Beyond Compare (h.e.s)

part five

Our pace has slowed down a bit—we're not cracking up or frantically making out. Now it's just slow, deep kisses with you on top of me, your tongue in my mouth, your hair in my hand, and every part of me in the palm of yours. We're still on the ground, something I forget when I roll you over. You squeak a little as my weight lands on you, so I roll back onto my back. You pull your lips away from that spot behind my jaw, the one that turns me on so fucking much that my left leg quivers, and bring your face above mine to look down at me.

"Have you ever thought about this before?" you ask me. Your voice is out of breath and low, so it makes the words sound a little dirty, like the beginning of phone sex or something, but I know you're asking because it's important to you, so I force myself to pay attention.

"Thought about…"

"This," you say, still vague. It's appropriate as that's how we're acting, even if there's nothing vague about the way you shift over me as you wait for me to answer, flexing your hips into mine. Have I ever thought about this?

I don't know how to answer. Yes, I have. But also, no, I haven't. I've thought of this in the way that every guy thinks about stuff like this, like when I first met you and thought you were insanely hot—you still are, and I still do, but it fades with friendship, and that urge to do things to you disappears.

Of course, it rears it head again every now and then, like when you wear a shirt that's just a little too low and reminds me a little too much that you might be my friend, but you are also female, with parts that I don't have that I wouldn't mind touching. Or on some nights—like tonight—when you wear those really tight jeans, and I have the urge to lift you up and wrap your legs around me.

But I also haven't thought about this before because you're my best friend, and those are separate fantasies where you are still my best friend but you're also this other girl who I touch and taste and take. Those are little infrequent ideas that exist in my head simply because they don't—can't—exist anywhere else.

And then it hits me that it is existing, right here on my living room floor, and I get so hard and heady and happy when I think that in some strange way, this is my most unattainable fantasy coming to life.

I lean up and kiss you and say the only thing I can without sounding like a horny creep or some pathetic, lovesick jackass—neither of which I am.

"It doesn't matter. I'm thinking about it now."

Your smile says you like this answer—a lot. Then you stand up off me, and I worry that maybe I've blown it until you hold your hand out, and I let you think that you're pulling me up as I stand.

As you lead me to my bedroom, you say, "You can think about it later. You can do it now."

You probably don't realize it, but you've just ruined our friendship. Fucking demolished it. After those words, I'm never not going to be able to look at you as the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

From now on, I'm going want you in every way you'll let me have you.

—|—

When my intercom buzzes later that evening, and my doorman announces that Harry is on his way up, I have a brief moment of panic. I'm dressed in a sports bra and tattered old men's basketball shorts—I was planning on working out with a video until I got exhausted just watching the intro and sat on the couch eating cheese instead.