A Long Time Coming (Cane Brothers, #3)(99)

“Are you saying this is a punishment? Because it doesn’t feel like one.” Really enjoying his warmth at the moment.

“It will be when I roll away in the middle of the night, and you fall off the bed,” he replies.

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

He chuckles. “If you were my girlfriend, then yeah, I’d let you do whatever you want. But that’s not the case here. You’re just the trolling best friend.”

“Trolling, wow,” I tease. “Care to explain to me how this hold is different? Because it seems like you’re spooning me like a girlfriend.”

“Nah.” He blows out. “This is friendly. If you were my girlfriend, my hand would be in an entirely different place.”

“Ugh, men, always wanting their hand between a woman’s legs.”

“That’s not where I was thinking.”

“Oh sorry, boobs.” I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see them.

“Not what I was thinking either,” he whispers.

“Oh . . . uh . . . butt crack? Not my first choice, seems stifling to a hand, but to each their own.”

He lightly chuckles, and I can feel him shake his head behind me. “Wrong again.”

“Well, call me confused because I can’t think of any other place to stick your hand. I mean, down my mouth, but that feels like a choking hazard.”

“I wouldn’t stick my hand in any of those places,” he says as he slowly splays his hand across my stomach, causing it to hollow out from his touch. “You see, it’s not about the obvious touch. It’s about the subtle one.” He glides his hand down to the patch of skin on my stomach that’s exposed and very lightly runs his finger across it. “This is how I would touch her. Just light enough to let her know I’m here, but not too much to make her think I want more.”

“Oh,” I say, slightly breathless because, Jesus, that feels good. “Brian, uh . . . he never touched me like that. He wasn’t much of a cuddler.”

“His loss,” Breaker says as he continues to run his fingers along my skin.

“He never did much with me. It makes me wonder if he just didn’t find me attractive.”

“Impossible.” His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, slipping just lightly under it. “You are desirable, Lia.” His voice dips, his lips close to my ear while his hand slides another inch under my shirt, causing my body to heat.

I lie there, stunned, and unable to move through the fog of alcohol consuming my brain. I keep thinking, what is he doing? Is he really touching me intimately? But in the back of my mind, I want him to move faster.

“I’ve never felt desirable,” I say as his warm palm connects with my stomach now, his hand fully under my shirt.

“Because you haven’t been with the right man,” he says, shifting his body closer so I feel the heat of his bare chest on my back. “If you were with the right man, then he’d always know how to treat you so you know you’re desirable.”

His hand inches up my stomach just enough that his thumb lightly drags across the skin under my breasts.

Fuck.

Heat consumes me, and my cheeks are on fire as my stomach dips and bows while he slowly inches his hand back down my stomach until he reaches the spot just above the waistband of my shorts. A tingling sensation shoots through my veins as his pinky runs along the elastic of my shorts. I bite the side of my cheek, my pulse pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

“Everything about you is desirable, Lia,” he says as he pulls me in even closer so my butt lines up against his pelvis. And then, surprising me to my core, he dips his pinky finger past the waistband of my shorts. I gasp, my chest filling with unexpected hope that he’ll dip farther, but before I can even consider the ramifications, he drags his fingers back up.

His touch is so light, barely even there, but with the feel of his chest against mine and the briefest physical contact, my entire body’s reacting, causing a cool sweat.

“You’re . . . you’re making me feel . . .”

“What?” he asks as he plants his hand just below my breasts.

His thumb moves up and down, up and down, barely missing where I want him to caress me, creating this inferno so deep in my bones that I start to ache.

Ache for his touch.

For his hand.

For him to move it farther south.

An action I never thought I’d desire from my best friend, but here I am, mentally wishing and begging for him to spread me and make me feel anything but empty.

“Breaker,” I say, my voice breathless.

“Hmm?” he asks, moving his hand back down so the tips of his fingers slip past the waistband of my shorts.

Yes, God, yes.

Go farther.

Touch me, please.

My eyes squeeze shut as my pelvis voluntarily tilts up. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t need this. I shouldn’t want to get lost at this moment. This is the alcohol, right? This is the loss of a fiancé . . . right? I’m feeling lonely.

I’m confused.

That’s all.

I don’t . . . I don’t want Breaker. He’s my best friend.

But then his fingers drag along the skin right above my pubic bone, and my body shifts, twisting an inch to my back. It’s subtle, but it forces his fingers to fall even closer.