Chapter 16
16
MADDIE
S omeone’s at the door.
Someone’s at the door while I’m straddling my brother’s shirtless best friend and giving him a back rub. And my brother could be that someone.
Realization smashes into both of us. I leap off the couch, flying away from Rhys like shrapnel from an exploding grenade.
Guilt spirals through me. I knew what I was doing. Using Rhys’s sore muscles as an excuse to have my hands all over them like I’ve always wanted to. Savoring the feeling of him between my legs. Reveling in the sensation of his body heat on my thighs as I rested my weight on him.
Dreaming of how it would feel for him to be on top of me, relieving the sharp ache panging between my thighs while I dig my fingertips even deeper into the dense slabs of his muscles—him doing such a good job at relieving that ache that I start to dig my finger nails into them …
Rhys hops off the couch, too, instinctively leaping a pace in the opposite direction from me. We both have our eyes riveted to the door, which …
Doesn’t open.
Instead, the mail slot opens, and a couple letters clatter onto the floormat in front of it.
It was just the mailman.
A sigh of relief wooshes from me.
I turn to Rhys. He must think I’m nuts for reacting the way I did. After all, there was nothing wrong with what we were doing. I’m just revealing my own guilt at the thoughts and fantasies I had galloping through my mind.
I push out an awkward laugh. “That noise at the door … I just didn’t expect it, you know? Guess I’ve been on edge ever since that prank you and Lane played Thursday night.”
There you go, Maddie. Reasonable deflection.
“Right,” Rhys says, his own laugh just as thin and awkward as mine. “Uh, same here.”
I know if I stand here any longer, I won’t be able to keep my eyes from devouring the sight of his muscular body and how low his sweatpants are hanging on his hips.
He slings his hands into the pockets of those sweatpants and pads toward me. I match each forward step of his with an awkward tread backward.
“I, uh, should get going,” I jut my thumb behind me, towards the door. “I have this, you know … thing. With Jasmine.”
“Right,” Rhys nods. “Wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
Why is he still walking toward me?
Probably because there’s no reason he should be embarrassed and flustered like I am right now. It was my messed-up mind that took an innocent massage somewhere far beyond what it was, not his.
“No. Definitely wouldn’t wanna miss it.” I’m babbling now. “I should hurry up. Don’t want to keep Jasmine wait—” my babbling is cut off by a yelp as the back of my ankle connects with a shoe lying on the floor; my feet get tripped up, and I lose my balance.
Rhys dips forward in a jolt of motion, stretching out his arm to curl it around me; but as I tumble down, I cause him to lose his equilibrium, too. His powerful torso twists, shifting his body weight, and the next thing I know, we’re both on the floor, tangled together, my weight resting on top of his heaving chest.
I’m lying on top of him. My breasts are pressed against the hard planes of his muscles. Instantly, my nipples pebble underneath my shirt, and the friction against them as his chest expands on a breath sends an intense, pleasurable feeling snaking through me.
His eyes lock with mine. His irises are clear, sparkling amber, like a shot of whiskey held up to the sun. And I feel like I’m getting drunk just looking at them.
I pull a breath of air through my nose. It’s filled with his scent.
There’s still the familiar trace of cinnamon—I’ve never known if it’s from his soap, his shampoo, a cologne, or what—but today his smell is muskier, heavy with testosterone and raw masculinity from the sweat of his workout. It’s a concoction that has my hormones going mad in a way I’ve never felt before.
I should get up, but I can’t. I can’t break the tether that locks his gaze with mine. All I can do is stay here, breathing him in, my heartbeat pounding so hard that I feel the reverberations through my limbs, down to my fingertips.
His plush lips part slightly, and my heart does a loopy whirl in my chest like it’s writing something in cursive.
They’re open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his pink tongue. Despite my better judgment, I imagine what it would feel like sliding against my own. A wave of heat washes over me, settling low in my core. Humid warmth blasts between my thighs, and I can’t stop the muscles there from clenching.
I roll my own lips together, moistening them. Then they part, wider than Rhys’s, my tongue lingering at their threshold with a restless eagerness.
Rhys’s chin tilts, moving his lips closer to me. I follow his lead, my head dipping down.
What the hell is happening?
Blood pumps fast and hard in my ears, and all I can hear is the deafening roar of my pulse. My whole face burns from my neck to my cheeks to my forehead. My breaths are choppy.
Rhys’s lips open wider—my eyes flutter closed—then?—
His hands grip under my arms, and the next thing I know, Rhys is heaving himself up from the floor, bringing me with him, and then he’s setting me down on my feet.
“You alright?” Rhys asks.
I blink my eyelids heavily. My mind feels like a Jenga tower that just fell over, and it takes a moment for it to resettle.
“Yeah, fine,” I answer, still wound tight. “Are you? Did you hurt your muscles again?”
Rhys rolls his shoulder. “Nah, I’m good.” A heavy beat of silence. “Guess you should, uh … get to that thing. With Jasmine.”
Was I just about to … try to kiss him. And was he about to …?
No way.
Right?
Finally, my brain belatedly registers what he just said.
“Right!” The word pops out of my mouth, too much of an exclamation. “Jasmine. The thing. Yeah. I should go.”
Studiously avoiding his gaze, I tuck my chin down and hurry to the door. When I step outside, it feels like stepping out of a sauna. Only when a cool breeze blows across my brow do I realize it’s damp with sweat.
A long, heavy breath squeezes from my chest. I need some time to myself, to process what just happened. I head to Last Word, where I order a coffee, find a seat next to the big window looking onto the street, and zone out.
No matter how many sips of coffee I take, no matter how many times the hot liquid washes over my lips, they keep buzzing as I imagine the sensation of Rhys brushing his own over them.
And I can’t stop asking myself just how close that was to actually happening.