by Ginger Scott
“You’re thinking about apologizing for your uncle and cousin again, aren’t you?” I close my hand around his thumb and jiggle it teasingly.
He laughs again and wiggles his head.
“I am,” he confesses.
“They were fine tonight. I made it through the fire. I survived. And their plan we overheard—”
“Is going to move on to Plan B,” he finishes.
I shrug, pretending I can’t guarantee he’s right, but honestly, he is.
“I liked your dad,” I say, changing the subject to the positive part of the evening.
Cannon grins in response, and I can tell his relationship with his dad means a lot to him.
“You must miss him,” I prompt.
“I do.”
The last thing I want to do is go inside my house right now. Not because my dad will grill me with overprotective questions. He won’t. He’s more the “pretend my daughter doesn’t date” kinda dad. I don’t want to go inside because I don’t want to leave this truck. It’s so warm in here, and being near Cannon without pretense for once is so goddamn nice. A quick glance out my window tells me that staying out here for a few extra minutes, though, is all I’m going to get. My dad has actually fully opened the blinds, and I can make out his profile as he sits by the window fake reading a book.
“I’m a bit afraid to kiss you.” Cannon laughs out nervously, leaning against his steering wheel and nodding toward my dad’s figure.
I sigh.
“Is it because he’s your coach? Or is it because he’s my dad?”
Cannon mulls it over for a few seconds, drawing his brow in before meeting my gaze in a snap.
“Definitely both.”
He takes my hand again and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the inside of my wrist and lingering there just long enough to signal that in any other situation, this would lead to more. Way more.
“I really, really like you, Cannon Jennings from Indiana.”
A soft smile plays at his lips as he lowers my hand, his thumb grazing along the tender skin where his kiss left coolness behind.
“I really, really like you, Hollis Taylor from Indiana . . . by way of Staten Island.” His attempt to mock my accent is adorable, despite how bad he is at playing New York.
“You are so accent-less,” I tease.
“Hey, I’m from the southwest.” He pushes my arm playfully and I push back, my fingers raking down his arm and snagging on the material of his hoodie. I grab on and tug gently before letting go of his shirt and picking his phone up from the center console. I hold it up to his face to force it to unlock.
“Are we already at the snooping-on-each-other’s-phone stage of the relationship?” He laughs off his comment, but the sound fades quickly and his eyes go wide and dart away.
Relationship.
I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth to quash my nervous grin threatening to ruin my bluff while I pretend to be unfazed by his words. Inside my chest, though, is an epic house party, complete with strobe lights and twelve-inch woofers.
“I’m giving you my number,” I say, sending a text to me from his phone. I hold it up to face him when I’m done, showing that I typed the word RELATIONSHIP. The best thing about Cannon’s thick eyelashes is the way they shudder like butterfly wings when he’s nervous. He stares at the word without breathing for a few seconds. I hold it in the space between us to give him the opportunity to take it back. I’m not sure why I expect him to. Maybe because I know how many issues come with us having that word.
“You got a text message. You should probably answer that,” he says in a low voice that’s close to a whisper. His eyes flit up to mine, and I let my lip come loose so I can show him the smile I’ve been keeping in.
I take comfort in knowing the buzz in my back pocket is a message I sent myself but that he let me send. What’s strange is that I still plan on reading it—staring at that one little word—all . . . night . . . long.
“I should get in. You know, before my dad comes out.”
We both bow our heads with a nervous laugh.
“God yes, please. Don’t let him come out here,” Cannon says.
“I’ll see you tomorrow? Maybe, you want a ride to school?” He cocks his head to the side, leaning into the steering wheel, and the party in my chest puts on another song to keep things going.
“I’d like that,” I say.
No kiss. Not here where we’re being watched. Honestly, it’s not even that he is one of the players on my team, one of my dad’s players. It’s that I’m daddy’s girl, and having your father catch you getting a good night kiss is mortifying and cringe-worthy for everyone involved.
“You can leave your gear in the back, then. I’ll lock it up and bring it when I come get you in the morning.”
We nod our good-byes and I slip out the door, pushing it closed while I stumble backward like a drunk in from a bender.
Per the norm, my dad is relaxing with his feet up and one of his favorite coaching books cracked open in his lap. I’m no longer sure if the man has ever actually read it. I’m starting to think the only time it gets pulled out is when I’m in the driveway with a boy and he’s playing studious by the window.
“Have a good time?” He doesn’t look up from the pages as he asks. This is part of his act, too.
“I did. We ate roast. It was oddly delicious,” I say.
“Better than Meno’s?” He quirks a brow with that question.
“Let’s not get crazy now, Dad,” I say, putting on a serious tone. Meno’s was our pizza joint. It’s the place where my dad took the team after big games, win or lose. No amount of grease-soaked carrots in the world could ever compete with that.
“Well, I’m pretty beat. See you in the morning?” He stretches with a yawn as he stands from his chair, dropping his fake-read book on the side table.
“Actually,” I begin, waiting for him to pull the string on the small lamp to kill the light enough for me to tell him this. “Cannon is picking me up.”
His lack of response is almost worse than any word he could have said out loud. I’m relieved with he finally utters, “Oh.”
“Just tomorrow. I’m sure. Ya know, to be nice.” I’m babbling, making excuses, and thankfully he lets me off the hook. It’s weird to crush on a guy and want to admit it to your dad and gush with him the way you would a girlfriend. I do, though. Probably because Cannon is totally the kind of guy my dad would pick for me out of a lineup of eligible bachelors. I’ve seen the way he works with him, coaches him; he’s grown to respect him. They respect each other.
Then there’s Zack.
Folding his big flannel-covered arms around my shoulders and neck, my dad pulls me close and kisses the top of my head.
“Good night, angel,” he says.
“Good night, Daddy.”
With the lights out in the house, I wait in the darkness downstairs while he climbs up and shuts his bedroom door, probably to spill the beans about everything he thinks he knows to my mom.
My pocket buzzes before I hit the stairs. I hook my bag on the finial at the end of the staircase and pull my phone out to read the text message I expect to be some razzing tease from my nosy little brother, or maybe June checking in on me after our girl-chat lunch today. Deep down, I hope it’s from Cannon, but hope is a lot different than expectation.
How do you feel about one block away? Surely your dad’s window seat doesn’t look out that far.
My lips tug up at his text. I’m out the door in three seconds, feet pounding pavement in a near sprint toward the glowing tail lights just beyond the stop sign. I climb into the passenger seat I vacated only a minute or two before, yanking the door closed behind me. Before I breathe another word, Cannon’s hands are on my cheeks, fingers sliding into my hair as his mouth meets mine in a hungry kiss that we’ve both been holding back for far too long.
I crawl toward him on my knees, and his hands slide down my arms then over my ribs and around my waist, gu
iding me over the center console until I sit sideways in his lap with my head resting on his driver’s side window.
“Goddamn, have I been dying to kiss you like that since our missed opportunity in study hall,” he says, pulling back for air while holding my forehead against his. Our noses touch, and it makes me giggle like a girl with a crush when he playfully wiggles his against mine.
“Imagine if our New Year’s kiss was like that,” I say.
“What, this?” He again tickles his nose against mine and I laugh harder, chastising him with a flat palm against his chest. I leave it there, feeling the heat pour from his body, the hard beat underneath his shirt.
“No, silly. I meant like this,” I say, sitting back enough to focus on his eyes. They’re blue like the sea, like dusk back home. I reach to my side and turn the music up a little to fill the nervous gaps in the air, the song some alt-pop tune by one of those new female artists who sings as though she’s broken. These songs are my favorites.
Propping myself up to face him, I push the button that slides his seat back enough to make room for the two of us. When his hands slip to my hips then down to my thighs, fire burns in my belly. And lower. I’m swallowed up in layers of clothes, and more than anything, all I want to do is feel him. I want to see if that beat in his chest matches up with mine. I want them to be close, to beat together or echo on constant repeat.
Straddling his lap as he lays back in his seat, my hands tremble as I reach down for the bottom of my sweatshirt, my tummy tightening with a rush of nerves as I peel the tattered cotton up and over my head. My hands reach behind my neck to find the thick band holding my hair together in a twisted knot. I tug it loose, but pause to laugh at myself when it gets tangled in my hair.
“You and this goddamn hair,” Cannon teases, swatting my hand out of the way to help get the band out of my wild mane.
“I should just cut it.” I sigh.
The band finally free from my hair, he rolls it onto his wrist, then holds my chin with his thumb, forcing our eyes to meet again.
“Don’t you dare. I love your knotty-ass blonde tangles.” He makes a serious face that doesn’t break for almost a full five seconds, but when I see the curl tempt his lips, I squeeze his shoulders and press my forehead into his.
“You liar!” I laugh out.
His hands press into my sides, tickling me, and I squeeze my thighs around him while we wrestle in this tiny space, taunting each other like grade schoolers who haven’t quite discovered puberty. Only, we aren’t kids at all. We’re both seventeen, almost eighteen. Our birthdays are two weeks apart in February—I checked.
Cannon’s birthday is on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps St. Valentine or Cupid or whatever gifted him with arrows because of it. Whatever the case, I’ve been shot with something, and the drug quickly fills my veins. As I rock my body forward to feel Cannon rock-hard beneath me, I can tell that he is drunk on our physical chemistry as well.
“May I?” His eyes scan down the length of my neck and chest to the bottom of the blue jersey I wore to practice today. His fingers flirt with the hem.
I love that he asked.
“You may,” I say, cheeks heated and voice quiet. I’m bashful.
Cannon gathers the bottom of my jersey into his hands, lifting with his thumbs while I slowly raise my arms above my head, helping him to remove my shirt completely. I’m still scuffed with dirt on my elbows and legs from our practice, and though I haven’t told him, he’s worn a smudge of dirt on his right cheek the entire night. I trace it now with my thumb, wishing it were permanent because I love the tough appearance it gives him.
Dipping down, my hands weave into his hair, grabbing hold of thick waves. I wonder what his hair feels like when it’s wet, like in the shower. The tension hugging my chest loosens suddenly and I tuck my chin to confirm that his thumb and index finger have tugged the zipper at the front of my sports bra down about two inches.
“Up? Or down?” His eyes haze, thick with want and clearly rooting for option number two. My body begs for that as well.
Sitting up to put a few extra inches of space between us, I wrap my hand around his to nudge it lower. Together, we lower the zipper until the sides separate, and I gasp from both the cool air and the release. I lean back until my shoulders touch the steering wheel and hook my thumbs into the band of my sweatpants, tugging them down enough to show that I am mad with want, and give him permission to touch me.
His eyes smolder in the faint light as he drags the edges of both palms up the center of my belly and chest, peeling away the unzipped bra from each of my breasts one at a time. His thumbs rub over my hard nipples as they pass and I arch and moan.
“Fucking goddess,” he says, his voice deep and not shy. He sucks one of his thumbs, coating it in his saliva, then rubs it over one of my raw, pink tips while he reaches behind my back to pull me into him, covering my other breast in his mouth. His teeth grip the tender skin, and his lips wrap around my nipple and suck so hard it burns. He soothes it by blowing on the tender skin, then taking gentle swipes with his tongue.
His hands roam to my back and follow my curves, fingers dipping inside the band of my sweatpants and teasing the tight wrap of my sliding shorts still on underneath. His mouth forms a devilish smile that I can’t help but dust with my curious one.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, peppering his lips with teasing kisses before holding on to his upper lip with my teeth. It pulls free as his smile stretches larger.
“Most girls probably have some sexy little panties on underneath their sweats and you’ve got sliding shorts.” He laughs lightly, but I can tell he’s not laughing at me. Cannon sees me for who I am, and I’ve never wanted to be something I’m not.
“Mizuno sliding shorts are hella sexy,” I boast, rolling my hips.
“Mmm,” he hums, lifting his chin just enough to lock gazes. “That they are.”
His hands run down the taut fabric around my waist until his hands cup my ass and he pulls me snug into him.
“Oh!” My breath hitches at the sudden surge of electricity that jolts my core. Wanting to touch his chest and feel its warmth against mine, I flatten my palms on his stomach and slide them up under his long-sleeved tee and sweatshirt until he helps me remove them the rest of the way.
Cannon holds me close, one hand firm on my butt, the other carving a warm line up my spine until I’m flat against him. His hand continues its path up my neck and into my hair. Hidden behind fogged windows in his pickup parked just out of the glow of a nearby streetlamp, we kiss breathlessly, our mouths finding the perfect fit against one another with each nip and every pass of the tongue.
Friction builds as I rock against him and he pulls me close—tight—my swollen center finding relief, even through the layers, against his hard erection. This could so easily transition into something more, but there’s no sign from Cannon that he expects it, that he needs it. This here, feeling each other like this, it’s enough. For now.
I gasp as he pushes up against me and I hungrily rub against him, both of us chasing a relief that’s eluded us for longer than I realized. Cannon does things to me, makes me feel things, that are somehow more than anything ever before.
“Make me come,” I beg, my bold words dragging a growl from his chest that spills out into a grunt against my neck. The sharp edge of his teeth pierce the skin below my ear as his hips push up into me and his hands hold me to him, anxious fists clutching my tight shorts as he rolls me back and forth in the sweetest rhythm ever.
I look up, feeling the sensation building to the cliff, and his tongue flicks against the base of my neck. He licks up to my chin, then bites at my swollen lower lip, holding me hostage between his teeth as he playfully growls. His hands have pushed inside my shorts, his warm palms melded against my bare skin, fingers moving closer and closer to my desperate center with each rock of my hips until I finally feel the tips of them brush against my soaking wet center.
I break our kiss long enough to meet h
is gaze and nod, begging for him to continue. “Yes!” The word comes out without my control when his hands reach around me completely, one of his fingers sinking inside of me and pressing against my swollen insides. The quivers come hard and fast, an uncontrollable rush of waves that makes my body convulse and fall into him completely.
“So fucking hot,” he whispers harshly against my ear, his voice strained with his own need to find relief. I sink into him harder, still riding the swell of pleasure from where his finger presses on my insides. I ride the next wave, my own orgasm extended with every touch of Cannon against me. My body is a time bomb of sensations, ready to explode with every touch, and his is near the same. A small whimper from my lips is all it takes to push him over the edge, his eyes fluttering closed, his lips parting in a satisfied groan.
I rock and he flicks his fingers against me until our bodies are drained of feeling, numb from satisfaction, and hot from pleasure. It’s freezing outside this truck but in here it’s an inferno. The thought of how this must look from the outside pushes a giggle out of me, but I don’t move. There are no feelings of shame or embarrassment at wearing what I wear. I don’t feel inadequate or unworthy or used. I feel close to Cannon. A bond of trust and faith that has been brewing is sealed in place with our physical deed, an act that tells him as much as it tells me that I trust him.
“I really, really like you, Cannon Jennings from Indiana,” I say, repeating my words from before. The hoarse tone of my voice carries a different vulnerability to it this time, though, and I think Cannon knows. Pushing away the sweat-strewn locks of hair from my cheek and forehead, he lifts his chin and presses a long, tender kiss against it. He’s quiet, leaving his lips against my skin for several long seconds before finally replying to my raw and honest declaration.
“I like you more, Hollis. I like you a whole lot more,” he whispers, and in this very moment, dare I say, I believe maybe he does.
17
Cannon
