“What up, Killer G?”
His deep voice is a caress against my ear. “Mac, that was literally painful to hear.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “Hello, Mr. Grayson, and how are you on this fine evening?”
“Why, I am very well, Miss Mackenzie,” he drawls. “You decent?”
“Is this a trick question?” I grin into the phone. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m outside. Open the door for me.”
Suppressing a squeal that would make me sound pathetic, I hang up and practically skip across the room. I open the door in time to see Gray walking up the front steps, grocery bags in one hand and his gym bag in the other. And I’m in so much trouble because, damn, he does it for me.
Instantly, my heart kicks against my chest, my breath going light and quick as heat rushes up my thighs. He’s giving me that lopsided grin of his. The one that looks a little bit boyish and a little bit naughty, as if assuring that you’ll have fun while he does dirty things to you.
The old university sweater he’s wearing can’t hide the width of his shoulders or the strength in his arms. Worn jeans hang low on his narrow hips, but stretch tight around his massive thighs and lovingly cup the distinct bulge between his legs. I shouldn’t look there, but it’s impossible to miss; Gray is obviously built on a grand scale all over.
My fist tightens around the doorknob. Because I have to hold myself back. I know how warm he’ll be, how firm that body is, and that he’ll smell like home and sex all rolled into one.
But what hits me the most is the way just seeing him makes me feel as though night has turned to day. Everything around me feels brighter, fresher. Gray is my joy. I know this now.
And maybe I’m his, because his eyes are on me and there’s a restrained happiness in his expression, as though he’s holding back too. Or maybe I’m imagining things I want. I can’t tell anymore; this man had turned my world on its head. I can only watch as he bounds up the stairs in that effortless way of his.
“I thought we’d make steaks.” He holds up the grocery bag by way of greeting.
“Wow, big spender.”
“Okay, don’t judge, but the grocer is a fan and gave me a sweet discount.” He gives me a guilty little grin.
“Playing the football card? I approve, because steaks!” I lean against the door. “You brought your gym bag too.”
Gray’s smile turns sheepish. He’s so close now, the vanilla-citrus scent of his skin wraps around me like a blanket. “I…uh…well you might have a relapse.”
“I might.”
“Don’t worry, Special Sauce.” He gives my forehead a peck. “I’m here to save the day.”
Gray Grayson. My hero.
* * *
Gray
I lean back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. I’m a man well fed and content. We’d had dinner, the best I’d eaten in ages. I’d made a pan-seared hangar steak with caramelized onion-bacon relish and roasted butternut squash. And now dessert. Dessert being Ivy’s gig.
She’d gone for simple, making super-creamy vanilla shakes. And they’re perfect. How she does this, picking the perfect thing for the perfect moment, is beyond me. Like suggesting that we watch TV in bed.
Okay, perfect torture. We’re sitting side by side under the covers like some old married couple. It freaks me out how much I love this. How much I want this to be an option every night.
Of course, we had stalled a bit when getting into bed, me in my T-shirt and boxers, Ivy in her usual tank top and little cotton shorts. When she’d been sick, I’d been able to block the reality of her being barely dressed and concentrate on her illness. Now? Yeah, endless legs, the rounded swells of her hips, and the skimpy top that clings to her sweet breasts are messing with my mind. Thank God she’d kept her bra on or no way would I be able to hide the effect she has on me.
It was hard enough when we stood on either side of the bed, staring at each other, tension heavy in the air as we’d slowly peeled back the covers. Here we were, getting into bed with each other with the intention of sleeping together, and there was no excuse of illness to hide behind. We just wanted to. I knew. She knew it.
Ivy’s eyes had been huge in the delicate oval of her face, her pink lips parted and soft. She’d looked at me, hesitant, confused. And for a moment, I’d feared that she’d ask what the hell we were playing at, why was I here? So I’d panicked and jumped into bed, stating I got remote-control privileges.
That had cracked the tension. After a brief but torturous wrestle for the remote, all was perfect once again. Well, except for the fact that Ivy has the remote.
I rub my nipple, which still burns, thanks to Ivy’s evil, pinching fingers. “You know, you’re lucky I can’t retaliate in like manner,” I mutter.
“If you did, you’d be clutching your balls right now. In pain,” Ivy adds emphatically, because she knows me too well.
“At least I’m comfortable,” I say. “Have I mentioned how much I love your bed?”
Ivy gives me a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. “So what exactly do you love about my bed?”
That you’re in it. With me. “You have a California king,” I tell her instead, which is the truth as well. “Fucking gorgeous, this big-ass bed. I can actually fit in it without my feet hanging off. And how is it that women have the ability to find the best sheets, comforters, and pillows, and put them together to create a cloud of comfort?”
Ivy grins with perfect understanding. “Because we pay attention to detail, like buying more than one pillow and a flimsy blanket to keep warm. As for the mattress, for as long as I can remember, every bed in our house has been a California king. I’m pretty sure my dad buys these babies in bulk.”
God bless Ivy’s dad. “I guess when you’re nearly seven feet tall, the largest mattress in production just looks normal.”
“Yeah. Dad loves his comfort and assumed his daughters would like the same bed.” Ivy’s expression turns inward, happy. “When we were little, Fi and I used to call them our Princess and the Pea beds.”
“The Princess and the Pea chick had a bed of mattresses stacked to the ceiling, not a big-ass mattress.”
Ivy’s brows rise. “And how do you know all these fairy tales, Mr. Grayson?”
“My mom read them to me when I was a little guy.” God, I can still remember the sound of her voice as she tucked me up in bed and told me those old stories. My brothers, as usual, had made fun of that nighttime ritual. I didn’t care. I had Mom to myself, and she made me feel like the most loved boy in the world. Throat thick, I run a finger along Ivy’s pristine white covers.
She’s silent for a beat, then leans into my arm. “Bet you were a cute little boy.”
I nudge her back. “I bet you were a cute princess.” I can just imagine little Ivy Mac with her button nose and messy hair.
“As a fucking bug.” Ivy picks up the remote. She flicks through the channels, and I yell “Stop!” just as she squeals, “The Usual Suspects. Yes!”
We grin at each other. “Best movie ever,” we say as one.
Ivy sets down the remote and grabs her shake.
“I love Bryan Singer’s work,” she says. “And J.J. Abrams. I’m pretty sure I’d wet my panties if I got a chance to talk to one of them.”
Since “wet panties” can go two ways, my dirty mind chooses to think of sex. And Mac being wet. Clearing my throat, I discreetly adjust my dick, tucking the eager head back under the band of my boxers. “So you like guys with big brains, huh?”
Her lips curl but she keeps her eyes on the screen. “Big brains and big dicks. Yeah.”
I nearly choke, but manage to keep a straight face, because Mac, the little stinker, is definitely grinning now. “Honey,” I drawl as if my dick isn’t getting bigger by the second, “you’ve basically described me.”
Her mouth twitches, and she finally glances my way. Her eyes are alight with evil Mac mischief. “Oh, right. I forgot about your big…brain.”
�
�Don’t forget my big dick.” Please don’t forget about him. He’s lonely. And needy.
“You’re only allowed two dick brags a night, Grayson,” she deadpans before wrapping her plump lips around her straw and sucking.
My own lips part as I watch her work that thick vanilla shake up into her mouth. Fuck me standing, she’s killing me. I’m so hard now, I throb, my mind imagining how good it would feel if she’d lean over and take the tip of me into her mouth. Just suck it a little. Her tongue would be cold from the ice cream, soothing my heat. And then…
I clear my throat again, but my voice is rough. “So I’m cut off?”
“Yup.” She doesn’t even look my way, too entranced by the movie.
And I lean back, squeezing my eyes shut. “Cruel, Mac. Just cruel.”
“Drama queen.” She snorts, not even noticing I’m slowly unraveling next to her, and elbows my side. “Watch the movie, Mr. Big Stuff.”
Somehow I manage it. But then the movie is over. Mac turns off the TV, plunging us into darkness. And I slam into hyper-awareness. My skin is humming, tuned to Ivy’s every move. The syncopated rhythm of our breathing is overloud in the silence.
And then Mac shifts. My body tenses, expectation rushing through me. But she doesn’t turn my way. She’s wriggling around, her elbow hitting me in the chin.
“Sorry,” she mutters, and I realize that she’s taking off her bra from under her tank. Hell. Visions of her soft breasts swaying beneath thin cotton fill my head. My palms practically feel their firm weight filling them up.
I lie stiff as plank and try to regulate my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Fuck.
Ivy settles down into the bed once more and turns away from me. Moonlight ghosts over her slim shoulders, highlighting her skin and turning it silver. My fingers curl into the covers so I don’t reach out and touch her. My entire body throbs with a please, please, please.
What the fuck am I doing here? Like some masochist, killing myself slowly. I shouldn’t be here. But the idea of leaving is as impossible as asking me to catch a pass and just stand still. Not happening.
Sometimes I think she might want me too. When her gaze glazes over and focuses on my lips for a brief, breathless moment. But then she’s treating me as old buddy Gray, and I don’t know. Maybe I’m just guilty of wishful thinking. But the want isn’t going away. It’s growing, drowning out reason.
Biting my bottom lip, I stare at her in the darkness, and contemplate the best way to broach the subject of wanting to lick my way down her body and not kill our friendship in the process.
“Gray?” Her soft voice wrenches me out of my haze, and my gut tightens.
“Yeah?” I rasp.
“Is it weird that I’m glad you’re here?”
My heartbeat slams against my chest. Please, please, please.
“No. I’m glad I’m here too.”
“It kind reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d have sleepovers with my best friend. I never wanted it to end because it was so fun. You know?”
Hope crashes in my chest, so potent I almost hear the shards of it clatter against my ribs. “Yeah.” Fun. This is fun. Rolling onto my back, I press my fists against my eyes. Sleep. Just go to fucking sleep and this torture will end.
But Mac rolls onto her back too, her warm, bare shoulder touching my arm. And all the nerves in my body engage, focusing on that small stretch of skin-to-skin contact. I breath slowly in and out through my nose.
Mac’s voice is soft and thoughtful in the dark. “Our family has always been so private. I don’t have many true friends. I know a lot of people, and I like talking to them. But none of them really know me.”
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I finally answer her. “You don’t trust easily.” I know this because I don’t either. Everyone knows a version of me, but the whole person? Not really.
“I don’t.”
The sheets rustle and I know Mac has turned toward me. In the dark, her doe-shaped eyes gleam like onyx beneath the line of her bangs. Aside from my mother, no one has ever looked at me that way, like I’m special. It’s like a surprise tackle, knocking me off feet and onto my head. My head spins. But I hold her gaze.
Mac’s smile is soft, almost shy. “But I trust you, Gray.”
She’s giving me a gift, I know this. And it fills me with warmth even as it punches through my heart. Because I’m even more lost now. It takes me a moment to answer, and my voice is as unsteady as my thoughts. “I trust you too, Ivy.”
Sixteen
Ivy
I don’t remember falling asleep. But I wake slowly, my senses coming back online in stages. It must be dawn because pale light stretches through the windows, and everything is slightly hazy, as if the world can’t decide between night or day. I’m not an early riser, so I don’t know why I’m awake now.
Especially since I’m so comfortable and so very warm, tucked into the protective curve of Gray’s body, with his arm securely around my waist. We’re locked together, his legs curled under mine, his nose burrowed in my hair. I can’t help closing my eyes again and letting my weight fall back onto him. The rhythm of his breathing and the rise and fall of his broad chest lull me. He feels too good. Perfect.
But a new set of realizations hits me. That my tank top has ridden up in my sleep and is now twisted high on my torso, exposing the underside of my breasts. That Gray’s huge hand is on my bare belly, and with every slow breath I take, the tip of his pinky finger grazes my hip bone. That slight tickle grabs all my attention, and has my body slowly tensing with awareness. I lay as still as I can, staring at the wall, muted gray in the dawn. Like the uncoiling of a string, my senses move outward to Gray’s body against mine and the fact that he too has gone unnaturally still.
Side-by-side we lie, his soft breaths stirring my hair. And his hand resting on my belly. Except it isn’t at rest. His fingers shift, a slight caress as if he can’t help but test the texture of my skin. It’s the tiniest of movements, and my heart stutters at the touch, every nerve in my body focusing on that one spot.
When I don’t move, he strokes again, the same hesitant exploration. Heat flares over my skin. My heartbeat is a drum in my ears, and I struggle to keep still. Because I don’t want him to stop.
He doesn’t. Slowly, his pinky skims over my skin. His touch is so soft, I might have missed it. Only all of my awareness is on him and the progress he makes. He keeps going, and when he grazes the edge of my panties, my thighs clench, my clit tightening as if he plucked it.
As if my continued stillness is a sign of permission, his touch grows bolder. Gently, he draws his fingers over the sensitive skin on my stomach, down, then up. Behind me, his body is rock solid, his breath stilted as if he’s holding it.
And I lie there, pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. A slow tremble is working its way through me as heat licks between my thighs. With each delicate pass over my skin, he covers more ground. I close my eyes, focus on those fingers, how they tickle along my side, trace my panties, then trail upwards over my ribs.
I want to arch my back, push against the large swell of his cock that’s growing hard against my ass. His fingertips graze the underside of my breast, and I stop breathing. My nipples draw tight. He hovers there, just under my breasts, barely touching them.
My mind races. What are we doing? We’re crazy to do this. Everything will change. I should stop this. But I don’t want to.
I hear him swallow, feel the rapid thump of his heart against by back. My teeth sink down on my lip. It’s torture staying still, not begging him to go higher. Because I want him to. So fucking badly my breasts ache. And I want him to go lower as well, stick those long fingers of his under my panties. But I can’t. Somehow, by silent agreement, we’re both pretending this isn’t happening. If we don’t talk, don’t acknowledge it, we can do this.
And so I lie still, breath short, body aching, waiting.
Then he moves, sliding his fingers over the curve of my breast, up toward my nipp
le. I bite my lip harder, willing myself not to whimper. God, but my nipple throbs, waiting for that touch. But it doesn’t come. The bastard traces under it, slowly stroking my skin, teasing me.
I shiver, my back tensing as I arch just a little bit, silently begging with my body. And he tenses against me, pressing closer. His breathing speeds up, and I know he can see over my shoulder. That he’s watching.
Blindly, I stare forward, but in my periphery I can see his hand, inching up my shirt, exposing me. A small sound rumbles deep in his chest. I’m so hot now, I can barely breathe. I want to move. I don’t. We both freeze, knowing that if he slides any closer, if he touches my nipple, we’ve fully crossed a line.
My chest rises and falls in a quick, light pant. I can’t help myself. And his fingers draw closer. Gray’s body is so tight, he’s shaking. I can’t take anymore.
And then I don’t have to. The blunt tips of his fingers run over my aching nipple. I almost groan, but hold onto it. Gray’s touch grows firmer, moving the stiff nub back and forth. And it feels so fucking good I can’t stand it. My thighs clench. My clit swells, growing wet and needy. It’s almost illicit what he’s doing to me, a naughty secret here in the dim quiet of my room.
His hot breath stirs my hair, the muscles along his arm twitching as he moves. My fingers dig into the sheet to keep myself still.
And then his hand is sliding away. I almost protest, but I’m too distracted by the way he’s gliding over my skin, heading down. He stops at the top of my panties. We both take a slow breath together. I know he’ll go no further. It’s up to me.
Closing my eyes, I ease my thighs apart—just slightly—and the action aches. His breath hitches, because he knows it’s an invitation. His long fingers slip under my panties. The sheets rustle as I edge one leg higher, making room for his hand.
Gray trembles, the wall of his chest flush with my back. His arm runs along my side as he reaches down, and the callused pads of his fingers graze my clit. A tiny whimper escapes me, just as his breath gusts out in a soundless “unh.” Because I’m so slippery wet, he slides right over my swollen flesh. And my entire body responds, coiling with heat that throbs.
The Friend Zone Page 15
