She pulls her gaze from mine, and I know I have a split second before she turns away or laughs it off, and I don’t hesitate, I reach for her. I wrap her wrists in my hands—they’re surprisingly small in my grasp—and tug her towards me. She trips over her feet and makes a quiet, startled sound, her eyes finding mine again, lit up and curious, but not scared. Eager. And then her gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch her pupils flare, and blood rushes through my veins, demanding.
I capture the curve of her head in my hands and lower my mouth to hers.
Even though it’s the second time, it feels like the first. Because everything’s on the line. Because I’m putting myself—and our friendship—on a cliff’s edge.
And it feels like falling, without a net, without the hope of a parachute, until she groans against my lips and opens to my probing tongue.
I growl and delve deeper, needing more, needing so much it’s an all-over ache.
She crowds close to me, pressing her body against mine, and I let myself relish it completely this time, soaking up the feel of her. Soft and round and full. My hands drop from behind her head and explore her, curves and hills and valleys, all perfectly her, filling my hands and my mind, crowding out sanity and good sense. And she likes it; she presses back against my touch, stirs and stretches like a cat into my palm, everywhere it travels.
I can’t help myself; I glide my touch up to cup a breast, her nipple tight as I brush over it. I reach for the hem of her shirt, torn between having more of her lips and sealing my mouth over that nipple so I can tease her with flicks of my tongue.
Except as I’m reaching for the hem of her shirt, she steps back, breaking the kiss. She turns away.
“Hanna.”
“I just—why now? Just because someone else wants me?”
The question—the question I’ve asked myself and my brother and the powers that be—catches me off guard, and I hesitate a moment too long. Her body language collapses. “If this is a competition or a joke or something to you—”
We’re in totally uncharted territory. I could disappoint her so easily. I’m not a celebrity chef survivalist forager, big enough to toss her over my shoulder and ballsy enough to do it on television. I’ve never been anyone’s anything, in truth, except for brother and son. Every role I’ve ever played has been locked in from birth, given to me on a silver platter, and even the people who love me most don’t take me seriously. And there might be a reason for that. All I know how to do is joke around.
I take a deep breath.
“It’s not a competition, and it’s not a joke.”
She freezes, slowly turning back toward me.
“And yes, it did start when you started trying to win over Bear, but only because that was the first time I let myself—” I close my eyes. “See you,” I finish. “Or maybe,” I amend, thinking of our shopping trip, “maybe it was the first time you saw yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you. Standing in front of that mirror in that dressing room and looking so goddamn edible that—”
She tilts her head, and for the first time, looks amused. “That? That what?”
I scowl.
“Easton.”
“I may or may not have fantasized about you later. I…” Too much? I discover I don’t care. “Jerked off, thinking about how good you looked.”
“Easton!” she says, mock outraged. But obviously pleased. She ducks her head. “Me too,” she whispers. “I mean, not how good I looked. But you know. The way you looked at me.”
My mouth falls open.
“What?!” she demands. “You think I don’t?”
I grin, because she’s so very, very Hanna. Ready to go to the mat even when we’re cracking open our sexual selves for each other. “I didn’t say that. I just wasn’t expecting you to, I don’t know, say it.” I’m temporarily floored—except for my cock, which is the opposite of floored—by this new piece of information. And all the accompanying images. And how much I want to see that happening in practice.
“Easton?” she asks.
“Sorry. Distracted with the picturing,” I tell her. “Feel free to share any more relevant info along those lines.”
The corners of her mouth tip up.
But I still haven’t addressed her fear. Not really.
“I can’t promise nothing bad will happen,” I tell her. “But I’ve been feeling this way for a while, and it’s not a game or a joke or a competition to me. If Bear walked away tomorrow, I’d still want to kiss you more than I want to draw my next breath.”
“Oh,” Hanna says. “Oh.”
Her cheeks get pinker, and my cock gets harder. “Is that a ‘me too?’”
“I mean… yes? But also…” She scuffs her Converse sneaker into the driveway. “This feels like, objectively, a terrible idea.”
That’s a bucket of ice water over my head, because—as I told Brody—I know she’s right.
“It’s not just our friendship. It’s our working relationship. And the way your family sees me. Sex changes things. One of us might catch feelings, and then… then it gets messy. Complicated.”
They’re almost exactly my words. “Yes,” I say carefully. “All those things are true. But also…”
Her eyes are locked on mine. I can see all the indecision, the uncertainty, but also the hope. The excitement.
“I’m not going to stop thinking about it. The way you kiss. The way you feel. And I think you want exactly what I want. I know it’s been a long time for you, and I know it would be so, so good, the two of us together.”
Her pupils are dark. Blown. Her gaze never strays from mine.
“Come here.” I open my arms.
She gives me a last, suspicious glance, and it makes me laugh, because it’s so Hanna, and I like her so goddamn much. And then she steps forward and lets me hold her, hug her, and I wrap her up and try to reassure her with the strength of my embrace and the truth my body wants to tell hers.
“I could make you feel so good,” I murmur against her hair, loving the brush of those short, silky strands against my lips. I want to explore every texture of her. Now. “And I really, really want to.”