Kasha
Knox was five weeks away from getting married to another girl.
Only. Five. Weeks.
Yet for the first time in four long years, I found myself easing up on the tip of my toes and extending my arms around his broad neck.
Let me make this clear.
We’ve never come this close to being one. Our collective past was filled with never: never kissed, never snuggled, and certainly never crossed that line. How could we have gotten here?
One minute we were simply friends . . .
And bam!
Who was I kidding? Simply friends?
Neither of us made any attempts to pull back. Between the panting and irrational groping, we’d journeyed miles beyond a line that friends should never cross.
I exhaled as he took in the very essence of me. All that I was capable of feeling, knowing, seeing or tasting was Knox. I became lost in a fog, buried deep in a world that sought to rub me out. Because, with him, I could no longer exist on my own. I had to be able to dive into everything that was Knox Jackson. The passion . . . electricity . . . energies were beyond lit. It had always existed, lurked in the darkness for an opportunity to explode. Or rather, in our case, implode.
So why today?
Why did I decide to give in to the emotional pull that had always been guiding us together? And why did Knox decide to not hold strong to the fact that he was about to become a married man?
I tried. I promise you, I tried not to inhale the sensational cologne that had come to represent this ridiculous need. But it was beyond that. Every single sense perked up whenever he was near. Hell, forget about our proximity now, since there was no longer a distance.
Knox’s tongue slid across his lips. I darn well tasted it’s juicy goodness. Even the thrusts had to be strong, I could just about feel its force between my upper lips, lashing against the nipples of my 34-B cup breasts, and even inching up between my thighs. Every ounce of reasoning scolded me for wanting this, even as every bit of the same had me convinced of this time as a necessity. It was like the portion of an old show I once saw where the devil sat at one side on the shoulder and an angel perched on the other.
“Kash, please . . .” Knox begged. The words were elongated whispers that cuddled my body, only to ride me from head to toe.
Knox’s silky, chocolate-colored cropped hair flowed through my fingers. I yanked. Not just simply pulled or gently tugged. I wanted him more than a little. He reacted by burrowing his head against my neck. I allowed my lids to drift shut as Knox’s firm hands gripped my backside. He drew me up and into him. Our mouths collided, and about two seconds later, our tongues locked. This wasn’t just passion, not with the way our tongues demanded absolutely everything of the other. There was a greedy type of exchange taking place. The hunger flowing from between us was capable of taking away all strength.
There we were, two friends, clinging in a desperate embrace, while fondling and grappling for dear life. At that moment, in this time, only he and I existed. We’d fought long to avoid this inevitable faith, yet here we were. While it pained me to know that I was capable of impeding on someone else’s world in this way, I didn’t know how to let him go now that the world had started making sense. My eyes stung the more I fought to subdue the tears. They wanted to pour out from me, but I couldn’t let them. I squeezed as long as possible, until tiny drops began trickling down my cheeks. All this as I continued to take in the wild thrusts of Knox’s tongue inside of my mouth.
“We shouldn’t . . .” I somehow managed to mumble against his mouth, but our passion overpowered all objections. The tears continued to burn at my eyes; I badly wanted to cry for every instance I’d refused to accept the truth. My insides ached with a yearning to get away from and give in to him all at once.
“I need you,” Knox spat out like a bitter curse, sending a tiny flow of his saliva to the tip of my nose. These weren’t our words; this topic was certainly not one for two casual friends with nothing more than a solid respect and dedication. “Shit, love . . .” He was beyond angry. I held the anger, making it penetrate my mind. I couldn’t allow the moment or his declaration to control me, even as we merged.
But love?
I gasped, but didn’t let go. Even tried willing my body to step away, turn and run. I had to forget that I’d ever come to adore a man named Knox Jackson. Sadly, the commands became mute, feeble attempts. Touching Knox, digging my fingers into his defined biceps didn’t help. Inhaling his essence—the scent that marked his manliness—only reminded me that our energies had first connected four years ago.
“Knox,” I fumbled out as the syllables ricocheted across every inch of my already sensitive limbs. Damn! Simply saying his name had me tingly between my legs. “No . . .” I cried out, and let the tears flow. I wound up my head, while trying to arch away. My waist wiggled; I felt rotten and downright trashy, but I didn’t give two shits. I only wanted . . . needed him to feel me.
I was beyond a mess of a desperate woman. I choked at the thought of me. Yes, me, Kasha Davies shoving my stuff on some guy. So I let up and pulled back as much as I could. His arms wouldn’t allow it. He groped, squeezing like I was no longer a want, but instead an integral part of existence.
In the midst of this uncertainty, I shoved my hips forward then back, right then left. Knox had no choice but to break the hold and start lowering me to the ground. For a brief second I felt bare, like I’d been stripped down to nothing. And that quickly, without an explanation, I hopped up. I went from chilly, to warm, and finally hot. My head spun, so much so that as I plopped on the ground. I needed to lean back into him. My head pressed against his chest. His heartbeat penetrated the side of my face. I hung onto the quickening pace, desperate to feel beyond his cotton tee. His arms drew me in, forcing me to only rely on this remarkable shelter. It wasn’t that he was a large, muscular guy or anything. Knox’s arms were cut, but it was enough to be desirable; yet less overbearing.
He exhaled, jolting me out of the fantasy world I’d drifted into. No, we weren’t in a utopian society. No, I was not his. No, he . . . he couldn’t be mine.
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