More Than Friends (Kingsley #4) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Brandi Kennedy
"Take 'em. But you could at least tell the truth. You just want to get in my pants."
Sherry laughed, stepping close again and resuming her search for his keys. Finally fishing them from his pocket, she tipped her head up and pressed a kiss to the tip of his chin. "Well, I do always have fun with you, Mikey. You got a way of scratchin' the itch without makin' me feel cheap for wantin' it scratched."
Surprised again, Michael raised his eyebrows. "Cheap! Cheap? You –" He broke off, laughing, and flapped his arms wildly. "Well, if it sounds like a bird and flies like a bird ... I guess I'm a bird."
"You can't fly," Sherry answered, giggling. "Come on, just get in here."
"That's what she said."
"Oh my God."
"She said that, too," Michael laughed, bending at the waist to prop his hands helplessly on his knees. Tears streamed down his face as he shook his head, struggling for control.
Sherry opened the car door and stood back, waiting for Michael to move. She waited silently, unwilling to encourage him further but unable to hold back a grin. Finally, still laughing quietly, Michael shook his head. He pushed away from the car, took two toddling steps toward the door, and crumpled to the ground at Sherry's feet.
Chapter Five
The morning sun was slicing its way through his eyelids. Michael rolled over, his arm falling over the edge of the bed. The quilt slithered over his naked legs and crumpled to the floor beside the bed. "Sherry?" He rolled back, carefully keeping his eyes closed as he stretched one hand toward the pillow on the other side of the bed. She wasn't there. "Sherry!" The house was quiet around him; was he alone? Had she gone?
"Sher?" Sitting up, he covered his face with both hands, waiting until he could open his eyes before slowly spreading his fingers. The curtains were closed over the window, but the light coming in through the fabric made his eyes throb in time with his head, which seemed to be slowly collapsing in on itself while simultaneously swelling to twice its normal size. Once he could move his hands away from his eyes, he slid his palms toward his temples to cradle his head. He twisted carefully, still holding his head in his hands, to glance at the empty side of the bed. It was still unmade, the edge of a folded sheet of paper pinned to the pillowcase with a safety pin. Hadn't she stayed last night? Why couldn't he remember what had happened?
"Where the hell did she find a safety pin?" Keeping one hand pressed against his temple to be sure his head wouldn't slip completely off his shoulders, Michael stretched the other hand toward the pillow and ripped the paper from the pin. He waited to open it, though, until he had allowed himself to drop back against the softness of the pillows.
"Mikey," she had written, her letters bold and curvy. "You didn't even make it out of the parking lot last night. Luckily for both of us, the security guys were still there, so I had them load you into my car and follow me to your house in your truck. Maybe you should lay off the drinking for a while – it was a bitch, stripping you by myself. Call me. S."
"All that trouble to get drunk and I didn't even get laid." Groaning, Michael crumpled the note and tossed it to the floor. "Christ, I can't even have a one-nighter anymore!" He threw one forearm over his face, shut his eyes against the sunlight, and went back to sleep.
When he woke again, the sun had gentled behind a cover of clouds. It was afternoon, it was raining, and it sounded like someone was trying to beat his front door in. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he croaked, his voice scratchy against a dry throat. Coughing, Michael flung himself out of bed, yanked a pair of boxer shorts on, and stumbled toward the balcony. He turned the handles on the French doors, one in each hand, and pushed them open simultaneously; the noise distracted his visitor from their knocking below, and by the time Michael made his
Sherry laughed, stepping close again and resuming her search for his keys. Finally fishing them from his pocket, she tipped her head up and pressed a kiss to the tip of his chin. "Well, I do always have fun with you, Mikey. You got a way of scratchin' the itch without makin' me feel cheap for wantin' it scratched."
Surprised again, Michael raised his eyebrows. "Cheap! Cheap? You –" He broke off, laughing, and flapped his arms wildly. "Well, if it sounds like a bird and flies like a bird ... I guess I'm a bird."
"You can't fly," Sherry answered, giggling. "Come on, just get in here."
"That's what she said."
"Oh my God."
"She said that, too," Michael laughed, bending at the waist to prop his hands helplessly on his knees. Tears streamed down his face as he shook his head, struggling for control.
Sherry opened the car door and stood back, waiting for Michael to move. She waited silently, unwilling to encourage him further but unable to hold back a grin. Finally, still laughing quietly, Michael shook his head. He pushed away from the car, took two toddling steps toward the door, and crumpled to the ground at Sherry's feet.
Chapter Five
The morning sun was slicing its way through his eyelids. Michael rolled over, his arm falling over the edge of the bed. The quilt slithered over his naked legs and crumpled to the floor beside the bed. "Sherry?" He rolled back, carefully keeping his eyes closed as he stretched one hand toward the pillow on the other side of the bed. She wasn't there. "Sherry!" The house was quiet around him; was he alone? Had she gone?
"Sher?" Sitting up, he covered his face with both hands, waiting until he could open his eyes before slowly spreading his fingers. The curtains were closed over the window, but the light coming in through the fabric made his eyes throb in time with his head, which seemed to be slowly collapsing in on itself while simultaneously swelling to twice its normal size. Once he could move his hands away from his eyes, he slid his palms toward his temples to cradle his head. He twisted carefully, still holding his head in his hands, to glance at the empty side of the bed. It was still unmade, the edge of a folded sheet of paper pinned to the pillowcase with a safety pin. Hadn't she stayed last night? Why couldn't he remember what had happened?
"Where the hell did she find a safety pin?" Keeping one hand pressed against his temple to be sure his head wouldn't slip completely off his shoulders, Michael stretched the other hand toward the pillow and ripped the paper from the pin. He waited to open it, though, until he had allowed himself to drop back against the softness of the pillows.
"Mikey," she had written, her letters bold and curvy. "You didn't even make it out of the parking lot last night. Luckily for both of us, the security guys were still there, so I had them load you into my car and follow me to your house in your truck. Maybe you should lay off the drinking for a while – it was a bitch, stripping you by myself. Call me. S."
"All that trouble to get drunk and I didn't even get laid." Groaning, Michael crumpled the note and tossed it to the floor. "Christ, I can't even have a one-nighter anymore!" He threw one forearm over his face, shut his eyes against the sunlight, and went back to sleep.
When he woke again, the sun had gentled behind a cover of clouds. It was afternoon, it was raining, and it sounded like someone was trying to beat his front door in. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he croaked, his voice scratchy against a dry throat. Coughing, Michael flung himself out of bed, yanked a pair of boxer shorts on, and stumbled toward the balcony. He turned the handles on the French doors, one in each hand, and pushed them open simultaneously; the noise distracted his visitor from their knocking below, and by the time Michael made his
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