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He nods. “I don’t get many chances to wear it.”
And he wears it too. It looks custom fit, the crisp white shirt begging for my fingers to press against it. To feel the pulse and warmth of the man beneath the clothes. Especially knowing what he looks like without it. He’s slicked his hair back and has a bit of a scruff working, reminding me of waking up that morning in Vegas.
“It looks nice. You look nice,” I tell him.
“You said that already.” He smirks.
“I did?”
“You did,” he confirms. He steps closer, his chest brushing mine, and I feel my nipples pebble against the silk of my dress.
His eyes lock on mine, and the breath stalls in my lungs. His tongue drags along his bottom lip and draws my attention to his mouth. Are his lips as soft as they look?
“Ames,” he whispers painfully.
“Hmmm?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I shift my attention from his lips to his eyes.
The desire that fills them has me rubbing my thighs together.
“Like you want to kiss me. Like you wonder how I taste.”
“I…”
“You?” he prompts when I don’t say anything else.
“I do.”
“You do what?”
My hands reach out, unbidden, to splay on the crisp white shirt, his pulse thudding steadily against my palm. Dragging them up, I twine them around his neck and tug him closer to my lips.
“I was wondering what you tasted like,” I admit, and he groans.
“Ames—”
I don’t let him finish the thought, lifting the few inches to cover his lips with mine. That’s all it takes to sever his control. His arms haul me against his chest as his tongue plunges into my mouth. My fingers tangle in his hair, and one of his arms bands behind my back to arch me farther into him.
No other kiss has ever measured up to the intensity of this one. It’s as if I’m the sole focus of Garrett’s universe, and he would be perfectly content simply to kiss me. His mouth leaves mine and trails a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat before he nips at the pulse point in my neck.
Crying out, I shift and try to find friction between our lower bodies. The height difference is frustrating. My groan must register with him since he boosts me to the counter, stepping between my spread thighs until I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my dress.
His lips move to my jaw, and my head falls back to grant him better access that he eagerly takes advantage of. Lifting my legs, I wrap them around his hips, relishing the way his erection rubs against my core.
“Garrett,” I murmur.
Garrett. Wait. This is Garrett. My friend.
Breaking the kiss, I push off the counter and brush past him to retreat the several feet I need for sanity to return. His lips are swollen, hair mussed from my fingers dragging through it. His eyes glitter as he stares at me. Everything in me demands that I step back into his arms. That I forget about this party and spend the night learning about this new version of my best friend.
But that’s a complication we don’t need.
“What was that?” My lips tingle as I trace them with my fingers. It’s a rhetorical question, but he answers it anyway.
“You know what that was.” Where has this confident version of Garrett come from? I’ve seen pieces of him, but the tone of his voice has my panties dampening more.
