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“Flynn,” I say, but then I trail off, words failing me.

“Kiss me, Rowan.” His hands come up and rest warmly on my thighs. His gaze travels down briefly to my chest and I glance down to see what has caught his attention. My shirt is soaked through and my nipples are pushing hard against the material. When I look back at Flynn, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip while he stares at my breasts.

When he looks back to my eyes, he merely says, “Please” and it’s all over for me. I lean forward, bringing my hands to cradle his face. When my lips meet his, his mouth is already open and waiting and my tongue dives straight in. The kiss is instantly molten and desire rockets through my body.

Proving that Flynn’s workouts clearly focus on strong abs, he sits straight up, bringing my weight up with him. Without breaking the kiss, he wraps my legs around his waist and pushes me down onto his lap. I’m met with the thick bulge that is pressing against his fly and I can’t stop myself when my hips move to run myself against his hardness.

Flynn answers my move by gripping my waist and pushing me down even harder against him, all the while ravaging my mouth. My head is spinning, lost in the sensation of this kiss, the way our hips moving against each other causes moisture to flood between my legs.

Tearing his lips off mine, Flynn pushes his nose into my neck and whispers his lips against me, “Fuck, Rowan... I want you so bad. Tell me you want me to.”

Somewhere—deep down in my brain—something is yelling at me to stop. I push it away from me, refusing to listen. My body is taking over and my brain has no business butting in.

“I do,” is all I say and then he’s kissing me again.

Flynn’s hands grab the bottom of my shirt and he peels it upward. Our faces break apart so he can get the offending material up and over my head. He throws it carelessly aside but rather than kissing me again, he merely leans back and looks at my breasts. Bringing his hand up, he lightly runs his knuckles over the swells and valley. “Christ... you’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

His voice is so reverent I have to close my eyes so I can just revel in it for a moment. No man has ever looked at me with such worship.

My eyes snap open when I realize Flynn has leaned forward and flicked his tongue over my nipple. I gasp in surprise and pleasure. He peeks up at me with a mischievous smile, his hazel eyes barely showing through his lashes, and places his lips back against my breast.

“You’re so responsive,” he says, while his lips graze my skin. It causes a ripple of pleasure to shoot through me. I’ve never been this reactive with a man before, but with the barest of touches or a few sensual words, my body almost explodes in pleasure.

I remember the dream I had about Flynn—the orgasm that fired through me with him just kissing behind my knee, and I realize that I’m responsive to Flynn because there is a deeper connection there than any I’ve ever felt before.

It is born of a relationship that was forged under very unique circumstances, and then cemented due to the fact that Flynn is a genuine soul. He’s been about the most perfect friend I could ever wish for.

And that thought douses me with cold water. Because it all comes flooding back to me. Flynn is my friend, and that is all I want him to be.

Right?

Yes, right. That is all he can be. If we make this sexual, then friendship is excluded. I think that is the way things work, at least to my limited knowledge.

Even though Flynn’s mouth is working at my nipple and I want nothing more than him to fuck me into oblivion, the voice in my head is now screaming so loud, I can’t ignore it.

Grabbing Flynn’s head, I gently push him away.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as I scrabble up from his lap. Grabbing my t-shirt, I hold it in front of me. I look down into Flynn’s confused expression. “I can’t do this.”

Then I turn and run for my bedroom.

14

I’m sitting in the driveway outside of my parents’ house. We’re having an impromptu family dinner to which I invited Rowan, but she declined. It’s been a tiny bit awkward between us for the last few weeks, and I’m awash in frustration.

Closing my eyes, I lean back against the headrest and think of the kiss we shared in the kitchen. It was filled with as much passion as the first kiss but with added sexual intensity. There is no doubt in my mind that we were headed for a full-blown fuck-a-thon when Rowan pulled away from me.

When I think about the look she had on her face, my stomach twists into a painful knot. It was filled with longing and sadness but even worse, there was fear.

I followed her back to her bedroom to find her sitting on her bed, hands by her side, head hanging down. She had put the wet t-shirt back on and didn’t look up when I walked in.

“Rowan... what’s wrong?” I had asked.

She shook her head, refusing to meet my eyes. Not to be deterred, I stepped right up to her and knelt at her feet. Placing my hands on her knees, I asked again, “Please tell me what’s wrong. Did I do something to upset you?”

I held my breath while I waited for her answer, because honestly, the only thing I could think of—the most terrible thought that was running through my head—was that Rowan had suffered from some type of sexual trauma.

Her eyes met mine and they were still sad, but there was no longer fear there. I’m assuming because there wasn’t an ounce of sexual tension between us right at the time. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Did I misread your signals?” I asked, wanting to know fully why she pulled away.

Again, she shook her head. “I wanted you as much as you wanted me.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Rowan brought her hands up and placed them over mine. She looked at me with such sincerity I knew that whatever she was getting ready to lay on me would be a belief so rooted into her very fiber, that there would be no swaying her from it.

“Flynn,” she said, her voice filled with resolve. “I can’t risk my friendship with you. Turning this into something sexual would do that. It would ruin our friendship and frankly, you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had. I don’t want to lose that.”

“But it wouldn’t—” I started to insist but she cut me off.

“It would. Things always change when sex is involved.”

They get better, I wanted to shout at her. It would be fucking fantastic if we could build this relationship higher.

But Rowan wasn’t having any of it. She just leaned forward and laid a very chaste kiss on my cheek, and murmured, “I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

Rowan woke up the following morning, and greeted me with exuberance. She chattered away about being excited to start working for Nix, and that we were out of laundry detergent but that she’d pick some up on the way home, and that she appreciated me looking out for Capone during the day while she was gone. It’s like nothing had ever transpired between us and the kiss was forgotten.

The only small measure of satisfaction I got was from throwing the friend card out and slapping her in the face with it. We had a small argument the next morning when she got ready to leave. I grabbed my keys off the counter and tossed them at her.

“Take my car,” I had said.

She caught them deftly and then tossed them right back. “No way. I’m taking public transit.”

“Rowan,” I warned, tossing the keys back to her, “as your friend, I am offering you my car and saving you forty-five minutes on your commute. Don’t be an ass—be a friend. Just take the damn car.”

She caught the keys and opened her mouth to argue, but then she snapped it shut. “Fine. But I’m filling your car up with gas each week.”