“No. No need to go displaying your almost naked ass around again,” D snarls.
What business is it of his if I display my naked ass…wait. What? I’m not naked. I’m wearing the fantastic hot pink bikini my mom bought me, and I’m pretty sure I don’t look like a…a non-woman in it.
I think he needs some affirmation of my new and improved enticing developments. He only sees me as the little girl I was four years ago when my parents and I were moving Dak into his college house—the first time I met Wolfe, the first time his bewitching eyes cast their spell on me.
The house was thick with hockey players and their bulging biceps. Who cared? With a brother who had played hockey since he was five, I’d seen my fair share of the cave dwellers.
When Dak played in high school, his teammates swarmed all over our house on a regular basis. Hanging out in our home gym, lifting and pressing weights, challenging each other to see who could do the most push-ups or pull-ups, bragging about who got laid the most and who had the biggest…muscles.
I’d seen their sickening macho behavior enough to make me want to stay as far away from the nearest hockey jock as possible, except for Dak. Loving one’s older brother like crazy, even when he’s the person driving you crazy, is a given.
Anyway, the day we moved Dak into his college house, I couldn’t care less about the radioactive levels of testosterone saturating the air. I ran up and down the stairs without a concern in the world, helping to carry things into Dak’s bedroom, my long, gangly legs taking two steps at a time.
Then Wolfe walked into the hallway with his shoulder-length, kissed-by-the-sun chestnut hair, features chiseled by Michelangelo’s ghost, and wintery, almost silver wolf-like eyes. The blankets I had in my arms drifted to the floor like I was in a dreamlike fog.
My imagined dream boy come to life: dangerous eyes, panty dropping perma-scowl with occasional ovary exploding barely-there tilted smiles. I stood there grinning like a fool with more metal and wires in my mouth than the San Francisco Bay Bridge.
“Hey, pip-squeak.” He flicked his chin up with a wry grin, and I died. “Excuse me, I think you have something in your eye. Nope, it’s just a sparkle.”
A few simple words. Then Wolfe ruffled his hand through my messy hair and floated down the stairs. At least in my mind, he floated—like a vision. I swore I would never rewash my hair.
I was a complete goner. That was it; the very minute I fell in lust with the goalie who with one sentence had stopped my heart and caught it in his hand like the ten-thousand pucks he had interrupted on their way into hockey nets. Teen Heart Interrupted, perfect title if I ever write my memoirs.
“What are you doing, doofus?” My annoying brother came from his room and interrupted my fantasy.
“Nothing. Get lost.” I scowled, scooped up the blankets, carried them into Dak’s room, and flopped back onto his bed.
As I lay on the unmade mattress, my mind filled with images: Wolfe’s magnetic eyes, alluring mouth, and sultry grin. My imagination churned.
Unfortunately, I would soon come to learn, the guy I was fantasizing about would only ever see me as ‘pip-squeak’ or ‘squirt’ or some other equally humiliating pocket-size person.
Thus, began my journey on the road to unrequited love. From then on, whenever I visited Dak at Bernard, it took a concerted effort on my part to keep my tongue from hitting the floor, cartoon style, every time Wolfe walked in the room.
And although he continued his bad-boy-couldn’t-give-a-crap-about-anyone attitude, I suppose, since I was his team captain’s baby sister, Wolfe was nice to me—even though I beat him at every Super Smash Brothers’ challenge.
Once, when Wolfe threw the game controller down in frustration because I beat him for the fifth consecutive time, Dak came in the living room and commented, “You don’t have to babysit my annoying little sister, bro.” I was so mortified I wanted to wrap the game controller wire around Dak’s neck. Lucky for him the controllers were wireless.
Wolfe laughed, tugged me into his side in a headlock and assured my brother, “Nah, man. It’s cool. Pip’s the only one who can beat my ass at Super Smash Brothers. I like the challenge.” I’m surprised he didn’t tickle me under my chin or scratch behind my ears like he would a playful puppy.
Four years later I would almost settle for a squeezing headlock just to have the opportunity to press my nose into Wolfe’s hard body. I have no self-respect whatsoever when it comes to wanting this guy. Whatever. Wolfe’s body is amazing. I can sacrifice a little self-respect.
“Your quad muscles are looking tense.” I shake my thoughts away from my little-girl memories and direct the conversation to something other than his disapproval concerning my bikini-clad body before I actually resort to yanking out his hair. “I could help work out some tension for you, help make you even more flexible.” I offer my assistance with calculated indifference.
“Stop being weird,” Wolfe scoffs. He drapes his arm across his face like he’s trying to block out the sun but I choose to believe what he’s really trying to do is keep himself from looking at my spectacular boobs.
“I will not. Weirdness makes life far less boring, Jerkface.”
“Jerkface?” He chuckles. “What’re you, five?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m going to be nineteen soon,” I emphasize my age.
He lifts his arm for a second and glances at me. “Oh, yeah.” He lowers his arm again and mumbles from under its protective shield, “I forgot how old you’re getting to be. And for the record, I didn’t call you weird. I said you were being weird.”
“For the record,” I imitate, “I love and embrace all my weird. Anyway, in this case, I wasn’t being weird. I’m starting my undergraduate Physical Therapy courses in a few weeks. I’m majoring in strength and conditioning and sports therapy. I figured I could get a head start on acupressure and trigger point therapy. Strictly for educational purposes.” My sexual education.
“Ah huh,” he continues to talk into his arm. “My quads are fine and don’t require any massaging from you, Pip-squeak. Talk to me in a few years when you’re all grown up and have your doctorate.”
He’s infuriating. “I wasn’t offering a massage, Sicko. I’m going to be a DPT, not a stripper.”
“I’m the sicko?” He peeks out from under his arm and smirks. “I’d say all those sex books you read are giving you a one-track mind. Does Dak know you read those things?”
“Number one, they are not sex books. They are romance novels. Number two, my mother gave me this one after she was done reading it.” I wave my book in his face. “Most importantly, number three. Who cares what Dak knows?”
“Hmm.” He lifts his arm. The Duke and the Parlor Maid. Sounds riveting,” he comments in a bored tone and goes back under his arm cover.
“You’d love it, I’m sure. It could be your biography, the eighteenth-century version. Maybe the scoundrels they write about in these books are your ancestors.” I stick my tongue out at him while he’s still undercover. Again, I’m supposed to be showing my maturity. Don’t want to give off any terrible-two vibes.
As you can see, D doesn’t reciprocate any lust-filled yearnings for me. He’s become my D, short for Damon and I’ve become his Pippa or Pip, short for Pip-squeak. When he looks at me, he only sees his innocent, sometimes snarky, friend. Although I’m almost nineteen and all grown up and legal—legal in the sense I can join the armed forces or…have sex with members of the armed forces—things have not gone the way I hoped they would with D.
After another visit to Bernard and a weekend marathon Smash Brothers championship, in which I once again beat Wolfe at every game, we became long distance, digital buddies. Our ‘wi-friendly’ connection began when Wolfe asked if I played Grand Theft Auto. After telling him my team kicked butt every time we played, I got a late-night text.
Wolfe: Hey, Pip. I’m putting together a team for GTA tonight. You interested?
Well, not exactly the late-night text I was hoping for, but at least
he was thinking about me.
Heaven: It’s Saturday night. I was thinking about going to a party.
There’s no way I was going to the party. I would much rather connect with D all night even if it was only through data bytes rather than through flesh bites on a date. But I didn’t want to sound too excited about a silly multiplayer game.
Wolfe: No sweat. Have fun. Whose party?
Heaven: The quarterback from our high school team is having a celebration for the big win they had today. BTW. It’s late there. Didn’t you have a game tonight? Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?
Feathery hope tickled my heart. He wasn’t out celebrating with the guys or rocking some other girl’s world. Instead, he’d rather stay home and play with me. So what if three thousand geographic miles were separating us and he was holding on to a game controller rather than my hips. Technically, we would still be playing something.
Wolfe: Quarterback? WTF? You hanging out with douchebag football players now?
Heaven: He’s not a douchebag.
He was totally a douchebag. Biggest man-child whore in the school who kept trying to get into my pants and couldn’t seem to take no for an answer.
Wolfe: I think I need to have a talk with you concerning the perils of associating with the teenage dick for brains male adolescent. Especially dickhole football player jocks!
From then on, we kept in touch, not only talking while our team kicked ass in GTA, but video chatting and texting.
Wolfe somehow became my surrogate big brother-protector which, unfortunately, has put the brakes on any bedroom antics between us. He asks about my “teenybopper crushes.” I don’t tell him about my biggest crush. He doesn’t know how every nerve ending electrifies in anticipation whenever he’s near me.
As I said, he doesn’t share in my electric infatuation. What he does share with me, ad- nauseum, is brotherly advice and judicious opinions on who, or it seems more important, who never ever, to sleep with. In return, I keep a stiff upper and lower everything and continue my frustrating friendship with him.
“Anyway, your quads may be okay, but there’s a good chance you’re going blind if you can’t see I’m already quite grown up,” I say with a haughty glare toward his arm-covered face.
“Pip-pa,” D drones a warning.
“Whatever. It’s your loss…or your quadricep’s’ loss.” I hmmph to accentuate my so-there statement. D turns his head and scowls at me from under his bulging triceps. “Anyway, how’s your last spring break before becoming a big famous pro hockey player?” I ignore his exasperated glare.
He tucks his arms under his head and does a crunch sit up to look out at the ocean. Sweet Jesus! It is not normal human anatomy for his ab muscles to be doing what they’re doing. I bet I could bounce a coin off his stomach and it would jump like a slinky down each glorious eight pack rectus abdominus section.
“It’s only AHL for now, but I’m looking forward to getting started on my career and moving out here to LA.”
“Huh?” I lose focus on our conversation for a second, blinded by the mouthwatering manscape display.
He lays flat again. “I said it’s only the AHL but…”
“Oh. Right, right.” I wave him off. “Don’t give me that feigned humility, D. You and I both know you’ll be moved up to the NHL in no time.”
Besides having bitchin’ looks and rumored bedroom skills, D is the best goalie in Division 1 NCAA hockey. Everyone knows his stint in the AHL is only until the Winds goalie retires next season and then he’ll be moved up to the Santa Ana hockey team. We’ll practically be next door neighbors.
He’ll be graduating in a month and moving out to Los Angeles and I’ll be doing my undergrad and graduate studies right here at California State. Needless to say, I’m more than thrilled we’re going to be living near each other.
“Whatever. I always play my best. If the Winds don’t move me up, some other team eventually will.” Hmm. Did I say confident? Maybe I should add the word cocky to my ever-growing Damon Wolfe Pros and Cons list. “I’ve worked my ass off for this opportunity. I’ve been waiting for it my whole life. But I suppose I’d like to be here in LA rather than anywhere else.”
“Really?” My question comes out sounding a little too enthusiastic.
“Yeah. This place is fuckin’ lit. I’d like to get a place on the ocean.”
“Oh, right.” It has nothing to do with me living here. I push the disappointment back down to the pit of my stomach where it lives.
“Something like your parents’ place, right on the beach. By the way, don’t forget to thank them for letting us stay here.”
“I will, but they were happy to have you guys staying here with me while they’re away.”
“They were happy to have a bunch of hockey slobs staying with their little girl?” He quirks a brow.
“I told you, I’m not such a little girl anymore,” I hiss back at him.
“No.” He props his elbows up behind him and gives me another squinted sideways glance. “I suppose you’re not, which is all the more reason not to be alone in a house with hockey sluts,” he mumbles.
“I’m pretty sure my overrated virtue is safe. Dak’s there with his tyrannical vigilance, and there’s you keeping an eye on me.” My voice drips with sarcasm because I know he was ogling my boobs.
“Right. There’s me keeping an eye on you. No fuckin’ worries.” He scrubs a hand over his face.
“Anyway, my parents aren’t worried. They know I hate hockey players.”
“Right. Sure you do,” he sneers. So cocky.
“I’m beginning to hate them more by the second.” I wrinkle my nose at him and purse my lips to keep myself from sticking my tongue out at him—again.
“You’re a little liar.’ He flops down and retreats back into his arm-covered shell.
He’s right. I am a liar. As I glance over at D lying next to me on the blanket, all beautifully bare-chested, it isn’t hatred which has every hormone in my body racing to an aching spot between my thighs.
I stand up and blow out a big breath. I have to get out into the waves: burn off some adrenaline, get my mind and other areas off Wolfe’s body and my prolonged virginal status.
“You are an exceptionally cocky ass today. I’m heading out.” I grab my baby blue board. “Surf looks good. More fun than you.”
“Fuck yeah! Let’s do this.” He completely ignores my sarcasm and rolls up into a standing position. There go his ridiculous ab muscles doing things which make me cross my legs and squeeze my adductor muscles together. “I can’t wait to beat your snarky ass in a race to shore.”
Frustration washes over me, pulling me down. He’s only excited about another competition with me. Rather than his playmate, I’ve become his playdate.
“You ready, Pip-squeak?” He pinches my cheek. Actually, freakin’ pinches my cheek! My adductors unclench with a silent, mortified lament.
“Ready?” If you mean am I ready to relinquish my lily-white chastity? I’m totally ready.
“You ready for me to beat your ass to shore?” My dirty mind prefers to misinterpret his suggestive question and remains groveling in the gutter, while warmth and frustration travel from my nose to my toes at my own improper thoughts. But frustration or not, I’ll never let him beat me to shore.
Chapter Two
Wolfe
“Ha. Just because I’ve given you a few lessons, you think the student is ready to beat the teacher, Grasshopper?” Pip laughs.
“Hell, yeah I am.”
“How about we make a bet? Loser buys lunch at the yummy café down the beach.”
“You’re on. Hope you brought your debit card because I’m really in the mood for some surf and turf: fresh whole lobster with a nice twelve-ounce filet on the side.” I smile and lick my lips to demonstrate how I’m already imagining eating the expensive lunch she’ll be paying for.
Her gaze lingers on my mouth for a few seconds before she clears her throat and says, “Don’t g
et your hopes up, dude. You know you can’t beat me at anything. And I’d say the question is more like, are you ready for me to beat your cocky ass to shore?” She smirks, one hand propped on her hip.
Is she kidding? “You’re kidding, right?” I shake my head in disbelief.
“We’ll see. How’s your balance and endurance?” Pip continues to taunt me with a smug little grin.
“Never had any problem staying erect for as long as necessary.” Her whole-body blushes pink at my suggestive play on words. But she doesn’t get flustered and sends the teasing right back to my court.
“Can’t wait to see that.”
“Okay, smart ass. Now you’re really going down.”
“Am I?” She quirks a brow and my dick twitches. Fuck. She wins this round. Enough double entendre wordplay.
“Let’s go, Squirt. The student is about to decimate the teacher.”
“My goodness. Someone’s extraordinarily arrogant today. I think you need to practice vibrating higher.” She sticks her board back into the sand and bends, flipping her long, silky hair over and tugging it into a ponytail.
“I need to do what now?” I suck in my bottom lip to keep from smiling and adjust myself when my dick begins to salute at the sight. Not only am I picturing what I could do to her in a bent over position, she’s fucking adorable when she’s talking about her cosmic bullshit.
“Vibrate higher.” She stands up and flips her head back. “It’s a real thing. Something people do to get closer to a more harmonious, peaceful existence. Lately, my mom even has my dad doing meditation and yoga trying to reach Cosmic Consciousness, or…Nirvana, or…Tahiti. I don’t know—someplace blissfully wonderful. I think you should try it. You need it.”
She pivots in the sand and struts away carrying her board under one arm. Christ Almighty. It’s. A. Mother. Fucking. Thong. The ability to breathe is gone, along with all logic, all sanity. I stop in my tracks, willing my legs not to buckle and leave me on my knees in the sand. Talk about vibrating? She looks like 1000Hz of energy, and I want to fuck her so bad it hurts. Damn. When did I become a creepy cradle robbing perv?
Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3) Page 2
