The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  Without a word, his hold lessens, and a war rages behind those emerald-green eyes.

  Disappointed and still throbbing, so wet I could die, I unhook my legs and lower them to the floor.

  “Those ribs are probably done by now,” he says, trying to sound like he isn’t as breathless as I am.

  Screw the stupid ribs.

  Is he trying to make me have a stroke?

  My body sags with frustration. He can’t even hint at why he goes all cold shoulder, and I know I’m not revolting—not with how he attacks my mouth like a starving beast.

  I drop my arms from around his shoulders. “I’m sure they’re done. I made a potato salad to go with them, and coleslaw.”

  Taking my elbow, he guides us to the door. “I’m not used to having someone cook for me all the time.”

  Cooking is hardly what I’d like to discuss.

  Still, I’m too confused to ask him point-blank what the hell just happened.

  “Funny, I’m not used to cooking for anyone, either.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. You’re an amazing woman, Tory. In the kitchen and...”

  “And?” I repeat, stopping and casting him a harsh look.

  “...and on those silks, safety shit aside,” he says, coughing once into his hand. “You glide like an angel acrobat.”

  He’s so hard to crack, acting like nothing happened.

  Like he didn’t just grab my ass and glorify my tongue and give me a horrible tease of that thick, hard flesh below the belt.

  I’ve never gone pole dancing, but for Quinn, naked? A girl can learn.

  Jeez.

  It’s not like I want him to ask me to marry him or something.

  Is that it? Is he so old-fashioned he’s torn up about taking me to bed, the wall, or right here on the floor?

  Any old surface will do.

  I just want to jump his bones.

  A little affair like Granny said. It would finally release this hellish tension between us.

  It’s there all the time, and I’m sick and tired of pretending it’s not.

  I think about that the entire time we’re eating, picking at my food, averting my eyes every time I see his lips chewing. I know too well what that mouth is capable of, and the fact that he’s wasting it on delicious ribs instead of decadent, sex-crazed me leaves me reeling.

  Afterwards, when I go upstairs to shower, it’s a miracle I haven’t just pounced on the table like a cat and thrown myself at him.

  But I’m not about to lose it for a monk who feels some kinda way about the relentless, panting, sheet-ripping horizontal tango we could be having...

  ...and the fact that we’re not having it right now says it all.

  Pitiful, right?

  Technically, it’s old news. I was desperate as a teenager, and adult me might just be famished.

  Does he still see me as that little girl who’d get into trouble and make him laugh, but was always too young to steal a kiss from?

  Is he that trapped in the past?

  Too afraid or too stubborn to see the full-grown woman right in front of him who’s ready to roll the dice?

  To take a chance on a different kind of relationship—even if it isn’t meant to last forever.

  My phone is ringing when I step out of the shower, and though I have no intention of answering, I glance over where it’s lying on the counter next to the sink.

  MOTHER is lit up on the screen.

  My nose instinctively wrinkles. Whatever.

  I’ve been expecting that call ever since Quinn told Jean-Paul his name, and where he could shove it.

  Ignoring the ringing, I wrap a towel around my hair and dry off, then apply body lotion before putting on a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a t-shirt. I cut off the sleeves and widened the neck a while ago. Comfort always beats beauty when it comes to sleeping attire.

  After drying my hair, I brush it and leave it hanging loose to air dry. Finally, I pick up my phone and read the texts while brushing my teeth.

  Mother: I’m SO disappointed in you, Tory. Your father and I gave you everything you’ve ever needed, ever wanted, and this is how you repay us?

  Mother again: By shacking up with some townie who’s totally beneath you? I’m not stupid. I know your grandmother is off on a cruise and you’re with that Faulkner boy you were always so infatuated with.

  She follows that text with a sad emoji, and then delivers the knockout punch.

  You’re not a child. It’s time you stop acting like one. I’ve booked you a flight home from Bismarck later this week and you’d best be on it. Look for the email with your flight info. Call me immediately.

  Ah, there she is.

  Gloria Redson-Riddle-Coffey at her finest.

  With a level of anger approaching DEFCON One, I close out of the message, spit, and rinse out the toothbrush. Leaving the phone on the counter, I exit the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind me.

  Hell no, I won’t be on a plane tomorrow—or anytime soon.

  She’s right. I’m not a child, and it’s high time I stopped acting like one. It’s also time for everyone to stop treating me like one, too. Her, Jean-Paul, and Quinn.

  He’s sitting on the front porch, a beer at his side, next to Owl when I emerge.

  I take a deep breath.

  The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no before I push open the screen door, but he doesn’t hear me coming.

  It’s hard to buckle up for a heavy confrontation when it’s so peaceful here at night.

  The frogs are croaking, crickets chirping away, and a soft breeze rustles the leaves overhead. The nights here really are perfect.

  “See any lightning bugs?” I ask softly.

  “Nah. Not dark enough for them yet. Come on out,” he says without ever turning around.

  Stepping onto the porch, I let the screen door bang shut behind me.

  He’s sitting in one of the rocking chairs. Rather than sitting in the other one, or on the swing, I walk over and lean against one of the pillars, right in front of him, suddenly feeling very underdressed.

  “Dusk is the best time to see them, I hear. Must be plenty down by the pond.”

  “Plenty of mosquitoes down there, too. Those little bastards will suck you dry for every inch of skin you give ’em,” he says, slowly looking me up and down.

  “Probably.”

  Oof. Awkward.

  I suck at confrontation. I’ve also never tried to seduce a man before, so...I really don’t know how to start.

  “Thanks again for letting me use the barn, and for all your hard work. I’m planning on doing a workout before I go and check on the goats tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay. Just be careful. I need to put down something under those things if you’re gonna be climbing up near the ceiling.”

  He’s showered, too, I notice. His hair is still wet, and I can smell the spicy soap he uses, mingled with that quintessentially Quinn essence.

  A sigh builds inside me.

  “Tory?” He calls my name, sensing the weight in the air. “What’s on your mind?”

  “You.” It comes out harshly. “You with your hot and cold seesaw crap. You kiss me and run away. You put your hands on me...and then we never talk about it again. You always give me those looks—the same kinda look you’re giving me right now—like it’s eating you up inside that you can’t just—”

  “Just what, woman?” His voice is low, distant thunder as he stands, crossing the tiny space between us. “Make the biggest goddamn mistake of our lives?”

  I pinch my eyes shut.

  Mistake.

  That’s all I am to him?

  “Believe me, I’m tempted,” he finishes. “I’ve been fighting like hell so I don’t fuck you blind ever since you moved in.”

  I open my eyes again and catch his gaze in the shadows, this sexy, stern profile of masculine torment, staring out of the darkness like a statue being ripped apart by the soul held prisoner inside.

&n
bsp; “You...you have?”

  “Ain’t it obvious, Peach? Today’s been the worst,” he growls, barely an inch away from me now, his hand reaching up to slowly, tenderly caress down my face. “I’m not playin’ games. I know what just happened in the barn. I know what we did on the Ferris wheel. I know what I’d like to do every hot second I look at you, and I wish I didn’t know some of it when I see you twirling that body, moving like you were made to take every lovin’ inch of me.”

  Holy, holy hell.

  My legs are shaking. I feel like I’m melting in place, a candle under the roaring flame of his eyes, his words, that little hitch at the end of his sentence because he wants me that bad.

  I feel like an ass now.

  “Quinn, I...I know you never meant any harm. It’s okay—it’s good, even—to look at me like that. Because it’s the same way I’ve been looking at you, wanting and hoping.” It’s so hard to say these words.

  Especially when his lips quirk up in a smirking, excited, almost proud smile.

  What now? Do I just...ask him?

  Jean-Paul was always the one to suggest sex. Literally.

  We should have sex tonight, he’d say over dinner, an android who never had an ounce of game in his system.

  I can’t see Quinn saying that. Nor can I imagine feeling obligated to agree.

  Not like I had with Jean-Paul. Sex with him was a chore. Another task I had to complete before my day ended and I could finally sleep.

  What would Quinn do if I just up and used Jean-Paul’s craptacular phrase?

  “What’s the grin for?” he asks a moment later, his voice more even. “Is jacking myself off every night to you that funny?”

  Pure angst and amazement rips through me so swiftly I shudder.

  “No—God, no! Sorry. And what grin?”

  “The one that showed up on your face a hot second ago, Peach. Like you have some sorta secret that just made you real happy.”

  His voice is so smooth, so sexy, it curls my toes.

  “I am happy, and...I do have a secret.”

  “Yeah?” he rasps. “Your new gym? Gonna guess that’s what you’re smiling about.”

  He doesn’t need to wink.

  I almost die on the spot as he transforms into an even bigger tease.

  “Dance studio,” I correct, trying to play along. “That makes me happy, too.”

  “Too? What’s the other thing?” he growls, his eyes so bright.

  I whimper.

  Welp, it’s now or never.

  Pushing off the porch pillar, I fall into his arms, stretch up on my toes, and plant my hands on his back to bring my face directly in front of his.

  “You,” I whisper.

  “Shit.” He stiffens slightly. “Tory—”

  No.

  We’re so done talking.

  I stop whatever he was going to say with my lips, pressing them hard against his, begging for a chance.

  He’s stock-still, and for an agonizing second my heart sinks.

  Until his lips move beneath mine and his hands grab my waist, hoisting me up. He flings us both back into the chair, and I’m anchored to his lap.

  The kiss we share is so hot, so reckless, we’re both gasping when our lips part.

  He presses his forehead against mine, fingers skimming through my hair as we try to catch enough breath for more.

  “Tory—”

  “I want you, Quinn.” I cup the side of his face with one hand. “I’ve wanted you for years, and you know it. I’m not a kid anymore. We’re both grown adults with wants and needs and...and there’s nothing wrong with us acting on it if we both decide we want to. Can we just have tonight? Can we try?”

  “Sure, but you should know, I have things going on in my life, things that—”

  “Nope. Not taking no for an answer. I have big things happening, too, but right now the most important one is you.” I kiss him again, delving my tongue against his.

  “Tory,” he groans, his hands reaching behind to squeeze me, a bulge I can’t ignore suddenly in his jeans, shifting up against my thigh. “Fuck!”

  One simple word.

  The walls come crashing down.

  There’s no hesitation in his response, or in how his hand dives up my shirt.

  The skin on skin contact nearly sends me over the edge, dangerously close to grinding on him again and coming in my shorts.

  He devours my mouth, fingers working around to my breasts, spilling more hot breath against my tongue before he pulls out of the kiss.

  “You sure about this?” he rasps. “Tell me now. I can’t fucking stop if we keep going.”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I whisper, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m clean. As soon as I heard about Jean-Paul sleeping with someone else, I went to the doctor.”

  “I’m clean as a whistle, too.” He shakes his head and curses. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have any condoms, though. Never had any plans to bring a girl back here since I was always so busy, and the casuals at the Bobcat ain’t my type.”

  “It’s your lucky day.” I smile and kiss his chin. “I’m on the pill.”

  The look he flashes me could devour a city.

  I bite back how I’ve been on the pill since before coming out here when I was young for the last time.

  The summer he wasn’t here.

  My mother took me to the doctor because she didn’t want me coming home pregnant—another offensive fear of hers she never kept from Gran.

  In one swift movement, he’s standing, lifting me up, holding me.

  I loop my arms around his neck and nuzzle his cheek.

  “Where are we going?” I whisper.

  “Inside.” He whistles for Owl, and once the door shuts behind us, he releases my legs and kisses me like there’s a screaming meteor on the way to end life as we know it.

  His embrace is so tight, I can barely breathe.

  It doesn’t matter a moment later when his tongue finds mine, when my knees buckle, when he’s holding me up and taking me over, pressing every single button I’ve got.

  I’m so flipping gone.

  I have no idea how we wind up on the couch, but when the kissing ends, that’s where we are, stroking and caressing each other like our lives depend on it.

  The skin beneath his shirt is so hot, so hard, I need more. Pushing his shirt up reveals muscle anointed with dark tattoos.

  He does the same with my shirt, and as I pull my arms free, he grasps them, holding them over my head, devouring me with those shining green eyes.

  “Dammit, darlin’, you’re so fucking beautiful.” For a second he bares his teeth, sucking a sharp breath through them. “So ready.”

  Again, I almost spontaneously combust into an O on the spot.

  He’s also too sweet, considering I’ve always felt extremely inadequate in one place.

  “Fair warning. I’m a dancer and we’re often kinda flat.”

  “Bullshit,” he snarls.

  The thrill he sends through me, kissing my nipples one at a time, shows how much he means it.

  “More than a mouthful might be a waste,” he says, bringing one nipple fully into his mouth to resume proving his point.

  Holy Hades.

  I’ve never experienced anything like the rough, playful, and utterly needy way he sucks me. Guys like Jean-Paul just did it out of habit, lacking real passion.

  But Quinn teases my breasts like he’s been waiting to his whole life.

  Every slap of his tongue, every soft kiss, every tender scratch of his teeth...

  It jolts me so sharply I can hardly even think, except to relish just how incredible this is.

  He’s still working my buds and raking his stubble against my breasts when his hand slides inside my shorts, straight to where I’m throbbing, burning, pleading for him most.

  The way he touches, strokes, it’s thrilling and soothing at the same time.

  Be
yond perfection.

  This man knows exactly where to touch, how much pressure, when to give and take, when to tease and when to render me breathless.

  My pussy tenses, sending a white-hot needling heat down my legs, up my spine, through my entirety.

  And when he finally parts my soaked folds—shoving two fingers in—when his thumb smothers my clit, when he barely moves until I ride his hand, I’m worse than screwed.

  I’m owned.

  Holding my breath at the pressure building inside me, I gasp his name.

  “Quinn!”

  “Go with it, Tory,” he whispers, quickening his fingers, stroking my walls with this mad, hot glint in his eye.

  Oh.

  Oh, shit.

  My hips buckle. My thighs squeeze his hand. My legs start trembling like he’s going to split me in two.

  I’ve never felt anything like the breach in my body right now.

  The intensity of Quinn Faulkner’s otherworldly pleasure.

  My walls clench around his fingers as he glides them in and out, all the while keeping this mad, steady pressure on one specific point. Devastating.

  He has me pumping against his hand, losing my mind while a tsunami builds, demanding release.

  I can’t stop it to save my life.

  Nor do I want to.

  It’s like the end of a dance routine, when the music is about to crescendo, and you’re given over to the sweet, sweet insanity.

  “That’s it, Peach,” he says, urging me on, even as I grab his wrist and dig my nails in.

  “Quinn, Quinn, I’m...I’m going to—”

  “Fucking do it,” he demands. “Come hard for me, Peach. Let me feel you lose it.”

  My eyes pinch shut and my body nearly convulses as his strokes continue, tenderizing my most sensitive nerves. Flames ignite, starting at my clit, winding in, working through me like searing hot ropes.

  Coming!

  Out of nowhere, it hits with brute force, racking my body with wave after wave of the most intense pleasure ever known to womankind. I scream his name as it tears through me—I try.

  But I’m not even sure what planet I’m on as he holds me down, pumping his fingers, thumbing my clit with that endless heat, endless control, endless call to surrender.

  Sweet hell, do I ever.

  I’m having my first orgasm with a man.