Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Shutting the door behind me, I exhaled a dry laugh and rubbed my sternum again. Now that I was alone, it hurt.

Don’t think about it. I wouldn’t think about it.

Focus on the positive. I would focus on the positive.

Be grateful you have such a great friend. I would . . .

I blinked against a rush of tears and scrunched my face. “No, no, no. You are not allowed to feel this way. You will not be upset that Byron Visser isn’t besotted with the accident of your genetics. You will get over it.”

Nodding several times and breathing in and out deeply, I walked to my closet and hunted through the pile on the floor. I found the leggings—still in plastic—and retrieved them. During the busy end of the school year, I hadn’t found a spare minute to try them on. This would be the first moment I beheld myself in the magical leggings.

I tossed the package to the bed and pulled off my cargo pants. Then, on a whim, I also pulled off my sweater, which left me in a white tank top, sports bra, and white cotton undies. I turned to the mirror and inspected myself. The sports bra had a hole under the arm and didn’t look great. I removed it and replaced it with a pink lace bra I never wore. It wasn’t very supportive, and the texture of the lace seemed to show through everything. But, to me, my boobs sure did look fantastic.

I have fantastic boobs. I love myself and my body. And it’s okay if Byr—I shook my head, trying again—if other people don’t find me attractive. Because I do.

There. Sexy bra in place, the tank top went back on.

I then switched out my cotton undies with the pink lace underwear that matched the bra and returned to the bed for the leggings. Just as I was pushing my right leg through, there was a knock.

“Where is your phone?” Byron asked through the door.

I pulled the leggings up and stood from the bed. “Why?”

“I’ll set up the shot.”

“It’s in my backpack, next to the couch. My password is 602214.”

There was a pause, a low chuckle, and then, “Avogadro’s number.”

“It’s easy to remember.” Glancing in the mirror, I twisted at the waist and checked out my backside. My mouth dropped open. “Holy cow, these leggings are amazing!” I whispered. My butt had never looked better, and I liked my butt. But this was some next-level shapewear. “I look like a porn star.”

Damn. I am HOT.

I laughed, loving how I looked, and lifted my eyes to my face. I was smiling. Good.

“What did you say?” he asked, sounding farther away.

“Nothing!” I called, breathing in deeply as I continued to admire my body in the leggings and mentally calculating how many I could buy and still afford food this week.

There is someone who will love every part of you, Win. I wrapped my arms around myself and gave me a hug. And it’s perfectly wonderful if it’s only me, because I am awesome.

“Are you recording?” I yelled through the closed door, feeling giddy for some reason.

Actually, I knew why I felt giddy. Byron was so good at these videos, I couldn’t wait to see what he decided to do, how he decided to react. I was sure it would be perfect.

Walking over to the door, I opened it a crack. “I don’t want to leave the room until I know you’re recording.”

“Here . . . now I’m recording. You can come out.”

I hesitated, glancing down at my tank top, the pink bra, the magical leggings, and my bare feet. “Where are you?”

“Sitting on the couch.”

“Okay.”

I took a deep breath, pushed my hair behind my shoulders, and fully opened the door. I spotted his feet first as I came around the corner, crossed at the ankle. Then his calves, knees, and thighs before he came entirely into view.

His attention was focused on the TV, his arms along the back of the couch, and then he lifted his gaze as I said, “Ta-da!”

Byron’s eyes widened, his lips parting. Then his eyes widened even further as they trailed down my body, starting at my chest where I held my arms away and continuing downward. I twisted to one side, then the other. “What do you think?”

He blinked slowly, comically, just once. When he opened his eyes, they were dazed. “Holy—”

“Don’t say it!” I lifted a hand and rushed toward him. “Don’t say it. Let’s keep it PG.”

“Too late,” he rasped out, then snapped his mouth shut. That look of longing he wore when we filmed made its first appearance, causing sweet butterflies to awake low in my stomach.

Such a good actor.

At the very least, if I ever wanted to see this look again, I could always watch our videos.

“What’s supposed to happen now?” he ground out, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. His stare couldn’t seem to settle. Meanwhile, I strolled across the room like I was on a catwalk.

“I’m not really sure. I suppose I walk around for a bit and then go take them off.”

“Oh God.” He covered his face.

“Byron.” I stopped mid-stroll, a hand coming to my hip. I hadn’t spotted my phone yet, but I trusted he’d set it somewhere that would capture all the action. “You’re supposed to look. That’s the entire point of the video.”

Hands still covering his face, his words were muffled. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

I laughed. Hard. Stumbling over to him—because I was laughing so hard—I grabbed his hand, pulled it away from his face and yanked, trying to get him to stand up. “Come on. Look! The whole point is for you to look.”

“Not a good idea.” His voice was so tight and raspy, he sounded distressed.

I turned so my butt was at his eye level and watched him over my shoulder. “Do they look bad?”

“No.” He groaned and closed his eyes.

Through my giggles, I asked, “How can you tell? You have your eyes closed.”

“I saw them when you walked in.”

“So they look good?” I did a little dance, something like the Toxic Dance Challenge I’d been practicing.

His jaw ticked, eyes still closed. “Depends on your definition of good.”

Even though I knew he was acting, I cracked up. “You are hilarious.”

“I’m not.”

I stepped back, spinning around in a circle. Then I danced a hearty jig. “Admire the magical leggings.”

“We should do a different challenge.”

I cracked up again, holding my stomach. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“I thought I could handle it.” He leaned fully forward, burying his face in his hands again. “I can’t. Please, make it stop.”

I hoped we were both in the shot. I didn’t think we’d be able to reenact the hilarity of this moment again. He may have been pretending, but my uncontrollable laughter was 100 percent solid-gold real. I laughed and laughed, enjoying myself and his performance so much more than I should have.

But as much fun as this was, I figured we were good. We’d recorded enough. Time to get back to real life and real Byron.

“Okay. Okay. Where did you put the phone? I’ll put you out of your misery.”

Byron motioned to our little TV stand. “It’s over there.” He leaned back suddenly, opened his eyes, and fastened them to the ceiling.

Giving him one more grin—which he didn’t see since he wasn’t looking at me—I turned to the phone and sashayed over. Bending at the waist, I lifted my thumb to end the video, but then my eyes caught on Byron on the phone screen.

He was watching me now, eyes zeroed in on my backside, and his expression made me pause. Desire that looked painful set the line of his jaw with a hard edge, his mouth an unhappy slant. In our previous videos, he’d looked at me like he adored me. But right now, he was looking at me like I was a meal. And he was starving.

My heart fluttered, and I swallowed past a sudden pang of sadness. I didn’t need to remind myself that he was acting this time. I knew for a fact this was all for show. He’d just literally told me as much after dinner. I knew what was up, and I wouldn’t mistake his mad acting skilz for anything but make believe.

But his excellent performance gave me an idea. Why not knock out two challenges tonight while I was still feeling brave and loose? We could complete the main one I’d been dreading and then I’d never have a reason to touch him again. It would be done, and we could move on to the rest of the videos on the list, none of which required my lips anywhere in the vicinity of his lips.

And that’s how, instead of stopping the video as I’d planned, I ended up straightening and turning back around. His eyes lifted from where they’d been fastened to my bottom for the benefit of my audience, hooking into mine for a fraction of a second before going cold.

Now that I considered the matter, he always did this after our videos. His gaze dimmed, turned remote along with every aspect of his features.

“Did you get what you need?” he asked, voice rough, barely above a whisper. I doubted it would come through on the recording.

“Not quite.” I shook my head, giving him an overexaggerated wink and then shifting my eyes meaningfully to the side toward the phone to let him know I was still filming.

Frowning, he tracked me as I sat on the couch next to him, tucking my legs under me and scooching close. I wondered if I should move the phone to get a better camera angle, but quickly dismissed the thought. This would be fine. Best to get it over with and continue on our friendship path without the ominous cloud of this kiss looming in the distance. What a relief that would be.

Rising to my knees, I smiled softly down at him, my attention fastened to his mouth. If I looked at his beautiful eyes, I’d chicken out. I knew I would.

“Winnie.” I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall with a swallow. “What are you—”

“Shh.” I pressed a finger to his lusciously full lips and leaned closer. Shifting my palm to his jaw, I cupped it, letting myself enjoy the omnipresent stubble, and angled his chin. This is the last time I’ll hold his face in my hand.

His breath hitched as I lowered my head. Our lips touched, just a warm press. But within me, the warmth spiraled, became a raging need, a shock wave surging through my body, heady and addictive, and demanding that I believe this was a real kiss.

Or . . . maybe it could be real? Maybe he could eventually feel about me the way I felt about him. It was well researched that a person’s opinion of another person’s attractiveness could change over time and—

No. Do NOT go down that road.

All at once, I knew I needed to break contact before I experienced another of those embarrassing episodes where I forgot we were being filmed. He was acting, and this was all pretend.

Lifting my chin, the kiss box now checked, I managed to paste some semblance of a smile on my features as my eyes fluttered open and met his. I’d expected to feel relief. Instead, all I felt was unsteady, unsatisfied sorrow, and certain I’d made a huge mistake.

As I leaned back, Byron glared at me, his lips gently parted. Or I tried to lean back, but I couldn’t. His hands had moved to my hips without me realizing and his fingers dug into the flesh of my backside, holding me in place.

A moment passed where we looked at each other, his gaze stormy, his breathing hard. I distracted myself from the sorrow I felt and the snare of his achingly believable performance by making mental notes about how to edit the video and what captions to include. This, right here, would be a good spot to end it, leave the audience wondering what happened next. I was about to say as much, but in the next breath, Byron surged forward.

Gripping my jaw and angling my chin, his mouth fastened to mine, seeking, starved, devastating, kissing without finesse. He moved us from vertical to horizonal as he laid me back on the couch, climbing over me and between my legs.

This is fake, this is fake, this is fake was the ineffectual chant inside my head timed to the rapid beat of my heart. I arched beneath him, genuinely hungry for the feel of his weight, his body. I widened my thighs to accommodate the hard press of hips. The fingers at my jaw moved to spear into my hair and closed around the strands, his movements jerky and unpracticed, tugging my head back, forcing me to open for him. I did, an involuntary moan slipping out as his tongue pushed inside.

A whole-body shiver had my arms convulsively pulling him closer, my feet searching for purchase so I could tilt and angle my hips to feel that exquisite hardne—

I gasped. He groaned. And my brain screamed THIS IS FAKE!

And yet it didn’t feel fake. Nothing about it felt fake. The hardness rubbing between my legs didn’t feel fake. His hands working to shove my tank higher didn’t feel fake. His fingers pulling down the cup of my bra with shaking hands certainly didn’t feel fake.

“Byron—” I choked. My breast was in his palm. He was touching me, massaging me, so greedy and grasping, and he was—and I—and—ohmyfuckinggodthatfeelssogooooood!

“You want me to stop?” he asked darkly against my neck, his tone arrogant, like he didn’t doubt the answer and only asked the question to mock me. How had his arrogance become so sexy? He rocked his hips forward again and I felt the entire, solid length of him.

That’s how. Arrogance can be sexy. When it’s reflective of reality, when it’s deserved, it’s sexy. That big dick straining against his fly, that’s why it’s sexy.

Byron did something illegal and sinful with his tongue in my ear, and I shuddered as he asked again, “Should I stop?”

“No, no. But—”

“Shh. No talking.” He pulled away and whipped off his shirt, revealing the stunning expanse of his gorgeous body. My mouth went dry, and I’m sure I made a completely nonsensical sound of pure lust, my hands sculpting to his abdominals. He felt absolutely unreal, hot and hard and perfect, and I wondered how (or if) I’d ever be able to return to a normal life after this. His body made me want to kneel and pray. Touching him was, legit, a religious experience.

Meanwhile, his eyes trailed down to my skin he’d exposed, grew impossibly darker, hungrier, sending my racing heart straight to my throat.

But I managed to choke out, “Byron, what are you—”

“Shut the fuck up, Win. Please.”

“The pho—oh God!” I threw my head back as his mouth closed over my nipple, sucking it between his lips like he’d been without sustenance his entire life, his tongue doing more illegal and sinful maneuvers while he grabbed the other bra cup, yanked it down, caught the center of my breast with his thumb and stroked, the touch nearly frantic.

His mouth continued giving my right breast the rough treatment while his searching hand slid down the side of my rib cage, my hip, to move between my legs and cup me over the magic leggings while I panted, trying to remember what important thing I needed to tell him. There was something, something critical, something about—

“The phone is still recording!”