Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FINN
The drive back to Genevieve’s house is quiet. Not the comfortable kind of silence we’re used to, but the thick, suffocating kind that presses against my ribs.
Genevieve stares out the passenger window, her fingers absently tracing a pattern on the door handle. I grip the steering wheel tighter, unable to stop thinking about what my sister said.
Is there another reason I go above and beyond for Genevieve?
Of course, I care about her. She’s my best friend. She has been since we were in diapers.
But is there more to it? Is there a deeper reason I always go out of my way for Genevieve?
Damn Dylan and her stupid remarks.
Why does she seem to know exactly what to say to make me second-guess everything?
I pull into Genevieve’s driveway and shift my truck into park. Neither of us moves right away. It’s like we both know once we step out, we’ll face an ending we can’t prevent.
If she gets pregnant, this arrangement is over. We go back to being friends, nothing more.
I should be okay with that.
Then why does every cell in my body feel like it’s revolting against the prospect of tonight being the last time I ever feel her?
Genevieve’s the first to move, unbuckling her seatbelt and sliding out. I follow, my feet heavier with each step toward her front door. We both remain silent as she lets us inside, locking the door behind her before heading down the hallway.
And again, I follow.
When we reach the bedroom, she turns to face me. The low light catches the uncertainty in her gray eyes, amplifying the tension in my chest and making it ache all over again.
“Last night,” she murmurs.
I’m not sure if it’s for her benefit or mine.
I nod, my throat thick. “Last night.”
Then we lunge for each other.
Her mouth crashes against mine, our bodies moving with a desperation that feels like finality.
There’s no hesitation. No slow build-up. Just raw, unrestrained need.
Her fingers tear at my shirt, and my hands slide beneath the hem of hers, brushing warm skin as I pull it over her head. There’s no careful restraint. No keeping my distance, even emotionally.
I let myself have her.
Because after this, I may never have her again.
We strip each other bare, and when I lower her onto the bed, I force myself to slow down. To savor . I settle between her legs, holding her gaze as I push inside her, drinking in every flicker of pleasure on her expression.
I lace my fingers through hers, anchoring myself in the moment. She doesn’t push me to go faster, and I don’t rush. We stay like this, moving in sync, stretching every second, like we both know this might be the last time.
And I hate the thought.
But I knew what I was getting into. Get her pregnant, and we go back to being friends.
Can I go back to being friends, though?
“Hold on, beautiful,” I croon when I feel her tighten around me.
We’ve only been intimate for mere days, but in that short time I’ve learned to read her body. Know where she needs me to touch her. Know when she needs it faster. And I know when she’s about to lose all control.
Like right now.
I lower my lips toward hers. “I want to come with you.”
“I don’t know if I can hold on much longer.” Her legs tighten around my waist, her voice breaking. “You feel too good.”
When she drags her nails down my spine, I lose what little control I managed to hold on to, her touch propelling me higher and higher.
I pulse into her, increasing my rhythm as I chase the feeling of bliss I’ve only experienced with her. Her breaths become ragged and uneven, and I drive into her with more desperation. Finally, she releases a strangled cry, her walls spasming around me at the same time as I jerk through my release, crashing my lips to hers in what I fear will be the last time I ever kiss her.
Even when I have nothing left, I don’t stop kissing her.
And she doesn’t push me away.
Instead, she clings to me, her hands ghosting over my skin as if she’s memorizing what I feel like. Like she doesn’t want this to end any more than I do.
But it has to.
Because the longer I stay here, the harder it will be to walk away.
The more I’ll want something I have no business wanting.
I reluctantly bring our kiss to an end, and pull back, searching her face for something. A reason to stay. A reason to pretend this isn’t the end.
She parts her lips like she’s going to say something, then shakes her head and forces a smile. “I’ll let you know if it worked and we can determine next month’s schedule if needed.”
The words knock the wind out of me. They’re clinical. Detached.
Like this was nothing more than a means to an end.
Which is exactly what it is.
“Sounds good.” My response tastes bitter as I push myself up and reach for my clothes, dressing in silence.
At the door, I glance back at her, her eyes shadowed with something I can’t quite name.
Then I turn and walk away before I make the mistake of doing something that might destroy our friendship more than my offer to knock her up in the first place.