Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

I unbutton my cuffs and roll up my shirt sleeves to my forearms.

“Don’t go easy on me,” she says.

“Not in my nature.”

“Make me squirm. Make it pure torture. Make me want to give it up. That’s the only way we’ll know if I can truly handle this charade for the next week.”

I hold my hands out wide. “All I can say, Snuffaluffagus, is you’re on.”

I run the few feet to the couch and go for it. I am a ferocious tickler and a tenacious competitor, and even though this is Charlotte, I’m not going to let up. Diving in, I tickle her waist, and in a nanosecond, she is wiggling.

“Admit it — you’re not really engaged to Spencer Holiday,” I say, like a harsh cross-examiner.

“He’s going to be my hubby, I swear,” she shrieks as I tickle harder, digging in.

“I don’t believe you. Tell the truth. It’s all an act. He made you do it.”

She squeals as she thrashes back and forth in a wild attempt to scramble away from me. Her uncontrollable laughter ripples through her. “I’ve been crazy about him forever.”

“I don’t believe you,” I bark, as I grapple with her hips. She might as well be an eel , she’s fighting so hard to wiggle away. She practically burrows into the couch pillows to escape my tickling. But I’m strong, and I’ve got her pinned. I move up her sides, and she arches her entire back in a curve.

“Oh my God, no!”

Holy shit. She is beyond ticklish. This is epic ticklishness. Her face is all scrunched up, her nose is crinkled, and her mouth is wide open as she laughs ceaselessly.

“Why? Why are you crazy about him?” I demand as I try to break her down with rib tickles. In a knee-jerk reaction, she literally does just that—jams her knee into my stomach to try to make me stop. I block it, and her kneecap grazes my hip. Doesn’t even hurt.

“Because,” she says on a breathless pant, as my fingers race up her sides, “he makes me laugh.”

I’m near her armpits now. “Why else?”

“Because he opens the door for me,” she says, hitting a high note on the last word as I reach her most ticklish spot.

“One more reason,” I demand as I trap her, my lower body pinning her, and I capture one leg between both of mine.

Her laughter ceases abruptly, and her eyes widen. “He’s huge,” she says in a whisper.

We both go silent for a few seconds. Then I nod approvingly and end the torment. “You have proven your loyalty to the cause.”

I look down at her. Her hair falls in a wild mess, her black tank rides up her stomach, revealing inches of soft flesh, and her breath comes in heavy pants. This is the moment when I should move off her. I really should. She’s not wiggling anymore. She’s not fighting me. I’m supposed to let go, offer her a hand, and take her ring shopping.

But her eyes seem different. I’ve never seen them like this. Something vulnerable flickers through them. “We should practice,” she says in a soft voice, her words landing on the air like snowflakes.

“Practice?” I repeat, because though I’m pretty confident what she means, I don’t want to assume anything.

Her lips part, and her tongue slides across the bottom one. “What we did on the street. So it’s believable.”

“Is kissing part of the charade?”

She nods. “I can’t imagine two people who just got engaged wouldn’t kiss at least once tomorrow at the dinner event. It would make it more believable, don’t you think? Can’t look like the first time we’ve done it.”

“Right. Like in the movies where a man and woman have to share a hotel room at some inn, and they pretend to be together, and the innkeeper says at dinner, ‘Kiss the girl.’ That’s what you mean, right?”

She smiles beneath me, then she bites the corner of her lip like she did at the coffee shop. At the time, I resisted the impulse to give her a quick peck. Now, I don’t. I press my lips to that corner and kiss her.

A soft kiss.

I pull back. Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes look wild. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” she says.

“What do you want?”

“A real kiss. I want to know how my fiancé kisses for real. Not just a soft little kiss on the street.”

“A real kiss. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be sure? You’re not a horrid kisser, are you?” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God. That’s it. You kiss in some weird way,” she says as she takes her hand off her mouth.

“That just earned you serious proof of the opposite. Because I promise you, I will kiss you in the only way you should be kissed.”

“What way is that?”

I gaze into her eyes, move my hips against her thigh so she can feel more of me, then say, “A real kiss should get you wet.”

She gasps, and I dip my mouth to hers and kiss the sound away.

She led our first kiss. She caught me off guard on the street with a fantastic ambush, but this kiss is mine.

I control it. I lead it. And I want to tease her. To make her squirm again, only this time with desire. This time she’ll be writhing to get closer to me, not to escape. I slide my tongue across her lips, and she opens them, inviting me to kiss her deeper. I don’t heed her wishes. Instead, I move to her jawline, kissing her there, along her soft skin, and up to her ear. Her skin tastes amazing, like sunshine and cherries, and maybe that’s the lotion she put on a few minutes ago, or maybe it’s just her natural scent. Either way, it drives me crazy. My bones hum with desire as I travel to the shell of her ear. I flick my tongue against her earlobe, and she moans.

“Ohhhh.”

It’s not the sound she made on the street. It’s louder. It’s freer. It’s unleashed.

And I fucking love it.

She pushes her hips up against me, trying to get closer.

I steal a glance at her closed eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the redness in her lips. She’s the piece of chocolate cake in front of me that I must consume. All of it. Now. Every bite.

I rope my hands in her hair, the blonde strands spilling over my fingers in a golden tumble. With all this fantastic hair in my hands, I’m compelled to tug it. When I do, she draws a sharp breath that turns into a soft moan. My fingers curl around her skull, and I grip her head tightly, holding her in place.

Returning to her mouth, I stop teasing.

Instead, I turn it up.

Crank the volume.

Kiss her hard.

Devour her.

Our tongues tangle, our teeth click, and I swear she’s melting under me, beneath me, into me. My veins thrum with lust, my cock is steel in my pants, and my brain is zeroed in on one thing—a kiss that makes her wet.

It takes all my resistance not to run my hand up her thigh, under her skirt, and across the panel of those white see-through bikini panties. But I don’t have to touch her to verify she’s turned on beyond any and all reason. I know in the little murmurs she makes, in the way her arms slink around my neck, in how her fingers curl into the ends of my hair. Most of all, the confirmation comes in the way she tries to rock into me. Her hips shift, move, seeking me out, and briefly my restraint snaps.

I move quickly, wedging myself between her thighs, thrusting once against her. A sexy cry escapes her lips. Her hands fly to my ass. The restraint breaks once more as she parts her legs for me, making room, inviting me to dry hump her on the couch.

Oh hell, do I want to RSVP to this offer. If I do, in a few more seconds her legs will be wrapped around my hips, and I’ll want to be fucking her. Friends or strangers, how could I not want to fuck her? She’s hot, she’s ready, and she’s raring to go.

I want to tug off those panties, sink into her heat.

But she’s my best friend, and I can’t do that.