Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Byron’s sudden temper shift persisted. He seemed deep in thought as we walked to our suite and remained quiet once we walked inside. We ended up taking turns in the bedroom, changing into our pajamas. This struck me as a little odd, the fact that we took turns, considering the photos we’d been sending back and forth to each other.

While I changed, Byron chose a movie which we watched from our separate corners on the small couch. But since it was so small, our legs touched, and the small contact plus not knowing why he was acting so distant made my biology go haywire.

Following the opening credits, I couldn’t stand the mounting tension and blurted, “Will you lay your head on my lap?”

He glanced at me. “Pardon?”

My chest tight, I pulled my legs up so that I sat cross-legged. “No pressure, but will you lay your head on my lap? I like to play with your hair.”

Byron stared at me for a long moment, and I grew antsy, wondering if I’d just made another mistake.

But then he scooched back as far as he could and placed his head on my lap, grumbling, “Would pressuring me be such a bad thing?”

I frowned at the side of his face. “You want me to pressure you?”

“I want you to expect more from me,” he said flatly, like I frustrated him.

Staring at his profile, I felt my frown intensify along with my confusion, not realizing I’d been holding my hands curled against my chest until he reached up and planted them on his head.

“Play with my hair,” he said, a demand. Then he crossed his arms and glared at the TV, our conversation now over, time to be quiet and watch the movie.

Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t concentrate on the film. He wants me to expect more from him . . .?

What did that mean? More how? And how could I expect more from someone who left for a month to New York and didn’t tell me of his plans until he was already on the plane? Irritation pressed against my ribs like fingernails clacking on a hard surface, impossible to ignore.

But then Byron shifted, making a grunting noise, and I noticed how awkwardly he was lying. The couch was simply too small for his big body.

As though reading my mind, he grunted again and said, “Do you mind if we move to the floor?”

I lifted my hands away. “No. Not at all. In fact, I was just going to suggest it.”

We relocated to the carpet in front of the couch, Byron taking a moment to shove the coffee table out of the way before surprising me by laying his head in my lap and planting my fingers in his hair again.

“Much better.” He sighed contentedly, snuggling his cheek against my thigh.

Smiling to myself at his catlike show of affection, I glanced behind us at the couch. It really was quite small.

“I should sleep on the couch. It’s way too small for you.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said, like the matter was settled.

“That’s not possible. You’ll never get to sleep. You won’t fit.”

“We’ll discuss it later.” He turned to peer up at me, his fingers rising to thread into the hair just above my neck. Then, once again surprising me, Byron’s head lifted while he brought mine downward, our lips meeting in the middle with a firm caress.

My hands stilled in his hair, my breath caught in my lungs, he kissed me. It wasn’t chaste and quick like when I’d kissed him for the camera, but it wasn’t frantic and fast like those kisses that followed. It was slow and sensual, savoring, his lips soft and warm, his tongue teasing and tasting.

And then, with a sly little nibble, it was over. He let me go, his head falling back to my lap to snuggle against my thigh, his attention returning to the TV. And I . . . Wait. What was I worried about?

The film played on. I didn’t absorb a single second of it, too stunned and too turned on to focus.

Hot flashes and memory issues.

Apparently, assuming Byron and I were to spend time together when he returned to Seattle, I should expect lots of hot flashes and memory issues in the future.

Playing with Byron’s hair was, in a word, relaxing. So relaxing, I must’ve fallen asleep. I awoke to find myself in the bed with the covers drawn up, Byron nowhere in sight. Pushing myself upright, I glanced at the clock. It was just past 1:00 a.m. I glared at the untouched, empty side of the bed.

That couch is too small for him.

He was so darn stubborn!

Heaving a sigh, I pushed the covers back and climbed out, tiptoeing to the sitting room. If he was asleep, I would leave him alone and let him sleep. But if he wasn’t, he would be relocating to the bed, and that was that.

The city lights streaming through the windows provided enough light that I could see the general arrangement of the sitting room and, to my frustration, Byron was nowhere near the couch. He was stretched out on the floor with just a pillow and a light blanket. He wasn’t moving, and his eyes seemed to be closed.

I stared at his form for several seconds, trying to figure out whether or not he was actually asleep. It was impossible to tell without walking over and checking his breathing or saying his name and seeing if he responded.

Saying his name seemed like the least invasive test, so I whispered as softly as I could, “Byron?”

“Yeah?” he immediately responded, propping himself up on his elbows. “Are you okay?”

I sighed—loudly—and accused, “You are not asleep.”

“Correct.”

Shaking my head at his obstinacy, I walked over, bent, grabbed his hand, and yanked. “Come on. You’re sleeping in the bed.”

He didn’t budge. “You’re sleeping in the bed.”

“This is not up for debate. I shouldn’t have been the one in the bed. For one thing, you’re a lot taller than me. For another, you’re the one who is being interviewed in the morning. You need a good night’s sleep more than I do.”

He still didn’t budge, and trying to tug him up to his feet was like trying to move a boulder. “I’ll move to the couch.”

Giving up, I let his hand drop and placed mine on my hips. “That isn’t a full couch, it’s a love seat. It’ll fit half of your leg and the side of a foot and that’s it.”

Finally, he stood. I couldn’t see his expression in the dim light. “I’ll figure it out. Please go back to the bed.”

Now that he was upright, I seized the opportunity to grab hold of his hand again and pull him toward the bedroom. “I will go back to the bed, I promise, as long as you go with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“The couch is—”

“Don’t be absurd.” Our progress was slow as he’d dug in his heels. “Just, come on. We’ll go to sleep. We’ll both get rest. We’ll be refreshed and ready for the morning.”

His steps loosened and he allowed me to pull him almost to the bedroom before bringing us to a stop again. “Wait, wait.”

I faced him, somewhat out of breath from all the effort to get him this far. “What?”

“If I sleep in the same bed as you, I will touch you,” he said plainly. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s okay.” I shrugged. “It’s not a huge bed.”

He made a growling sound, something like his typical grunts but more frustrated. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Catching on, I ignored the flutter in my chest but did expel a hot breath. “You can’t sleep on that tiny sofa, and you can’t sleep on the floor out here. It’ll be uncomfortable. And I won’t be able to sleep thinking about you being uncomfortable.”

He twisted at the waist and lifted an arm toward the sofa. “I’ll use the pillows from the—”

“You’re sleeping with me tonight, and that’s final.”

Byron grew very still, and I sensed a sudden shift in the air. That’s when I realized what I’d said and how it sounded.

I grumbled, saying nothing of sense, but huffing past the surge of embarrassment. Reaching forward, I gently gripped his wrist, encouraging him to come with me without actually pulling.

This time he yielded. He allowed me to guide him all the way into the small bedroom without protest, but he did say, “Before I left Seattle, you suggested we take things slow. Do you still want to take things slow?” The dark, almost accusatory question made goose bumps erupt over my skin.

“Friends share beds.” I tried to make my tone light and airy. “And it’s just two nights, while Amelia and Elijah use the other room.”

“But will we be friends if we sleep together?” His voice lowered to a near whisper, and he turned his wrist, threading our fingers together.

I tried to tell myself I didn’t know what he was implying as a burst of nerves made me laugh. “I promise. I will face the wall and not touch you, okay?” I disentangled our hands and pulled back the covers to climb inside.

“I want you to touch me. And I will touch you.” He said the words so simply, so earnestly. “If we’re in the same bed, I will. So I’m asking, do you want this?”

Surrendering to the fact that I was presently incapable of catching my breath, I slipped beneath the blankets, gulping in air. “Fine. You know what? Fine. Touch me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes. You caught me. This is me trying to seduce you with my unicorn nightshirt and brown wool socks. Please, get in bed and get handsy.” In my flustered agitation, my hands flailed around my head, and I struggled with conflicting hopes and pragmaticism while wrestling with the fact that my words—spoken sarcastically—were actually somewhat true.

That disobedient part of me that wanted to pressure him and push him was delighted that there was only one bed. It did want to seduce him in my unicorn nightshirt and brown wool socks. It wanted acceleration, not patience. It wanted to expect more from him than stale breadcrumbs.

The loud rushing of my blood between my ears made it nearly impossible to hear anything behind me as I punched and fluffed my pillow, which was why I almost didn’t catch Byron’s softly spoken, “I’m still in love with you, Win.”

His quiet admission made my heart ache, the wild creature hurling itself against the guarding cage I’d placed it in to keep it safe.

I gulped in more air, and said on a rush, “We’re both adults. If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. And if you don’t like something, you tell me. Now—” I sighed, the remainder of the thought caught in my throat.

What are you doing, Winnie? What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?

For Hedy Lamarr’s sake, what was I doing?

While I grappled with my actions, wondering if I should’ve stubbornly insisted that I take the couch instead of us both sleeping in the bed, he settled in. There was a brief lull, a moment of stillness and silence, and I told myself this was fine and I needed sleep. I was tired after all, sleeping shouldn’t be—

The bed dipped and I sensed Byron resettle right behind me. The heat from his body cocooned mine, mirroring my position, extremely close without touching. A moment later, his hand came to my hip, and I almost jumped at the contact, the heat of it bleeding through my sleep shirt and underwear. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Should I stop?” His whisper was a scrape, and his fingers flexed, then released.

“It’s good. Fine.” I said, trying for nonchalance.

The bed shook slightly as he smoothly shifted closer, his chest hitting my back. I drew in an unsteady breath. He exhaled. It sounded strange, tight somehow, but I couldn’t see him even if I glanced over my shoulder. This room—unlike the sitting room—was pitch black.

A pause, then his hand slid lower and lower, over my pajama shirt, until his fingers met my bare thigh just as his groin pressed forward against my backside.

I ceased breathing. He was hard. So hard. So incredibly hard.

“How’s that? Are you okay?” he asked, his roughened voice shaded with something I couldn’t place. Not irritation precisely, but something like it. And a dare.

I gritted my teeth in irritation. Why did he keep asking me if I was okay? Did he think I’d kick him out of bed for being hard? Heck, I’d been damp in the pants since he’d dyed my hair (and several weeks before that). Welcome to the club, buddy.

That said, did I believe he’d actually allow things to progress further than this despite how much I desperately wanted him to? No. No I did not. This was Byron, and Byron never did anything in the spur of the moment.

Clearing my throat, I forced a smile on my face so it would be reflected in my voice rather than my frustration. “Great. Just great. But do me a favor and stop asking for status updates. Like I said, if I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to treat me like a child that can’t be trusted to know her own mind.”

His chest rose and fell behind me, the scent of him pulled into my lungs. “You should take your own advice,” he said darkly.

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not a child either. I can be trusted to make my own decisions without you worrying about pushing me. And the last thing I want from you is to be coddled.” Byron’s lips brushed against the back of my neck while his hand on my leg skimmed the hem of my nightshirt higher up my thigh, over my underwear to my waist.

He stilled. “Do you want more? Do you want me?”

I nodded fervently, only capable of focusing on breathing and nothing else. Sensations and wants and oh my gods paraded loudly through my heart and head.

“Then stop asking for status updates, Winnie. Start trusting me by asking for what you really want.”

Sharp longing that had nothing and everything to do with his words slithered from beneath my ribs, low in my stomach, tightening and twisting. Unbearable, delicious heat bloomed along my neck and chest, and it took every ounce of self-control not to arch my back to press my bottom against his groin.

He held perfectly still, giving me nothing except his hard body behind mine. I was too hot. And I was never going to be able to get to sleep tonight.

He wanted me to ask for what I wanted? Fine. “I want us to be more than friends.”

“Done. You may now call me whatever you wish, and I will be that.”

I exhaled my surprise and then my frustration. He didn’t move.

“Byron—”

“What else? What else do you want?”

“Please,” I moaned, squirming against him.

“Please what?”

I was tempted to ask him to marry me right this minute if it meant he’d touch me and we’d do something more than remain frozen in this limbo between nothing and everything.

Instead, I blurted, “Touch me!”

Immediately, his fingers skated along the waistband of my underwear, sliding to the front, his thumb grazing my belly button as he whispered, “Lift your leg and place it on mine.”

I did. Immediately. My breath came fast, my heart thoroughly confused, and my brain frozen on IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?

He wouldn’t.

He did.

Between one breath and the next, his deft fingers slipped into my underwear and stroked me and—my God—that happened.

THAT HAPPENED! And I was so very into it.

Also happening? Me whimpering. Just a few small ones on a hitching breath followed by his name.

His hips pushed forward, his insistent erection rubbing against my bottom, his head lifting as he placed soft kisses along the side of my neck. His fingers dipped sinfully lower, and I knew what he’d find. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to be embarrassed in the moment. I was too busy not thinking.

I knew the precise second he felt how wet I was. He groaned against my neck, his other arm snaking beneath my body to wrap tightly around my waist. He moved, circling a single finger around my clit, playing with me like he was learning me, his lips and teeth now at my ear, his hot breath fanning along my neck. I turned my head to give him better access, panting at the hot, slippery slide of his tongue playing with my earlobe while the hand in my panties played with my body.

But we were going so fast. Was it too fast? Would he regret this? Was he okay?

“Byron, are you o—”

“If you want me to do something, if you want something from me, please continue that thought. But no more careful check-ins, no more asking me if I’m okay.” The arm around my waist relaxed and his free hand slipped under my shirt, up my stomach to my breast, brushing the backs of his knuckles back and forth in a supremely teasing motion. “I need this.”

I couldn’t tell if this last statement was for his benefit or for mine, if he was speaking to himself or to me, and I wasn’t sure I cared.

My hips rocked against his fingers and I arched my back, searching for more than a light touch.

“More. Please.” I whined. I was burning up. That twisting, delicious, disquieting sensation I felt whenever Byron and I shared the same space had entirely consumed me. I was on fire everywhere, from the top of my head to the base of my feet, a tangle of longing, a mindless pile of need and restlessness.

“You need this too, don’t you?” He muttered the question, palming my breast, grabbing and massaging. “I’ll do anything you want.”

The words landed on my ears like a taunt, but I didn’t care. In fact, I nodded. Frantically. Yes.

His hips surged forward, his dick digging into my backside, a desperate, growly sound rumbling out of him. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Embarrassingly, at the offer, I was precariously close to coming. The hint of both vulnerability and smugness drove me wild. It was just so Byron. But I didn’t know what I would do after I came, what I would say to him.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, so suddenly, so fast. On some level I’d assumed he’d never want to take things this far, not without several discussions and stipulations and negotiations related to the location of the act, hand placement, areas off-limits, time allowed, and so forth.

You know. Boundaries.

But right now, there were no boundaries. There was only us. Raw and exposed. Honest and selfish and greedy for every inch of each other, for every light and dark place, for every secret ambition. And I gave in to it, to us. I surrendered and allowed myself to want all of him, to trust that he’d let me know if I crossed a line.

Gasping sharply, I reached behind me, my nails digging into his shoulder as I searched for purchase. The first shock waves made my muscles rigid, my mind ceding to my body, and all that seemed to matter in the moment was how much I wanted, needed this.

He’d been right.

I needed this. I needed him and his brutal focus. I needed his cherishing touch, his skillful hands, his impatient body. I wanted to crawl inside him and devour him and never leave, never breathe, never be separate from him as long as we both lived, and I needed that feeling even though it bruised my heart to contemplate it.

As I spiraled back down to earth, as his fingers continued to slide in and out of my body, my lungs greedy for the air I’d denied them, I trembled. Byron’s teeth, lips, and tongue wreaked blissful havoc on my neck, and I became aware of how many layers of clothes were between us. The amount was unjust. Unfair. Unreasonable. My skin craved his skin, and in that moment, nothing less than everything was acceptable.

Licking my lips, I covered the hand that currently fondled my breast beneath my shirt. “Byron. Can we—”

“I don’t have a condom.”

I blinked, opening my eyes in the darkness. Crap. What had I been thinking?

Shaking my head of the lust cobwebs, I croaked, “Neither do I.”

I felt him nod his acceptance of this simple, tragic fact, his stubble scraping against the back of my neck.

“I feel like I’m going to die,” he said. The words were rushed, pained, tortured. “I’m going to die from wanting you.” I doubted he realized he’d said them aloud.

As much as they made me smile—because I had a good idea how he felt—they also spurred me into action. I reached between us.

Byron sucked in a sharp breath, catching my hand. “Not without protection.”

“No. I’m not—let me touch you, like you touched me. Let me make you feel good.” I twisted my head and stole a quick kiss, echoing his sentiment from earlier. “I need this. We need this.”

He shook with effort to hold me in place. He was panting. “I don’t think you’ll have to do much.”

Slowly, I turned to face him, reaching for the front of his pants again. This time he let me, his whole body tense, his breath labored. He let me reach inside, my fingers encountering the springy, rough hair of his pelvis, but then he stopped me just before I could actually touch him.

“Wait.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Let me—” His hands moved to his waistband and, surprising the heck out of me, he tugged everything off and threw it. Somewhere.

My mouth went dry.

I wanted to ask if we could turn on a light. I desperately, desperately wanted to see every square inch of him with every single light in the world on. But before the request could make it past my lips, he fisted a hand in the hair at the back of my head and brought my mouth crashing forward, kissing me with urgency and hungry need while his other hand guided mine to his erection, both of us sucking in a breath when I tried to close my fingers around the hot, thick length of him.

“Fuck.” Byron rolled away, his head pressed back against the pillow, his neck exposed, and I bent to lean over him and feast on his strong throat as I gave his smooth skin a rough stroke, then another, feeling the thrashing of his heart against my chest.

“I’m not—I can’t—oh God—”

I tensed, startled, because . . . oh my goodness. He came. Byron came. He just . . . came.

Ten seconds, two strokes, and he erupted. I felt like laughing with delight but stomped down on that impulse. The few times I’d messed around with my high school boyfriend, he’d come really fast—not this fast, but fast—and I’d laughed in my surprise. That did not go over well.

His fingers still knotted in my hair, he urged my lips down to his again, inhaling and loving me with his tongue. Heedless to the mess of his release, he rolled me to my back and continued kissing me, his hands on either side of my face, his mouth starving but also cherishing, like I was his favorite wine, the most decadent dessert, and he was determined to taste and savor me from every angle. I loved it and everything that had happened between us, and I felt so joyful and hopeful.

The magnitude of my hope and joy scared the shit out of me.

But what could I do? Was I too far gone? Had he opened the cage? Was my heart in danger?

Bad news, Win. The answer is probably yes.

Swallowing convulsively, I didn’t allow myself to contemplate it and I pretended all was well. I told myself that his leaving me a month ago possessed a bright side. He’d needed space, and now he was ready to try. Now we would try. It would be several months before I would consent to loving him. Maybe a year. Maybe never.

Meanwhile, that disobedient part of me rejected this notion and delivered a sucker punch to the cage around my heart, making it clatter and quake.

You’re the one with the hard shell that needs cracking open.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the disobedient thoughts roared through my head.

Maybe he’d needed to leave a month ago, maybe he is ready to try now, but you needed him then. And instead of telling him what you needed, you let him go.

And, sure, one could call my stubborn caution “patience,” but that’s not what it was. Not truly. I’d been afraid to ask for what I wanted. Afraid of this desperate feeling, of pinning my hopes on one person, of relying on someone and needing someone and wanting to count on someone. I’d been perfectly content to let him take the reins, take control, and set the pace.

And now, after tonight, after the unexpected and rapid acceleration of our relationship, I was even more terrified.