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“Yeah, I’ll crash on the couch.”
“You can’t sleep on the couch.” I laugh.
The man is a professional athlete who missed the end of his season because of an injury. No way am I leaving him to the couch in his own apartment, even if he is the reason he’d be there.
“Look, you can stay with me tonight. Tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do with your ceiling.”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at me. “I can’t sleep with you, Elliot.”
And there it is. The elephant in the room we’ve discussed, dismissed, and tried to ignore for the past two weeks. The attraction we were trying to subdue that night at the bar still burns as hot as ever.
But that attraction is just going to have to take a backseat tonight.
I heave a breath. “You can. You have.” Not in this iteration of our friendship, but whatever. And just to show him it won’t be weird, I add, “But this time, you’ll have to stay on your side of the bed. No shenanigans. Okay?”
For a second, I think he might say no. But then he nods and turns to me. “Thanks, Lara.”
“It’s what friends are for, right?”
16
Ben
Friends are not for mauling in the wee hours of the night.
Not when they become some heat-seeking entity that slowly but relentlessly stalks you across the width of the bed.
Not when they burrow into your side and sigh against your chest so you can feel their soft lips brushing your skin.
Not even when they murmur from their sleep of the dead how good you smell.
And especially not when they end up half on top of you, one smooth, toned leg draped over you in a way that has a certain appendage pleading to roll said friend over so your heat-seeking entity can spend some time with hers.
No.
She trusted me in her room, her bed. And yeah, she’s pretty much crossed every line there is when it comes to friends sharing a bed, but not consciously. Not because she actually wants something with me.
This is just her body acknowledging an attraction that won’t quit but isn’t doing us any favors. And no way am I going to abuse that trust by pretending I don’t know better.
Yes, she feels insanely good. But I don’t want that with her again.
She shifts closer, her thigh riding higher.
Gulp. I don’t.
She turns her head, and her hair spills over my side like silk, taking me back to nights from a lifetime ago. Making my fingers itch to touch it and my fists clench.
I take a slow breath. Then, moving even slower, because I also don’t want to wake her up, I try to ease her thigh from where it’s currently nuzzled up against my balls. And my restraint— where the fuck are the witnesses because I deserve a medal for the way I handle that creamy expanse of bare skin.
I’m all business.
Just a three-count and then a single press of one hand at a spot near her knee. A gentle nudge that eases her leg clear of my junk, and as much as it pains me, then clear of my leg altogether.
No lingering. No wandering.
Little to no regrets on my part.
All the regrets are from Big Ben who is currently standing vigilant by the window in my shorts, hoping to catch another glimpse of the thigh that got away.
