He pulled me against him instantly, the tension between us palpable. I closed my eyes and tried to force myself to count down so I’d calm, but there was no getting around it.
“Please, Bastian,” I begged him. “Don’t torture me anymore.”
His body was hard, rigid against mine, and I felt tears spilling down my cheeks out of pure desperation, knowing I couldn’t be with him, knowing he couldn’t be mine.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered against my hair. “I don’t want to cross lines.”
A small gasp left me.
He had his fingers on my chin, gently tilting my head back. His eyes bore into mine, a thousand unspoken words left between us, but only three of them really mattered. And neither of us said them.
“I shouldn’t,” he groaned.
“Then let me go.” It was an empty sentence, because I didn’t want him to let me go.
I was pushing his buttons, unable to resist the pull between us any longer.
“Never.” He moved his fingers to my cheek, gently sliding them down my neck, over my collarbones, his eyes glued to mine.
“Please, Bastian,” I said then, my voice hoarse from every feeling I’d held back for years. “Don’t make this worse than it is. Don’t take it away from me.”
“Take what away?” he asked. “This?” His fingers lingered over the top of my breast before going lower, gently gliding along the mound and making me hiss in response. “I’d never take that away from you, sugar plum.”
“I need you.” My voice was barely audible as I finally said those words. I did need him. I’d needed him for so long. But it was the first time he was open to it. There were no lingering looks this time. They were replaced by faint, desperate touches, eager for more but knowing very well that pushing that limit would change our relationship forever.
For the very first time, I felt the struggle so profoundly. I felt his love for me. And I wanted him. God, how I wanted him.
Before he could stop me, running on the last few fumes of the drinks I’d had that night, I pushed my body forward until my lips met his. His mouth opened in a groan and I took it, swallowing that sound with my lips firmly pressed against his, kissing him with every ounce of desperation, the last vestige of eagerness to hide my feelings for him flying out the window.
I could feel his hardness pressing against me, but he didn’t reciprocate at first. He just stood there, cemented to the spot, as if he were too stunned to do anything in response. But when my tongue darted out and slid between my lips, gently touching his, it was as if something broke deep within him. The alcohol made me feel wanton, giving me the courage to just go for it, moving through me like another entity clawing its way up and out of me.
The illusion was broken. I was no longer his best friend’s daughter. I was a woman, pure and simple. I was a woman he wanted so badly he didn’t care what lines got blurred.
I craved him. I needed him.
I was a woman who was going to take what she deserved.
“Don’t stop,” he muttered against my lips, and I deepened our kiss, moaning softly against his mouth. With my body firmly pressed against his, he had nowhere else to go, and finally, his resolve broke. And when it did, it was as if a dam had come down, the boundaries we’d put on ourselves instantly shattering.
He kissed me back. His mouth enveloped mine in a show of true love, and I melted into his embrace, moaning his name against his lips and ready to give him whatever he wanted.
“I’ve waited so long,” I whispered, and he kissed the words off my lips. “Please don’t make me wait any longer, Bastian.”
“I’ve waited so fucking long for you, baby. I’m never going to deny us again.” His hands found their way to the small of my back, gently massaging the pressure points there. “Just tell me one thing. Are you sober enough to make this decision?”
I was. Stone-cold sober and ready to experience every second I’d lost with him. I nodded my approval, pulling back so I could look into his eyes. “God, yes.”
He groaned and kissed me again, a deep one that made me want so much more. My heart sped up at the thought of finally having him, of being his… the way it was supposed to be from my eighteenth birthday.
“Good,” he finally said, his voice deep and booming and moving throughout my whole body erotically.
I was ready. I was so ready.
There was no way I could have stopped myself even if I’d wanted to.
And I sure as hell didn’t want to.
I cupped my hand on the back of her head, held her in place, and leaned forward. For a second, all we did was stare into each other’s eyes and breathed the same air. I felt guilt for being with her, for betraying my friendship with her father. But I loved Holly, and there was no way I could let go of her. Figuratively or literally.