Page 55 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“Call me a cutesy name again,” she huffs, “and I will tie you down and force you to drink non-craft beers.”

“I’d like to see you try. Now get over here.”

I tug her to me and instantly realize I was wrong earlier. I thought Mother Nature was my cure-all. My happy place. But this—feeling Maggie’s arms slide around my waist, her hands splayed on my back, the whole front of her pressed to the whole front of me—is the definition of comfort. A sigh pushes out with my next breath. Angry thoughts of my father still linger, but the longer we hug, the more they fade. She burrows her face into the crook of my neck. I cup the back of her head, letting my fingers sink into the soft silk of her hair as I inhale this amazing woman who cares so much she was worried into a tizzy.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For being a good friend.”

She hugs me tighter. “How did it go?”

“Not good.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah, but not right now.” I move my nose through her hair, trying to define the tantalizing scents teasing me—strawberries and almonds. A shot of amaretto in a strawberry milkshake.

Maybe that’s why she’s so comforting. She smells like a souped-up version of my favorite Smash Shack shakes. Except, no. Maggie’s the only person outside of my family who knows all my fears and insecurities, eleven years ago and now.

True comfort is not having to pretend you’re fine.

I inhale deeper, move my hand up and down her back until all of me is moving, a subtle rocking with Maggie in my arms. She glides her hands on my back too, drawing random patterns, each drag of her fingers guiding this friend hug into a non-friend zone. We move to the rhythm of our deepening breaths. The wind swirls around us while we stay warm pressed together.

There’s no fighting my body’s reaction when it deepens. The hot pulse up my thighs, the sharp tug on my abdomen, the way my thickening cock presses into Maggie. She makes the tiniest sound, a soft moan that heightens everything. And her hips? The way they just rolled toward me? I am desperately close to losing my composure.

“Is this getting weird?” I ask, my voice roughened with pent-up longing.

“No.” Her reply is so quick, followed by a desperate pull of her hands on my back.

I take her at her word, but I need more. I move us more fully, escalating this early evening dance of ours, testing how close we can get. Our warming bodies are separated by my vest, her jacket, our clothes. So many layers, like the woman in my arms. My nemesis and best friend, who comforts and worries after me, but she hasn’t shared her truth. She hasn’t opened up with me yet.

Not that my body seems to care.

Even after this upsetting day, I’ve gone from half hard to pumped full of lead, everything in me tightening with desire. I should create distance, get more answers before this goes further. Tell her it’s time for her to explain the fears that drive her artificial veneers and wariness of me.

Unfortunately, the theory that men often think with the head between their thighs is sometimes true.

I press my hand to the small of her back, anchoring her to me while pushing my thigh between her legs. She responds with a hip swivel, her mouth opening at my neck. My grunt is pure animal, and she gasps. Fucking hell. We’re heading way past friend hug, rushing into rubbing-bodies-desperate-for-release territory.

“Mags?”

She whimpers a sort-of reply, her nose and lips coasting up my neck.

My hands get more aggressive. “Can I kiss you?”

She moves without a word, tilts her face up to me, the final rays of sun painting her hair in shades of burnished gold. When her eyelids flutter closed, I don’t wait. But I don’t dive in. This excruciating wait to taste Maggie Edelstein has been too long to rush.

Our noses brush. She tugs at my back, asking for more, but I don’t crush my lips to hers. I’m digging the barely there graze of our parted lips. Hot breath slipping in. Chests swelling faster. Tingles spreading each time our mouths skim until I can’t take the suspense a second longer.

I kiss her on a groan, diving deep with a clutch of my hands on her full curves. Our tongues slide and curl. I swallow her gasp with a possessive grunt. Our lips slant and move, fused together, then I’m dropping wet kisses on the tiny scar on her jaw, her neck, catching as many freckles on my tongue as possible. I chart a return path to her addictive lips, greedy and hungry for her. She trembles in my grip, writhing against me.

“Come inside,” I say with a nip to her ear. “I need you naked.”

“Yes.” It’s a desperate pant, followed by her hands in my hair. A fistful gripped and tugged.

I start walking us toward the house, but neither of us wants to part. Somehow, we end up on the cool ground outside. And by somehow, I mean I lift her up and lower her down on top of me, because I’m an impatient motherfucker. I need Maggie now. This moment. Her consent means everything, and I don’t want to stop and think about what she hasn’t told me, or her habit of ending relationships that get serious. I don’t want to pause and remember how upset and angry I was today. I need this. Her. To show this woman how good we are together.