Page 6 of Betting on her Best Friend
Alyssa adjusted her crossed arms slightly to a self-hug, and she drew her bottom lip in and worried it with her teeth. One of the many things she did that drove him fucking crazy. If Dylan had a dime for every time he’d been jealous of her teeth over the years, he’d have money to start up his own construction company five times over.
“That’s what makes this weekend the perfect opportunity. These cover models have a strong reputation within the romance community. They attend this conference year after year. If they’d caused problems with attendees in the past, they’d never be invited back. Basically, they’re already vetted.”
“Already vetted. Would you listen to yourself, Aly? You’re not shopping for plumbers for fuck sake.”
A sly grin crept over her face. “Well, you could say I’m looking for a man to take care of my ‘pipes’ soooooo…”
Stunned. That’s what he was, and not in a good way. More like tasered-in-the-nuts kind of stunned. That third glass of wine had blown holes in her inhibitions, and now she was speaking in innuendo. If he thought she was even remotely referring to him, he’d be as hard as a plumber’s wrench. But she wasn’t. She was talking about some stranger who wouldn’t give two shits about her and would get to know what it felt like to sink into her heat and hear her moan in pleasure.
You’ve heard her moan on multiple occasions.
Yeah, he had. Through the shared wall of their bedrooms whenever she pleasured herself. The sounds were faint by the time they broke through the layers of drywall and insulation, but she might as well have been right in his ear for as much as it tortured him.
Dragging a hand over his mouth, he about-faced and strode out of her room. The beer wasn’t going to cut it anymore. He needed a stiff drink.
“Oh, come on,” she said with a laugh. “You have to admit that was funny. Where are you going? You haven’t even had dessert yet.” Then, in a singsong voice she added, “I made crème brûlée.”
Of course, she did. Because that was his favorite dessert on the planet and she knew that. Just like she knew everything else about him. Everything except the myriad fantasies he had of pinning her with his body and burying himself between her soft thighs.
Damn it.Wrong time to think of that. Now his cock suddenly wanted to join the party. Fucking perfect. “Sorry, I just remembered I have to meet Dad before work tomorrow about…things. I need to try and get to bed early.”
“Oh,” she said, deflated. “Okay.”
Dylan gritted his teeth against the disappointment in her voice as she followed him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up doing something asinine—like kiss the hell out of her—to make her forget her reckless idea of hooking up with some muscle-bound tool in Vegas.
He snagged his coat along the way and turned when he reached the front door. “Text me when you land so I know you got there safely.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said matter-of-factly. “The odds of dying in a plane crash are equivalent to having naturally conceived identical quadruplets, and when was the last time you heard of that phenomenon crawling around?”
He’d grown accustomed to her spouting off stats in their conversations over the years, but sometimes she needed a reminder that statistical logic didn’t mean a damn thing in the face of someone’s feelings. All the one-in-however-million stats in the world wouldn’t make him feel any better until he knew for sure she was safe. That’s all there was to it.
What used to be a lengthy discussion years ago had been whittled down to a meaningful arch of his brow. Which he now gave her. A sheepish grin lifted the corners of her mouth, and a pale blush dotted her cheeks before she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “I’ll text you as soon as the wheels touch down.”
“Thank you.” Careful to keep space between his growing erection and her belly, he held her for several moments, breathing in her familiar vanilla-sugar scent. As always, it beckoned him, tempted him to drag his tongue over her skin and see if she’d melt in his mouth like a warm sugar cookie.
Over the years, it’d gotten so bad that he had to stop using vanilla creamer in his coffee and couldn’t get within fifty yards of a pastry shop without getting hard. She’d turned him into a grown man who avoided the Mrs. Field’s store in the mall for fear of being charged with public indecency. And he didn’t even want to talk about Christmas cookie day at his mom’s house every year.
He pulled away and grabbed the door handle, trying like hell to look like he didn’t have murderous thoughts spinning in his head.
“Hey,” she said, “I don’t want you to worry about me. I promise I’ll be careful.”
The thought of her rolling a condom on someone else’s dick made him physically ill, and he turned to get the hell out of there before he said something he’d regret. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”
“Okay. Oh, wait,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen. A minute later, she returned with a ramekin of crème brûlée and a green pill bottle. “Take it with you, in case you want it later,” she said, handing over the dessert with a smile. Then she held up the bottle. “And this is melatonin. I know you’ve had a hard time falling asleep lately. These should help you get the rest you need.”
Dylan’s least favorite school subject was English, but he was pretty sure they called this irony. The only reason he’d been having sleepless nights was also the only woman who cared enough to try and alleviate his supposed insomnia. But he didn’t want to take pills, natural or otherwise. He’d rather fix it by fucking her until utter exhaustion forced him to sleep for as long as it took to regain his strength to do it all over again.
She has the same idea. She just doesn’t plan on doing it with you, dumbass.
He needed to beat feet and go a few rounds with the heavy bag in his basement before he put a hole in the drywall.
“Thanks, Aly,” he said sincerely. “You always take good care of me.”
“What are friends for, right?” Her smile held a hint of sadness before she raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek like always. And like always, it took all his restraint not to turn his face at the last second so their lips would finally, finally meet.
He shoved the pill bottle in his pocket, then made his escape, dessert in hand. Once on their shared porch, he waited until he heard her slide the locks home before walking through his front door immediately to the left of hers.
He made his way to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and held the dish of crème brûlée inches above the shelf. If he left it in his fridge, he’d always have his favorite dessert on hand. But seeing it there and catching an occasional whiff of its sweet scent would be a self-inflicted torture.
On the other hand, he could give in to his urges and indulge in it now. He’d have to live in the moment and revel in the creamy ecstasy, satisfied with committing every second to memory in case it was the last crème brûlée she ever offered him. There’d be no room for regrets.
Dylan’s arm shook from the tension, and his teeth ached from clenching his jaw. With a final growl, he set the dish on the shelf and slammed the door.
“Fuck!”
Frustration surged through him like electricity. It lit up his veins and burned through his muscles. The only way he’d get any sleep would be to push his body to its limits with a killer workout. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to leave himself with just enough energy to drag his ass into a shower and off to bed. Before heading to his room to change, Dylan glared at the fridge.
He doubted it would be the last time, either.
