Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

But I don’t. I let him hold me like the porcelain doll that I’m terrified of being because I’m even more terrified of how badly I want him.

He threads a hand through my hair, cupping the back of my head, and gently tilts my lips up toward his. After a few more soft kisses, his thumb runs across my bottom lip and electricity sparks from that tiny touch.

His thumb trails down to my chin, and he presses down just enough to pull my lips apart. His tongue darts out, tracing my bottom lip the same way his thumb did, and I grip his shoulders hard because I feel like I might fall even though I’m sitting down. One of his hands grips my hip in response as he teases my lips with his tongue one more time.

Then, like he’d been teasing himself too, he groans and pushes the kiss deeper. And my body is ready to throw him a damn parade in celebration. His tongue slides against mine, firm and demanding, but not overwhelming. Not scary. Yet.

He leans into me, pressing me back, and the crown of my head touches the tree behind me. I’ve only had a handful of kisses besides Levi, as sad as that is. And maybe it’s the bad memories that make me look back on those kisses with indifference, but I don’t remember his or anyone’s being this . . . good.

And because I have no filter, I whisper those words against his lips.

“This is good.”

He laughs. “I love it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

He hums against my lips, and it vibrates pleasantly.

“When you say exactly what you’re thinking.”

I pull away. “You won’t love it when I say something stupid.”

And the stupid would come. No doubt about it.

“Are you kidding? I can’t wait.”

I huff and push at his shoulder. My shove sends his back thudding back against the tree, but he laughs and grips my elbow, tugging me forward in response. Hard. I yelp, steadying myself with both hands against his chest, and my bent knee ends up strewn over his lap.

He sucks in a breath, and grips my thigh with one hand. Part of my brain is demanding that I pull away. Kissing a stranger is one thing, but this is something else entirely. But despite my brain’s warning, my body leans into him, shivering when the hand on my leg tightens possessively. His fingers trail down toward my knee, and then slowly, so slowly that it feels like a dance, he pulls until I’m straddling him for the second time tonight. This time, though, I’m not distracted by a wardrobe malfunction. And with him sitting upright instead of lying down, he feels so much closer in every way. Our stomachs press together, and I can feel the rough fabric of his jeans against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. And the fact that my underwear is the only thing keeping the rest of my bare skin from touching him makes that pleasure parade from earlier descend into complete pandemonium.

“I should go,” I say.

But even as I say it, I curl his shirt in my fists and pull myself a little bit closer.

Just her number, I’d told myself.

Just a touch, I’d thought.

Just a kiss, I’d sworn.

And yet, my hands are now on her hips, my shirt bunched in her hands, and my chest warmed by the press of her body against mine.

“I should go,” she says for a second time, but neither of us makes a move. She shifts forward, her hips pulling closer to mine, and I hiss at the pressure of her against me. I’m already straining against my jeans, and the tightness goes from unpleasant to torturous as her thighs squeeze against my hips.

Her head tilts to the side, like she’s studying me, and she repeats the movement of her hips. I groan and my head falls back against the tree with a hard thump. Not that I feel it. All the nerve endings in my body seem to be concentrated on where she touches me.

This is the opposite of staying focused, but if this is what distraction feels like, she can drive me to it anytime.

She smiles, and I let it wash away my worries about the future. I let the sweet vanilla scent of her hair override the thought of how badly I need to stay focused on football, of how it’s the only chance I stand at a decent future. I bury all that bullshit under the weight of her heated gaze.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel shackled to a plan or a problem.

I only feel free.

And I only feel her .

I slide a hand from her hip to her lower back, slipping my hand beneath her shirt to touch warm skin. Suddenly greedy, I glide that hand up until my entire arm presses against her and my fingers curl over her shoulder, locking her tightly against me.

She gasps, and though her body arches into mine, her eyes are wide and wary. I worry that I’ve gone too far.

“Tell me, Daredevil.”

She licks her lips, and the muscle of her shoulder tightens under my fingers.

“Tell you what?”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. But if you don’t tell me what that is, my mind is going to keep thinking of all the things I want to do to you, and the list is already very, very long.”

She licks her lips again, and I jerk her closer, just barely grazing her tongue with my own before it disappears back into her mouth.

She closes her eyes, and her fists pull so hard on the front of my shirt that I know it’s going to be stretched and warped whenever she eventually lets go.

“I want,” she whispers, her eyes scrunched tight.

I can feel my heartbeat at the base of my spine, and one of us is shaking. Whether it’s me or her, I’m too far gone to tell. All I know is that I can feel the heat of her even through my jeans.

“What?” I ask, my voice thick.

“I want,” she repeats, her whisper almost pained. Her eyes are still closed, and though I don’t understand it, don’t understand her , I know I’m pushing her too far.

“Do you want me to keep holding you like this?”

“Yes.” She says the word immediately on a relieved exhale, and then lets her head drop back.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

Her knees squeeze against my hips as she says, “Yes.”

With her head dropped back, I move my mouth closer to her neck, hovering above the place where I know her pulse is beating wildly.

“Where?” I ask. “Where should I kiss you?”

I’m too impatient to wait for her to answer before I drag my lips over her pulse. Her hips buck into mine unexpectedly, and it’s so good I see fucking stars.

“Oh my God,” she says, and I would agree, if my tongue still knew how to form words.

“ Oh my God is effing right.” A voice interrupts from somewhere above us, too far above us, because looking up will mean leaving the sweet skin of her neck, a feat I just don’t think I can handle right now. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done to my best friend?”

I’ve got zero fucks to give about the girl talking, but Dallas obviously cares, because with my arm against her back, I can feel her spine straighten. My fingers slip off her shoulder, and like I really had been locking her into place, she’s off of me and standing five feet away in seconds.

I stand too, very slowly and with extreme discomfort.

Dallas is gaping at me, like she’s just as shocked by the situation as her friend. I try for an easygoing smile, but I’m sure it looks as pained as I feel. It’s pretty much impossible to feel comfortable while having a hard-on and being the subject of intense study by two pretty girls.

I clear my throat awkwardly, and when Dallas still doesn’t say anything, I look to her friend. She’s the opposite of Dallas—nearly a foot shorter, pixie haircut, olive skin, and completely unreadable. I add, “I’m Carson.”