More than Friends - Monica Murphy (27 page)

“Why are you wearing my jersey anyway?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

I shrug, my cheeks hot. “I wanted to wear something to bed.”

“You should’ve just taken off your dress.”

“I’m not going to lie in your bed half naked while you’re talking to your mom downstairs.”

He drops his arms and takes a step into the closet. “You’ve done it before.”

“When your mom wasn’t here.”

Jordan shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I saw your Snapchat.”

Oh. Crap. “Yeah?” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.

“Cuddle with Tuttle?” He raises a brow.

My entire body flushes hot. I am such an idiot. Seriously. “Uh…”

“And hashtag ‘property of’? Really, Mandy?”

He’s now standing directly in front of me, handsome as ever in that pale blue button down shirt I want to slowly unbutton myself. God, being in his presence leaves me feeling so weak, when I should be mad at him. Mad at the way he acted tonight, how he ignored me. How his parents almost ruined everything for us. He’s still angry, and because I’m a sick,
sick
pervert, his anger only turns me on. Leaves me weak and flushed and my blood runs hot. I’m restless and needy and there’s a deep, low throbbing between my legs that makes me want to attack him.

Clearly I have issues.

“Please don’t be mad,” I whisper. “I can explain.”

“You think I’m mad?”

“I know you’ve had a bad night,” I start, and he laughs, though there is not one ounce of amusement in the sound. “And my night hasn’t been that great either.”

“Is that my fault?”

I shake my head, not wanting to blame anyone.

Okay, fine. I want to blame Lauren Mancini for that stupid photo she posted, like she has the right to post shit like that about the boy I am currently with. The boy who I’d like to think is really mine.

“I did the Snapchat thing because of Lauren Mancini,” I finally admit, feeling so incredibly lame.

Jordan frowns. “Lauren Mancini? What does she have to do with this?”

“She posted a photo of you and her at the Homecoming dance, dancing in each other’s arms and wearing your stupid crowns,” I mutter, shaking my head. “She’s trying to make it seem like you two are a real couple. She even hashtagged the photo ‘Jordan and Lauren’.”

“And…what?” He almost looks amused. “You fell for her trick? Who am I with right now? Isn’t that the most important thing?”

I ignore his question. “I got—mad.” And jealous. I have no photos of Jordan and me together. None. And in this social media driven world we live in, if there’s no photographic proof, then it didn’t happen.

“I danced with her because I had to. The homecoming king and queen always have to dance together after they’re crowned. It’s tradition. The second the song was done, I was out,” he explains.

“Until you showed up at Yo Town with her.”

“It was a group of us getting frozen yogurt. I just went along with it.” He shrugs. Jordan Tuttle is not one to go “along with it”. So why did he?

“Did you know I was working at Yo Town when you went there?”

He looks the slightest bit contrite. “Maybe.”

“Oh. My. God!” I shove at his chest, wishing I could pull him in closer to me. But I’m still mad at him.

Sort of.

“You were spying on me,” I say when he remains quiet. And he still remains quiet, which makes me uneasy. “Were you trying to make me jealous?”

“Never. I just.” He hesitates, his gaze locking on mine. “I just wanted to see you.”

Now it’s my turn to remain quiet. He’s stunned me silent. He has this way of making me feel special with just a look, a few choice words. And we’re having this crazy conversation-slash-argument in his giant closet, with me still wearing only his jersey and my dress clutched in my hand. I just need to get dressed and get out of here.

But where would I go? Who would drive me? I guess Jordan could take me home, but then I’d have to explain why I wasn’t spending the night at Liv’s. I could go back to Liv’s house, but I don’t think she’s home. She’s still with Ryan most likely. And no way am I going to Ryan’s house. They’re probably banging at this very moment.

The pang of envy deep inside me doesn’t go unnoticed.

“So Amanda.” Jordan’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I meet his gaze once more.

“Yeah?”

“Got anything else on under my jersey?” he asks.

Oh.
I lift my chin, hoping for confident. Probably failing miserably. What’s the point of arguing when we’re just going to end up tangled together anyway? That’s what I want. I think he wants it too.

“Maybe you should do a little exploring and find out for yourself.”

His expression turns thunderous and he grabs hold of my waist just as I try to get away from him. He pulls me in, his hands immediately diving beneath the hem of his jersey and grabbing hold of my butt.

“Still got your panties on,” he murmurs as those big hands grab hold of both cheeks and gives them a squeeze. A shuddery sigh escapes me, and when he slips his hands underneath my panties and touches bare skin, I close my eyes. Press my lips together to contain the moan that wants to spill out.

“Jordan,” I whisper, but he kisses me silent. It’s an aggressive kiss, full of tongue and heat and we’re only a few seconds in before he breaks away from my eager lips and hauls me over his shoulder, carrying me caveman-style out of his closet and straight for his bed.

Now I’m yelling his name in protest. Pounding on his back with my fists. He ignores me, his hand coming up to smack me lightly on the butt, and I hiss out a breath, nearly fainting at the way he gently caresses my backside right after he slapped it.

This is getting weird.

He tosses me on the bed and follows me down, so he’s hovering above me, his face in mine, my back flat on the mattress. “You’re loud,” he tells me. “My mom might hear you.”

My eyes go wide. I would die if she barged in here to see what was going on. Just…die. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Gonna have keep your mouth covered if you can’t keep quiet,” he says with a smirk, those expert hands of his tunneling up the inside of the jersey, touching me in all the right places.

I close my eyes, a little moan escaping me when he traces my lacy bra, and he lightly clamps his hand across my mouth, silencing me. My eyes flash open to find him watching me carefully.

“Shhh,” he whispers, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. “Quiet, baby.”

I melt at him calling me baby. This entire situation is weird yet hot. He’s using a little force on me—just enough to scare me, but not enough to make me run screaming from his room. I try my best to calm my breathing, my racing heart, our gazes never straying from each other’s. When he slowly lifts his hand away from my face, he leans in and kisses me. Surprisingly, it’s gentle. A mere brushing of lips on lips, and I feel that simple kiss all the way to my curled toes.

He keeps kissing me, and it’s nice, more than nice. But I want more. I become restless. I lift my hips against his knee and he shifts away, breaking the kiss to slowly shake his head. “No grinding on my knee tonight. I want to touch you.”

My insides tremble. I want him to touch me too. Jordan shifts away from me and takes off the jersey I’m wearing, his fingers sliding over my stomach, between my breasts, along my collarbone. When he undoes the front clasp of my bra, he takes it off, sliding the scrap of lace down my arms and tossing it on the floor. And then he’s kissing my chest, cupping my breasts, stroking and sucking and doing all sorts of wondrous things that make me want to scream.

I must get close to screaming because his hand is back on my mouth, keeping me mute. I let him keep it there, closing my eyes when his other hand drifts down, caressing my stomach, smoothing over one hipbone, then the other, just before he dives his fingers down the front of my panties.

And that’s almost all it takes. He touches me there, so carefully at first, so tentatively that I almost want to shout at him
more.
But I remain quiet, his hand still loosely covering the lower half of my face, his other hand in my panties. I squirm against his touch, spreading my thighs, inviting him in, and he takes the invitation. Stroking me, testing me, slipping one thick finger inside me…

“Oh God.” The words are muffled behind his hand and he removes it, kissing me again, before he slides his lips down to my throat, behind my ear. I wince when his fingers fumble, a distressed noise leaving me, and he pauses. Goes completely still.

“Did I hurt you?” He sounds worried.

I shake my head. Shift my hips. “Not really.”

His mouth is at my ear. “Tell me what you like.”

I absolutely cannot answer that.
Please.
I am way too new at this sex thing and he is Jordan Tuttle, the sex god.

“Tell me, Mandy.” He kisses my ear. Nibbles it. Makes me squirm again. “I want to know what you like.”

“I don’t know,” I finally tell him, mumbling so low I hope he doesn’t hear me. Which is dumb, but I’m feeling so inept. So inexperienced compared to him. He’s been with so many girls. A countless list of girls I don’t want to think about. They’ve been with him like this, wrapped up in his arms like this, his mouth on theirs, his hands…everywhere.

I hate to think about it. So I push all of those negative thoughts out of my head and focus on right now.

Jordan is persistent. He touches me in different spots, asking if I like it. And when he touches one spot in particular that makes me see a few sparkly stars in my peripheral vision, I tell him
don’t stop.
I might’ve even begged him. He increases his pace and, with his other hand, tugs my panties down past my hips, to my thighs, until I’m helping him and kicking them off myself. I am completely naked with Jordan in his bed, his fingers between my thighs, and I am so close to exploding I’m afraid I might fall completely apart.

I’ve never felt so alive.

A
manda clings to me, her long legs tangled with mine, her arms wrapped around my neck as she breathes hard. My head rests on her chest and the wild thump,
thump
of her beating heart calms me. Reminds me that this moment is happening. That what I just did to her is one hundred percent real.

Being with her is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and it’s…terrifying. That quick encounter with my father tonight reminded me that spending time with her is wrong. Stringing her along, stringing myself along. Pretending I believe in relationships and that what Amanda and I could have could ever be healthy and strong. It’s all lies.

We won’t work out. Something—me—will screw it up. I am my father’s son. And I am my mother’s son too. That conversation with my mother earlier had been downright painful. She’d been drinking, and after popping a few anti-anxiety pills, that combination always sends her into near hysterics.

She ranted on and on about her cheating husband. How I should turn my heart to stone to prevent it from ever being broken. She claimed I have a more sensitive heart, that I’m more like her than my father, who’s cold and calculating and flat out heartless.

Maybe she’s right after all. I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise for years. I’m not sensitive. I don’t care about anyone. I don’t have real friends and I definitely don’t need a relationship. Girls are nothing but trouble.