by Lexi Ryan
He breaks the kiss before I’m ready, moving it from my mouth to the side of my neck. His hot mouth opens against that tender skin, and my disappointment dissolves under the spell of soft lips and searching tongue. He finds the sweet spot behind my ear, and when I moan, he groans and sucks lightly.
One hand drops from my hair, runs down my side, and comes back up to cup my breast. I gasp.
“Chris.” I tense, surprising myself. “I can’t—”
He nods as he drops his hands to his sides. “Okay.”
“No.” I swallow hard, not even sure what I’m trying to say or why but knowing I need to figure it out and tell him. “I don’t . . . I c-c-c—” Fuck. Slow down, Grace. “No sex. Kissing is fine, but no sex.”
His grin is slow and satisfied, and he nods before stepping close again, his mouth hovering over mine. “That’s not a problem, Grace. Not a problem at all.”
We stay longer than we should—kissing, touching, his hands exploring over my dress but never under, his mouth sliding down my neck but never lower. At some point, we make our way to the ground, and his body is over mine, his delicious weight on top of me.
We’re both out of breath. We’re both clinging and wanting more.
He pulls back, props himself on his elbows, and studies my face. “Your lips are blue.” He shakes his head. “I’m one shitty date. Let me take you home and get you warm.”
I open my mouth to ask a sarcastic question about whether he makes a habit of getting girls wet on the first date, but I press my lips together before the question can escape. I don’t want to do that. Not to this. A girl like me doesn’t get many perfect romantic moments in her life. This one’s worth protecting, so I don’t let myself fuck it up.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chris
The whole drive home I can taste Grace on my lips. My mind is too tangled up in the memory of her body under mine to focus on the road. I fucking ache for more. No girl’s ever done this to me before. I was so anxious to get her home and warm and alone again, my hands practically trembled when I put my keys in the ignition.
She said no sex and looked at me like she expected me to argue—as if I’d walk away if kissing her wasn’t going to lead to getting off. I don’t know what kind of assholes have fucked with her head. All I know is that I’m willing to be whatever it is she needs, give her however much she needs, and not ask for any more than she’s able to give.
When I pull into the lot at the apartment complex and park the car, she grabs my hand before I can open my door.
“Chris . . .” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, and again I’m struck by these conflicting versions of Grace. The big mouth and the girl who’s afraid to speak. The raunchy jokester who calls herself “easy” and the girl who went tense when my hand found her breast.
“What’s wrong?”
She releases her lip from her teeth, and it’s red and swollen, and I’m struck by the urge to lick it. “Can we keep this between us?”
Something in my gut goes cold. “What do you mean?”
“Can we not talk about this to . . . everyone else?”
It’s not like we just had some one-night stand, an accident we plan to never repeat. We kissed. Exchanged touches that were damn near innocent. And she’s telling me not to tell our friends. It’s déjà vu, and it doesn’t sit well.
“I’m not ready for them to know about whatever this is.”
“And what is this, Grace?”
She shifts in her seat and looks out her window, avoiding my gaze.
I understand what she wants. I just don’t understand why. “Listen, I’m not trying to push you,” I say, but I feel very much like the pushy-ass man I know she doesn’t need right now. “I know that you and I are complicated before we even get started, and I don’t think we need to make it any more complicated by being on different pages. So, I’m asking you, what is this?”
She stares outside and twists her hands in her lap. “Do we have to put a label on it?”
“I think that would be wise, yeah,” I say, and she flinches. I rub the back of my neck. I’m royally fucking this up. “I never would have touched you today if I hadn’t thought long and hard on how I feel about you. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t have feelings for you. This wasn’t like the night at Willow’s house.”
“I know. It’s different, and . . . I have feelings for you, too.” She doesn’t sound happy about it, but at least she turns back to me and looks at me again. I cup her jaw and stroke her bottom lip with my thumb. “It’s so complicated.”
“Sure, but I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t think you were worth a little complication.”
“I don’t want your friends making more of this than it is.” Her eyes search mine.
“Maybe I’m the one making more of it than it is.” I swallow hard, choking down all of my vulnerability so I can give her the honesty she deserves. “So what is it to you? Is this the start of something that we’re willing to give a chance? Or is it a summer fling?”
Is it a mistake? I don’t say the last. Maybe because I’m afraid that, for her, it is.
“You don’t have to answer now,” I hear myself say. I don’t like to let fear keep me from going after what I want, but that’s what I just did. I want an answer. I want to know what I am to her and what she’s willing to let this be. But I’m afraid that if I rush her, she’ll shut it down before we have the chance to start.
I hold my breath and count to ten as I mentally shift gears. Because if I’m honest, I was ready to walk into the apartment with my arm around Grace and make it clear to everyone that she’s mine now. “We won’t tell them until you have a chance to decide what you want.”
She scans my face. I don’t know what she’s looking for, but I hope she sees that she can trust me. “Thank you.”
Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe we’re just asking for trouble and drama. Fuck. She’s here because her dad wanted me to look out for her, and I don’t think this is what he had in mind. But she’s had my heart in her fist since she bandaged my hand in Willow’s living room. I’m willing to take a risk if it means she might give this a chance.
* * *
Grace
Mason and Bailey are both studying in the living room when we get inside. I’m a coward, so instead of facing our friends, I go straight to the bathroom before they even have a chance to look up from their books. I strip off my wet dress and climb into the shower, letting Chris deal with the explanations of why we both came home soaked through. I know that’s unfair because I’m the one who doesn’t want them to know the truth.
I’m shaken by the whole day—from the way he planned something so special just for me to the gentle way he first brushed his lips over mine. If Bailey finds out that Chris and I are involved, she’ll want to know if I’ve told him who I am. I don’t think I have the courage to do that yet, but just because I’m scared to do something doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing.
I run the shower long and hot, and when I climb out, I take my time moisturizing, and even swipe on a quick layer of mascara before tucking my towel under my arms to go off in search of pajamas.
I don’t make it to the bedroom when I realize our friends are gone. Chris is sitting in front of the TV. His brow is wrinkled as he stares at a couple of talking heads on ESPN.
“To be honest, the Blackhawks are a big question mark for me,” a bald guy on the left of the screen says.
“You can't deny they have talent,” the man on the right says. “Even without Woodison, that team is stockpiled with skills. Mason Dahl at wide receiver and Sebastian Crowe stepping in for Woodison—Christopher Montgomery has plenty of targets.”
“My question,” the bald guy says, holding up a finger, “is can they get through the first part of the season without self-imploding before Woodison’s return? With an unexpected coaching change, the Blackhawks don’t need Montgomery to be their quarterback—they need him to be their leader.”
“He’s certainly capable,” the guy on the right says, and I tuck my towel tighter under my arms and give a little victory fist pump. These lazy idiots sit there and make a living talking about kids who have more pressure on them than they could imagine. It’s good to hear one of them stand up for Chris.
“There’s no doubt that Chris Montgomery has the technical skills required of any D1 QB,” the bald guy says. The camera clicks to a highlight reel of Chris throwing touchdowns and making runs into the end zone as the guy talks through Chris’s stats. “But let’s look at his stats in clutch situations,” he says. “In the last two seasons, there have been eight games that have come down to two-minute drills where they had possession and were down by a touchdown or more. They won five of those games, which is a respectable number. In all five instances, Arrow Woodison was responsible for the play that won the game. The three times it was left to Montgomery’s arm or legs, when he needed to do something phenomenal to lead his team to victory—I’m talking a Hail Mary pass or a crazy trick play—he played it safe, and as a result, the game was lost. I’m not saying they would have won if he’d gone for the impossible, but I’d like to see him try.”
The other analyst nods. “This is a kid who has ability down to his DNA, but I agree that the film supports your assertion.”
“He’s so controlled and mechanical that he doesn’t take the risks necessary to win those tough games. If the Blackhawks want another bowl season without Woodison in those early games, their QB is going to need to find a fire in his belly that I, personally, have yet to see.”
“Who knows?” the other guy says. “Maybe if the rumors are true and Colt Montgomery is considering the job as the Blackhawks’ new head coach, he’ll be able to light that fire in his son.”
They move on to speculations about Ohio State, and I tear my eyes off the screen to look at Chris. He hasn’t moved, but his eyes are closed.
I walk around the couch and sit on his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He opens those gorgeous baby blues and scans my face. “Did you have a nice shower?”
I touch my forehead to his. “Don’t let them in your head. Don’t let them decide who you are. Only you get to decide that.”
* * *
Chris
Watching sports analysts pick apart your team is always a game of Russian roulette for the pride, but knowing Grace heard what they had to say about me makes the words hurt like a punch in the junk. “Can’t argue with stats.”
She arches her back and presses her chest against mine. “Those so-called stats were based on three games over two years. That’s bullshit, and you know it. The idea that you don’t play with passion just because you don’t lose your temper or your cool on the field? That’s bullshit, too. You hold that team together. They don’t need a hothead right now; they need you.”
This girl claims to dislike football, and yet every time my football career is the topic of conversation, she seems to have the words I need to hear. “How do you know exactly what to say?”
“I only know what’s true.”
And just like that, the assholes on the screen don’t matter. I have a gorgeous woman on my lap who isn’t covered with anything more than a thin towel.
I slide my hands up her bare thighs and under the plush material, keeping my eyes locked on hers. Her tongue darts out to her lips, and I slide my hand into her wet hair and bring her mouth down to meet mine. I squeeze her hips under the towel but force them to stay put and remind myself I’m supposed to take it slow with her. I can give her slow. I can give her gentle.
I can give her anything.
Shaking my head, I slide my hand behind her neck and skim my thumb down the side of her jaw. “I didn’t think you could be any sexier, but I like it when you talk football.”
“Mmm, maybe I should tell you how I feel about the way these guys look in their football tights.”
I grunt and lead her closer to me. “One, they’re pants, not tights. And two, I don’t need to hear how you feel about my friends’ asses.”
“Even if it’s all good?” She smiles innocently.
“Especially if it’s good,” I growl.
“I should probably tell you that Keegan’s asked me out a few times.”
“Say what?”
“He asked during my first visit to Arrow’s. But he’s brought it up again a time or two.”
I was teasing before, but now the jealousy in my gut is real and I’m reminded just how much I hate the idea of keeping this thing between us from my friends. “What did you say?”
“I said yes, obviously.” She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me forward. “I’m with him right now, pretending to listen to him talk while I fantasize about how sexy his quarterback looks in his football tights. He wants to invite me to his place, but I’m going to make an excuse so I can get home to this boy I like.”
“Fuck yeah you are.”
She giggles, but I press my mouth to hers and swallow the sound with my kiss. I’ve never been jealous before. Even when I walked in on Olivia with Keegan, I wouldn’t describe what I felt as jealousy. I felt angry and betrayed, but not jealous.
I can’t say the difference is in Grace’s insistence on keeping this a secret, because Olivia had the same requirement. But it is different. I want everyone to know Grace is mine. I want to kiss her in front of my friends any time I want, and stop sneaking around as if we’re doing something we should be ashamed of.
When she breaks the kiss, she’s breathing hard. She leans her forehead against mine and licks her lips. “I should put some clothes on.”
“Whatever you need to do.” I squeeze her hips and let one rebellious hand trail up to her belly, letting my thumb circle her navel. “I like you like this, but maybe it makes touching you too easy.”
She draws in a ragged breath. “You make me not want to go slow, and that’s . . .” She pulls back and searches my eyes. “That’s exactly why I need to.”
“Anything you need is yours. Don’t apologize.”
But instead of climbing off me and heading to dress, she shifts to the side, leans back, and settles her head against the arm of the couch, shocking me when she pulls me with her.
As I settle on top of her, she moans. I trail my mouth down the side of her neck, finding the sweet spot behind her ear. I snake my hand between our bodies, and her towel falls open, giving me access to the soft curve of her breast. Grace is naked underneath me, making sexy little sounds every time my lips skim over her skin, arching into my touch with every brush of my thumb.
“I’ve wanted this from that first night,” I say.
“Me too,” she whispers.
“I couldn’t forget about how you felt under me, or the taste of your mouth.”
Just as my thumb grazes her nipple again, she yelps and pushes on my shoulders with her palms. I withdraw quickly, sitting up. And then I hear it.
The scrape of a key in the lock and the voices on the other side of the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Grace
I roll off the couch and to my feet and dash to the bedroom just as the door swings open, leaving a dazed Chris on the couch. I hear Bailey and Mason’s voices as they enter the apartment, the sound of keys being dropped on the island, and cabinets opening and closing.
“I’m stealing a Pop-Tart, Grace,” Bailey calls as I lean against the other side of the bedroom door.
“Go for it!” My voice is steady but my hands shake as I discard the towel and walk to the closet to find some clothes.
“Get dressed,” she calls again. “Mia wants to go to the Cavern and do karaoke.”
I hear the deep rumble of the guys talking, but I can’t make out their words. I grab my phone to send a quick text to Willow and see I have one waiting from her.
Willow: OMG. This ANGRY SLUT play is the best fucking thing ever. Send me more!
I bite back a smile. I’ve been working on the play for Mr. Gregory, but every time I sit down to write
that, I end up wanting to spend time on the silly project I’ll only let Willow read.
Me: I need to focus on PINKERTON AND POLLY for Mr. Gregory, but when I’m done, I will finish ANGRY SLUT just for you.
Willow: I don’t want to wait. (Imagine that in the whiniest voice possible.) How’s Chris? Are you still dying of thirst?
I stare at the screen and take a deep breath.
Me: He kissed me today. I kissed him back. So complicated. Don’t think we’d be making out if he knew about Gee-Gee. What do I do?
I pull on some underwear and a tank top, and I’m digging through a basket of clean, unfolded laundry, when someone knocks on the door. I figure it’s Bailey, so I call, “Come in!”
Chris steps into the room and rakes his eyes down my bare legs and back up to my polka-dot panties. My cheeks heat in a flush that radiates through my whole body when he pushes the door closed with a flat palm.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve screwed up my brain,” he says quietly. He stalks toward me, his eyes hot. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to get turned on every time I see polka dots?”
I bite back a laugh, and he grins.
“It’s really fucking awkward, Grace.” He steps forward and hooks two fingers under the thin cotton above my hipbone, and I instinctively sway toward him. The ache I’ve been carrying around in my belly sinks lower and begs for attention. “But they make me think of you. And knowing even your underwear has polka dots is not going to help my problem.”
“Erection via polka dots,” I whisper, tilting my face up to his. “Sounds like a serious affliction.”
“You have no idea.” He drops his mouth to mine and presses a hard kiss there before releasing my underwear. He breaks the kiss and groans. “I have to go. Mason and Sebastian and I are going to go to Arrow’s and watch game film from last year. Are you gonna go to karaoke with the girls?”
