Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City #2)(53)
Author: Penny Reid

“So, are you coming with us out to dinner?”

I shrugged, though my attention was focused on where his fingers slipped over the cup of the bra. “I don’t know. I’m pretty tired and I need to be back at ten for Angelica’s treatment.”

He lifted the bra slightly. “This is the one you were wearing during your panty party, right?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.” That was a lie. I did know. Watching him finger the fabric was doing delicious things to me. He needed to stop. “You can unhand my bra now.”

“It is the same one.” His eyes narrowed as they studied the slip of material. “Where are the matching panties?”

My stomach tightened. Nico Manganiello should not be allowed to say panties. “I don’t know. What an absurd question.” That was a lie. I did know. They were in the top drawer of my dresser.

“You should wear them, and this, tonight.”

“Ha . . .” My attempt at nonchalance came out more like a breathless choke. “How would you feel if I dictated your undergarments?”

He met my gaze directly, his expression and tone serious. “I wouldn’t object.”

Another staring match. My heart quickened. I suddenly could not stand the fact that he was holding my bra, his thumb drawing circles over the center of the cup with a reverence the material didn’t deserve. I deserved that touch, and I was jealous of my underwear.

I needed him to stop.

“Stop doing that. Put it down.” I charged over to where he stood and reached for my brassiere.

He held it above his head and to the side. His eyes watched me with a scorching intensity as I reached for the undergarment again, bumped against him as I clawed at his arm. I didn’t realize at first, but he’d turned slightly and was backing me up. By the time I successfully reached and held the bra, he was emphatically filling every molecule of my personal space, and I was trapped, my back against the closet door. I was also breathing heavy. My chest touched his with every rise and fall.

He was looking at my mouth, and he licked his lips, slowly, drawing the full bottom one—the one I often thought of as juicy—between his teeth and sucking, biting it before releasing it. My eyelids felt heavy. In fact, I felt heavy all over.

And I felt hot. I felt hot and heavy all over.

He was so close I could count the individual eyelashes that fanned against his cheek.

Nico leaned forward, and I thought, just for a spare second, that he was going to kiss me. If he kissed me I was planning to kiss the hell out of him. Instead his mouth moved to my ear, and his knee moved between my legs, his thigh against my center. He tasted the tip of my ear, his hot breath fanning against my neck, and I shuddered.

“Elizabeth . . .”

I whimpered in response; his leg shifted, the movement causing a delicious friction between my thighs. I automatically gripped his shoulders to steady myself.

He trailed hot, tender kisses from my ear to my neck. I lifted to my tiptoes; my fingers found their way into his hair, and I pressed him closer, arching against him.

I needed to kiss him. Like, needed to kiss him. I needed his mouth, and I needed to bite his bottom lip, and I needed to feel the wet warmth of his tongue against mine. But, before I could make my need my reality he pulled away, turned away, and walked away. He left me, back against the door, gasping for breath and with the worst blue bean of my life.

Blue bean being, of course, the female equivalent of blue balls.

My lashes fluttered open, and I was thankful to have the solid weight of the door behind me. If I’d been left adrift in the middle of the room I might have fallen over or crumpled into an embarrassing puddle of arousal on the floor.

“. . . Nico?” I flinched at how small and unsure my voice sounded. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything further; not until I had a plan, and not until that plan involved not hot monkey sex.

He didn’t turn, didn’t look at me. He stood in profile, his hands on his hips. He also seemed to be breathing with some difficulty. He swallowed then cleared his throat. “You should—” He cleared his throat again, this time louder; “You should get ready. The reservation is for seven-thirty.”

I held my breath, waited for him to say something else. When he said nothing I felt my eye twitch. “What?”

“I’m sorry about— I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t very . . . friendly of me.”

I stared at him, at his exasperatingly beautiful face. It took a full ten seconds for his words to sink in. When they did I felt like I was being torn into several small pieces.

“I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyebrow lifting along with a corner of his mouth. “Being friends isn’t optional.” He stalked back to me, his steps full of swagger, his eyes full of blazing machismo. “We can be friends and something else.” He lifted his hand to my temple and tucked a loosened strand of hair behind my ear. “But we’re always going to be friends.”

I smacked his hand away. “No. We’re not. We’re not friends anymore. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Why?”

I lifted my chin. “Because I’m tired of your games.”

He had the audacity to look pleased with himself. “Games? What games?”

“That. Right there. What just happened a second ago. And the  p**n ographic shirtless apple-fritters scene last Sunday and the ‘friend kiss’ and the straddling last night. You’re playing with me and I don’t like it.”

“I’m not playing with you.”

“Yes. You are. You know that I want you . . .” I swallowed the end of my sentence, suddenly out of breath. His eyes flashed at my words, and he shifted forward. I placed a hand on his chest to keep him from coming any closer, having already admitted too much. “You know how much I want you and you’re trying to use it against me, you’re teasing me with it, pushing me, trying to cloud my judgment.”

“If you want me then take me.” The words were impatient, sounded like an order.

“It’s not that simple. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Nico’s eyes tangled with mine, ensnared me.

“I will.” I wasn’t so certain anymore.

“It’s too late. You already have me.”

I started to shiver. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“You’re not being fair.”

Nico flinched and pain flickered within his green eyes. He struck the wall next to my head, causing me to jump. “I don’t want to be fair! I’m not interested in being nice! You’re right. I’m playing games with you and I’m playing dirty because I want you, I need you, to be with you, to hear your voice, your laugh, to hold you, to touch you . . .”

I held back a sob, and he pressed closer, making my hand against his chest irrelevant. “I can’t love you back.”

“That’s a lie.”

I shook my head, closed my eyes. “It’s not. I can’t, I won’t do it.”

We stood like that—my hand separating us, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the beating of his heart—for an excruciating moment. Then he covered my hand with his. I opened my eyes in time to see him bring it to his lips, kiss it, then step away.

I lifted my eyes, and he caught them at once. Instead of the anger or recrimination I was expecting, I found only steady determination.

Nico tugged at the lapels of his jacked and smoothed his hand down his tie. “Are you coming to dinner?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Okay, then.” He nodded, placed a severe smile on his lips. He winked. “Game on.”

Chapter 21

When cornered, I have a tendency to react much like any other hot-blooded control freak—I do something stupid. In this particular case, I waited two days before doing something stupid. Nevertheless, it was decidedly stupid; so stupid in fact that, while I was getting ready for the stupid not-date, I kept thinking to myself: Self, this is the most stupidest thing that anyone has ever done in the history of forever.

Regardless, there I was, sitting in front of my mirror, going through the motions of getting ready for my not-date with Dr. Ken Miles. My stomach hurt; I had a headache; my body was revolting; my heart felt sick. And yet, I applied a liberal amount of blue mascara.

I was wearing cotton underwear and a sports bra—basically the equivalent of a boob chastity belt—and settled on a pair of black, wide-legged pants. Sandra told me once that they made me look extremely short and suggested I never wear them. But, tonight, I wore them. And under the pants I wore leggings . . .because it was cold outside. My shirt had both buttons and ties, and I added two sweaters on top, both with buttons and ties. My shoes were unsexy, laced flats which took forever to get in and out of.

I gave myself a once over in the mirror. Yep. That was me. And I looked just about ready to go. It would only take me one hour to get out of this outfit when sexy time arrived.

Thinking about sexy time with Dr. Ken Miles made my stomach roll.

This was a mistake.

But, in all honesty, I felt driven to it. Since mine and Nico’s fight on Tuesday—because it was most definitely a fight—he’d been relentless. The last two mornings he paraded around penthouse in his boxer briefs, brushing against me, teasing me, touching me.