Page 121 of With the Assist

There is no part of me that wants to be her friend.

She nudges me back. “I like being your friend.”

My heart swells at her confession, until…

“I’m glad you can separate the two. And that you understand why it can’t be anything more than that.”

My heart deflates just as quickly.

We make it another half block before she slows.

I follow her gaze to the bakery on the corner. Warm golden light spills through the windows, making the snow-dusted sidewalk glowfaintly. The smell of sugar and baked bread drifts through the cold air every time the door opens.

I glance at her. “You want something from there?”

She hesitates like she’s deciding whether wanting something is allowed.

“I haven’t had one of their chocolate croissants in forever,” she says. “They’re really good.”

“Why not get one?”

She shrugs. That’s not really an answer, but it’s enough.

I tug on her hand. “Come on.”

“Wait, I didn’t say I wanted one.”

“You did.” I guide her toward the door. “You said they were good. I’m acting accordingly.”

She laughs under her breath. “You are ridiculous.”

The bell above the bakery door jingles when we walk in. Warm air hits my face immediately, carrying cinnamon, chocolate, and butter. My stomach forgets that I just had dinner an hour ago.

Wesley is already at the display case, eyes scanning while trying not to look too excited.

I lean against the counter beside her.

“Which one?” I ask.

She points at the croissant without touching the glass. “That one.”

“Only one?”

She glances at me. “Yes. Only one.”

I order two because I want to taste the pastry that makes her eyes light up like that.

We step back out into the cold with the paper bag between us, steam still faintly rising from inside.

She doesn’t wait more than thirty seconds before pulling the croissant out.

She takes a bite.

And then she makes a noise that should be illegal in public.

It’s low and soft. Completely unguarded. My body reacts immediately, cock straining against my zipper. Wesley shouldn’t make that sound for anyone, but me. Ever.

“Jesus,” I mutter.