My mouth opens, a denial on my lips, then he reaches for me. It’s barely a touch, just the tips of his fingers on my elbow, as if he’s planning to guide me back downstairs. It’s the smallest of contact. Nothing really. And yet it’s everything. The small contact burns, ripples outward along my skin with lightning fast intensity, and my breath hitches.

His does too. A quick glance up, and he searches my face as though seeking an affirmation. Whatever he sees must tell him that he’s not alone in this because he doesn’t let go.

Neither of us says another word. Blood rushes hot and thick through my veins, as the backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm. His pulse thrums, quick and visible just beneath the golden skin of his throat. I want to lick that spot, put my mouth there and suck. I want him. I want him so badly that I’m going up in flames.

A quiet, pained sound escapes me as his knuckles drift toward my inner arm, just to the side of my breast. I’m shaking deep within myself, an increasing tremor that spreads outward, until my breath comes in choppy pants that I fight to control.

What am I doing? This is Drew Baylor. Nothing good can come of this. I need to be strong. I need to stop this. To walk away.

I twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing him more.

His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain. Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.

His skin is hot, as if he’s burning up from within. My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned, the cotton of his shirt tickling the back of my hand as I go. He holds so still, when he shivers it’s an earthquake. My questing thumb finds his nipple, and he stops breathing altogether. The little nub of his nipple beneath my thumb turns me on so much, I bite my lip to keep from moaning. Oh, but it’s getting to him too. He swallows audibly, those little tremors within him growing stronger.

I press down hard.

With a choked cry, he stumbles forward, his forearm hitting the wall beside my head as he braces himself. Warm breath caresses my cheek, the sound of his panting filling my ears.

Shaking, Baylor stands there, so close that his heady scent and vivid heat envelop me. I draw that crisp, clean scent in, and grow lightheaded. Unable to resist, I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. He grunts, his hips jerking as if pulled on a string. And then he retaliates.

His long index finger curls around the strap of my top. For a moment, he simply runs his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, each pass drawing closer to my breast. Then he tugs, sliding the strap over my shoulder by agonizing degrees.

Oh, God. My lids flutter. I want to close my eyes but can’t. I’m stuck staring at his rapidly beating pulse, all of my awareness centered on the progress of my strap as it scrapes down my arm, peeling the top over the curve of my breast, which has grown heavy, aching. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conscious of my breasts, of my body.

The top slips further, exposing more skin.

Hurry, I want to cry. I’m shaking by the time the edge of my top catches on the hard bead of my nipple. Stuck.

We both seem to hold our breaths. Beneath my palm, his heart beats fierce and strong. I can feel his stare, covetous and hot. I want him to see me. I want to be exposed to him.

The sound of laughter drifts up, and the deep bass of music has the walls buzzing. Anyone could find us here, see him pulling down my top. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Baylor shifts his weight, sheltering my body from view with his own. That small gesture, his consideration, breaks my resistance. Biting my lip, I arch my back at the very second he tugs again….

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The Friend Zone, Book 2 Game On series excerpt

Have you read Ivy and Gray’s story? Here’s a small preview:

4:13 am. Text to Gray Grayson from unknown source.

Unknown: Mr. Grayson, my father tells me he lent you my car. I don’t really care if he’s going to sign you or not. As said agent’s daughter, I know football players and their ways. So let me be clear. There will be no shenanigans taking place in it or you’ll answer to me. You want to hook up with one of your women, do it in a bed and not in my car.

Sincerely, Ivy Mackenzie.

GrayG: Hey, Miss Mac. You do realize your car is a bubblegum-pink Fiat 500, right? Even if I could get it up surrounded by all that heinous pink, the car is better suited for Lilliputians. So don’t worry, there will be no shenanigans (Shenanigans? Srsly? What are we, 80?) anywhere near the car. I’m not about to pull a hamstring in the pursuit of pleasure.

—Btw, beds are overrated. Branch out a little.

IvyMac: You’re schooling me on my use of shenanigans? Really, Mr. Lilliputian? I don’t know whether to choke on the hypocrisy or be impressed that you know what a Lilliputian is.

I won’t make mention of your pink phobia, and I don’t care where you do your business. Just so long as it isn’t in my car.

GrayG: Yes, I read. Contain your shock. Or maybe chill. I think you’re developing a fascination with my bzness.

IvyMac: Ok. Fine. I was an ass. Or course you read. Read this: one scratch on that car and you bought it.

GrayG: It’s a tempting offer. I mean, who wouldn’t want this car? I’m assuming you take gumdrops as currency?

IvyMac: Sure do, Cupcake. But the car’s not for sale.

GrayG: I see you’ve discovered my inherently sweet and tasty nature. Wait until you taste my frosting.

IvyMac: Eew…Keep your frosting to yourself!

GrayG: Heh. So why are we having this conversation at 4 in the morning? Don’t you sleep?

IvyMac: Sorry. I’m in London. It isn’t four in the morning here. Hey, shouldn’t you be sleeping? Why are you answering my texts anyway? ;-)

GrayG: I don’t know. Some previously unknown masochistic need to argue over a powder-puff car?

IvyMac: I always thought tight ends loved pain.

GrayG: Naw, we bring on the pain, Mac. And have awesome asses. Obviously.

IvyMac: Okay, I’m going now.

GrayG: K. Bye.

IvyMac: Bye.

GrayG: See you.

GrayG: Or not. Because you’re in London.

IvyMac: Gray?

GrayG: Yep.

IvyMac: Go to sleep.

GrayG: K. Night. Or morning. Or whatever.

GrayG: Mac? Hello? Right. You’re gone.

A few hours later…

GrayG: Mac? How do you feel about 18” chrome rims? Pretty sure when you see the result, you’ll love them.

IvyMac: What? You’re shitting me, right?!?

GrayG: Foul language, Miss Mac? I am appalled. Keep that up and I’m going to have to call shenanigans.

IvyMac: Gray! What the fuck did you do to my car?!?

GrayG: Ha! Gotcha. You freaked. Admit it.

IvyMac: I admit nothing!! Are you waking me up to terrorize me as payback for waking you up the other morning?

GrayG: Mac, it’s 8 p.m. in London. Why are you asleep?

IvyMac: Gotta get up at 3:30 a.m. I’m an apprentice at my mom’s bakery

GrayG: Pastries and shit? Oh, God, I’m having a moment.

IvyMac: Like the sweets, big guy?

GrayG: Are you talking dirty to me, Mac?

IvyMac: *eye roll* Is there a real reason for this text?

GrayG: Guess not. Sorry to bug you. Night, Mac.