Your Boy Best Friend

The air in the room was suffocating, thick with the weight of a decade’s worth of unspoken tension. I was rambling again, trying to fill the silence with the same safe, childhood-friend banter, when she finally snapped. In one blur of motion, she was on top of me, her knees pinning my thighs and her hands slamming my wrists into the pillows with enough force to make the bedframe groan.

I gasped, my back arching instinctively, but I didn't fight her. I couldn't. The fire in her eyes was terrifying and beautiful, and it paralyzed me in the best way possible. When her hands left my wrists to tear at my shirt, I didn't reach up to stop her; I let my arms fall back, my fingers curling into the sheets as I surrendered.

The sound of buttons hitting the floor was loud in the quiet room. I watched her, my chest heaving, as she worked with a desperate, frantic hunger that made my blood turn to liquid heat. Every graze of her knuckles against my skin sent a jolt through me, but I remained utterly still, a willing captive to her frustration.

"I'm tired of wondering," she growled against my neck, her breath hot and demanding.

I swallowed hard, my head falling back as I exposed my throat to her. "Then stop wondering," I choked out, my voice wrecked and trembling. "I’m right here. I’ve always been right here. Just take it."