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Kai swore all he did was watch a muted show while D was sleeping, but his raging boner tenting his pajama pants said something different. Den attacked him with a game controller, which resulted in a massive shiner for Kai and a broken controller I had to replace to appease him. Asking Den to pay for it would've resulted in another shiner—on my face. No, thank you.
So, Den visiting over Thanksgiving would be the first time in over two years we'd share a bed. We used to all the time when we were in LA, but that wasbefore…
That night starts playingin front of my mind's eye. I haven't thought about it recently, but every so often, the memory still breaks through. I don't regret it. At the same time, though, it probably shouldn't have happened. Talk about conflicting feelings.
After getting back from LA, I was in a bad headspace. The loss of two of my three close friends, combined with having no athletic future, had been too much and turned me into a hateful piece of shit. I refused to talk to anyone, including my parents. If someone attempted to address me, I lost it on them. I had never been a hothead, but I had reached my limit. After almost a week, on the day I was supposed to have left for college, Den showed up and dragged me out of the house.
"I don't give a flying fuck. You're coming with me," she announced, pulling me past my mother, who stood by, watching me getkidnapped.
Granted, I hadn't left my room in six days and had neglected personal hygiene for just as long. I'm sure Mom was glad to have me out of the house for a while.
After a pit stop at Magnolia's, where Den somehow convinced the barista to make me a turmeric and cinnamon hot cocoa in the middle of August, we went through a local drive-through and ended up at her house. I followed her to her room, where a bottle of her dad's Pappy Van Winkle was already waiting for us.
"This is your way of cheering me up?" I arched an eyebrow at her, still holding the take-out bag she handed to me in the car.
"Shut up." She faced me with her hands on her hips and chin tilted up. "Since I'm the only one who can tolerate going near your reeking body—which, by the way, is quickly losing its definition—this is what we're doing. You get one last night of wallowing, then you pull your head out of your sexy ass and fight for your dream. We'll eat crap, get drunk out of our minds, and regret every minute of it tomorrow. But that's what I'll do for my best friend." In a softer tone, she adds, "I can't stand by and watch you suffer any longer."
That was what we did. And much more. And neither of us has acknowledged the "more" since I walked out the next morning.
By the time we had finished the food, I had a major buzz going, and Den wasn't far behind. Scratch that; she was way ahead. She downed the amber liquid like I did my cocoa. One could say we drowned our sorrows that night.
Denielle "Den" Keller had the reputation of being The Bulldog, but she cared like everyone else—probably more, because she was so protective over the people she loved. She wouldn't often show her feelings, but over the last few months, she had let her guard down around me. She was hurting, even though she barely talked about what had happened over spring break. Finding your longtime boyfriend at a frat orgy, pounding another girl, would've broken anyone's trust in the opposite sex. Not once had Charlie tried to contact her after shedonatedall her cheating boyfriend's crap to Goodwill. I always knew he was a pussy, but I never expected him to be such a fucking coward. He owed her an apology, and one day, I would see to it that she got it.
That evening, though, we used each other to forget for a while. We were lying on Den's king-size bed. I was propped against the headboard with her nuzzled into the crook of my arm while she was watching…whatever it was. My attention span had exited several Pappy's before. I don't remember when or how, but I caught myself playing with her dark locks, curling and uncurling them around my fingers. The sudden realization made me pause, but then Den shifted, and the hand that, until then, had been tucked between us slowly slipped under the hem of my shirt.
What the hell was she doing?
Holding my breath, I waited. At first, her hand was splayed out on my lower belly, unmoving, but the sensation of her skin on mine stirred a flutter deep inside of me that had no business being there. This was Den, for fuck's sake. The one friend I had left.
Involuntarily, my abs flexed, and she jerked her hand away. When I didn't move and instead threaded my fingers in her hair again—I was so blaming that on Van Winkle—she started tracing every muscle of my abdomen with her fingertips.
My heart thumped in my throat, and my mouth ran dry. "D?"
The movement halted, and I instantly missed it. She was silent for so long that I thought this was it. "Yes?"
I should stop this, but do I want to?
Den was still dealing with the Charlie aftermath, not to mention what we went through in LA a few months ago and the letter that took my future away the previous week.
Instead, I remained mute, and her fingers started their pattern again, leaving a trail of heat where they connected with my skin.
The bourbon was muddling my rational thinking, and I closed my eyes, losing track of what I was going to say.
Fuck!
The fire spreading through my veins, combined with the burn in my stomach, felt so good after days of being trapped in a cold void. I angled myself slightly toward her, letting my free hand rest on her hip. Den's face was now in the crook of my neck, and I could feel her rapid breathing against my collarbone.
Goose bumps broke out on my entire body, and my groin responded in kind with the pulsing, tensing flex of urges awakening in me. When she made no indication of stopping us, I nudged my leg between hers, slowly tracing figure eights inside the crook between her pelvis and hip bone—God, her skin was so soft. Her exhales sped up, and I took that as her approval to keep going. My hand glided up her arm to her neck. With my thumb caressing her cheek, I could feel her thudding pulse under my palm.
I shouldn't be this turned on.
Den's hand moved to my back, and she ground herself against my thigh. This was the best and, at the same time, most surreal moment of the last few months—and that said a lot. When the tips of her fingers slipped underneath the waistband of my sweats, and her nails dug into my ass, all bets were off. This was a really bad idea, but holy shit, I needed this.
With my forefinger under her chin, I tilted her head up and met her gaze. Her lids were hooded, and our noses touched, her warm breath fanning over my lips.
"Last chance, Bulldog." My tone was raspy, and I was giving her an out.
She visibly shivered instead of going off on me for using her much-hated nickname. I rarely called her by it to her face, but somehow, it felt right. She was in charge of the situation.
