But as we’re walking back toward the bed-and-breakfast, Zander stops.
“What?”
“Fuck it,” he says under his breath.
“What?” I repeat, confused, but then he’s tugging me into some small alleyway between brick buildings.
And then I’m pinned to the wall, Zander’s hand on either side of my face.
“What are you doing?” I say, my voice low and quiet.
I don’t know why I’m asking.
I can read it all over his face.
But it’s Zander, so he tells me.
“I’m going to kiss you, Zoe,” he says. “I’m going to kiss you, and it’s going to be real, but you can pretend it’s all part of the game. I’m going to kiss you because I can’t stop thinking about it, and you’re driving me fucking insane.”
“Zander—”
“Say no and I won’t,” he whispers, his lips brushing mine as he does.
I don’t say no.
I don’t say anything at all.
I don’t think I could stop him even if the logical side of me were in control right now, the side that knows this is a bad idea, the side that knows the possibility of getting hurt isn’t small.
Instead, I lean in.
“Fuck,” he murmurs before his lips are fully on mine. “Fuck,” he groans against my lips.
Then he steps closer until I’m fully pressed against his body, and he’s kissing me now like I’m some lifeline to sanity.
Like if he stops, the world stops spinning.
His tongue touches mine and I groan.
This is not sweet.
This is not gentle.
This is not a girl kissing the boy she’s loved for as long as she can remember.
This is a man kissing a woman that he needs wholly.
When I move to my toes, his hands leave my face, trailing down my body to my hips and then to my ass, lifting me up until I wrap my legs around him.
“Fuck, this ass,” he murmurs in my neck, but I can’t think about that.
I’m stuck on the way his hips press into me more to hold me in place and the way I can feel his hard cock at my center, right through my leggings.
And because I’m so far gone from reality, from doing the right thing, so far into pretend zone, I grind my hips against his.
“Jesus, fuck,” he murmurs, kissing down my neck, his tongue tasting. My hand is on his head, keeping him there, my hips moving continuously, and I think for a moment I could come like this.
Fully clothed, Zander’s lips on my neck, in a random alleyway pinned against a warm brick wall in goddamn North Carolina, I could come.
“Let’s stay another night here,” he murmurs against my skin, breaking my chain of thought.
“What? Why?” I’m nearly panting, needy.
His tongue runs from where my shoulder meets my neck and up, up until his teeth bite my ear lobe. His breathing is heavy, reflecting my own, when he speaks again.
“Because I’m not getting into that Jeep without tasting your pussy, Zoe.”
My breathing absolutely stops this time.
Not a single breath enters my lungs.
But one leaves without my permission when I say, “Okay.”
TWENTY-TWO
AUGUST
-ZOE-
After Zee helps me off the wall, he grabs my hand and we walk back to the room in silence.
My hands are shaking.
Every molecule on my body feels like it’s on fire, like I can feel every single centimeter of my skin and each one is on hyperdrive.
My clothes are too tight.
My breathing feels weird.
And Zander Davidson just told me he wants to eat my pussy.
What fucking twilight zone am I living in?
Because last I remember, I was just his little sister’s best friend that he liked to sit with during family events to laugh at everyone around us.
And now we’re sharing a hotel room.
And a bed.
And potentially a whole lot more.
Zander locks the door behind him, and I keep walking in, putting my bag on the little desk in the corner, digging through it like I’m searching for something.
Anything.
I’m looking for anything to distract my mind, my hands.
Except, of course, my purse is clean and organized, and I’m pretty sure Zee knows that about me, so it must look stupid, me digging through my bag, unzipping little bags and peeking in like I’m missing a teeny tiny earring back or a lip gloss.
And then I feel it.
Warmth behind me and then a broad chest lining up against my back.
Zander’s tall. Really fucking tall. And I’m not short at 5’9”, but he still towers over me.
And when his back lines against mine, when his hands move down my sides to the front of my hips and he rests his thumbs in the waistband of my jeans, my entire body stops moving.
His chin rests on my shoulder before he speaks.
“What are you doing, Zoe?”
His words are barely a whisper, and I feel them on my back more than I even really hear them, the vibration moving from his chest through my thin tee and straight to my clit that’s starting to throb.
“Looking for . . .” My thoughts trail off as one of those thumbs starts to brush the soft skin of my belly, back and forth, making me lose my train of thought.
How can I even try to think of excuses when his thumb is on sensitive skin?
“You’re looking for nothing, pip,” he says, pressing his lips beneath my ear. “You’re nervous because you know I’m not leaving this room until I make you come.”
My body freezes, and a rush of heat hits my core.
There is no universe where my panties make it out of this room alive.
“Zander—”
His hands press, pulling me back into him, and even through my thick jeans I can feel it.
Zander Davidson is hard.
He’s hard because of me.
Again, what universe am I living in?
“Stop. Stop with the excuses. Stop with the denials. This is something. Always has been. The universe decided this week was our time, and here we are. I don’t know much about the universe except that it’s never steered me wrong because it’s always directed me to you.”
My heart stops beating.
The words this man is saying . . .
If I let them, they could change everything.
He turns me, pressing my ass into the desk and his body to mine.
“Don’t. Don’t question it. Don’t overthink this. Pretend with me for now. Pretend that this is easy, that there is no family shit to worry about, no job to stress about.”
He stares at me, big blue eyes I’ve known my whole life.
Eyes that are now staring at me like I’m the world. Like I’m his world.
Like I’m everything.
I don’t think I’ve ever been everything to a man, in a fairy tale or otherwise.
His hand moves up my back to the nape of my neck, and he tugs on my ponytail until the tie comes out then scrubs at my scalp to relieve the tension.
“Fuckin’ hate these.”
“What?”
“Stupid ponytails. Your hair should be down. Gorgeous. The kind of hair a man dreams about wrapping around his fist.”
My soul leaves my body.