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Admittedly, I’m an a**hole. Okay, that might give you an unfair opinion of me if taken out of context. So let me explain myself.
Every guy knows the Bro Code. It’s kind of a package deal with the thing swinging between our legs. You can’t have one without the other. And the highest of all the Bro Codemmandments is do not—under any circumstances—have sexual thoughts about your best friend’s sister. And no, there is not an amendment clause for when she’s beautiful, smart, witty, and can kiss you breathless in under three point five seconds—yes, I counted. I’ve asked around the Brommunity and apparently that rule is deemed unbreakable. Which brings me back to my first point—I’m an a**hole.
In my defense, I didn’t know she was his little sister when she moved into the apartment next door. I also didn’t know when she was ripping my shirt off in her living room—don’t get the wrong idea, she just wanted to wash it. And I definitely didn’t know when aforementioned kiss had me stumbling over my words, her tongue, and my own two feet. But that’s as far as it went—and will go! I swear. From this point forward, we are just Good Neighbors.
“How am I teasing you?” I ask choppily, still trying to catch my breath from being scared to death only moments earlier.
“You’re purposely aiming that all powerful ass of yours in my direction so that I’d see it as soon as I walk out my front door.”
I laugh off his accusation. See, this is what we can do—what we have been doing nonstop since we met up again. Harmless flirty banter and witty quips back and forth. But despite that, neither one of us ever advances to the next step. This is the Neutral Zone. And that’s where we have to stay—where we both agreed to stay. Right now, it’s time to serve the ball back to him.
Taking a few steps forward, I crowd him, closing the space between us as I step in between his legs. Our bodies are mere inches apart. Liam’s back is pressed up against his apartment door. I feel oh-so powerful as we lock leers and I bring my voice to a low, sultry whisper. “Is it working?”
He swallows hard. I can hear his breath catch deep in his throat. When I place a hand on his chest, I can feel his heartbeat thrum swiftly under my fingertips.
“Why don’t you frisk me and find out?” He suggests with a dopey grin.
His words trip around in my head, my pulse quickening as his suggestive tone washes over me. Intense heat is radiating within my body at such an insane temperature that I feel that I’m about to internally combust into ashes. It isn’t so much that he asked me to feel him up that is making me so turned on. But rather the fact that I really fucking want to. Right here. Right now. And I don’t give a flying rat’s ass as to who might see or who might be watching.
About the Author:
J.P. Nicholas has the great misfortune to be A Male Romance Writer. Turns out, men are also hopeless romantics, given half the chance, and Nicholas’ fascination with love began long before he could write. His parents–high school sweethearts who are still mad for each other–left him enamored with the idea of true love, and its ability to transform and redeem even the most jaded soul. Nicholas lives to capture this magic, lust, and passion on the page; his characters known for their sizzling chemistry and chest-squeezing plot lines.
When J.P. Nicholas isn’t tapping away at his laptop, he can be found in his home state of Florida, binge-watching This Is Us with his girlfriend, or devouring Italian food with his family. His latest novel, Just Pretend, is a friends-to-lovers drama and the first in his new Sandy Heights series, to be released in June. Get in touch with the author via Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, or his website.
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