league. I’ve often told her if our bars fizzle, she should be a general manager, but she just laughs and tells me baseball is her love so she wants to keep it pure.
Right now, it’s not pure. It’s a goddamn metaphor for a true awkward moment. “Are you still killing it with your lineup?”
She turns to me, her brown eyes intensely serious. “I meant it earlier when I said no dating this week. I need to know that you’re okay with that. Not even after hours.”
And we’re done with the baseball bullshit.
“Of course,” I say quickly, tugging on my tie and acting offended. “I can’t believe you think I can’t manage a week without sex.”
She shakes her head as the elevator chugs down. “This might seem silly to you, since this is a pretend relationship, but after what happened with Bradley…”
“Charlotte, I swear. I’m on the wagon for the next week,” I say, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a boy scout.”
“True. But I also don’t cheat, whether I’m in a fake relationship or a real one.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Have you ever been in a real one?”
“Sure. And by real, you mean the type of relationship where I know her last name, right?” I say, deadpan.
She crosses her arms. “Let me amend that. Have you ever been in a relationship that lasted longer than a fortnight?”
I make a snooty sound. “Fortnight. Aren’t you fancy?”
“And Amanda from college doesn’t count.”
“Why not? I went out with her for four months. But yes. I have,” I say, though I’m pretty damn sure I haven’t. But my ability to sustain a long-term commitment isn’t the point of this conversation. The point is whether my dick practices serial monogamy. “And I’ll keep it in my pants for the next week, like I said I would. While we’re at it, the same goes for you.”
“You don’t even have to worry about that.”
“You mean this isn’t going to cramp your style?” I ask, as the elevator slows at the lobby.
She scoffs. “Like that’s possible.”
“No hot dates on the agenda for the next week?”
She raises her hands and lifts all ten fingers. “It’s been ten months for me,” she says sharply as the doors whoosh open.
We walk across the lobby and onto Lexington, where the Uber car I ordered is waiting. I open the door for her, and she slides across. I follow her, and we buckle in. Things feel normal again between us, like we’ve slid out of the tunnel of awkward, and it’s now just us.