Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  I remember how my body felt when I was in his arms that night at the hotel. How my heart exploded watching him play on Sunday. I remember my bucket list. Rhys would be really great at helping me with line item #1 (exploring what I like sexually). Now that I’ve had Rhys, I don’t want anyone else. No one’s going to do it for me the way this smoking hot footballer does. Masturbating’s especially not going to do it.

  Orgasms are great. But Rhys Maddox is better. And who’s to say the two are mutually exclusive? Once I learn to loosen up a little—surely I can learn to stop being so afraid of my own vagina—I have no doubt Rhys will make me come all over the place.

  In the meantime, I’m going to make him come. Even gods have needs, and I want to be the human who tends to his. Plus I am really sweaty and probably smelly, and I don’t want to risk turning Rhys off with my grossness. I don’t want to mess this up.

  I am going to do anything I can to make him want me the way I want him.

  I meet Rhys’s eyes. A beat of heated silence stretches between us.

  I drop his wrist and creep my fingers across the center console and onto his crotch. His blue eyes flash with something dark as I pop the button on his tuxedo pants.

  “Laura—Christ!” He jumps when I slip my hand inside his underwear and wrap my hand around his dick—he’s already hard and hot to the touch—but, giving him a good tug, I put my other hand on the center of his chest and push him back into his seat.

  “Keep.” I lean forward. “Your eyes.” I unzip his fly. “On the goddamn road, Rhys.”

  And then I go down on him.

  He growls, his head falling back onto the headrest as I press my tongue into the sensitive seam that runs up the underside of the tip of his dick.

  “Oh, love.” Rhys digs his hand into my hair. He lifts his hips, thrusts gently into my mouth. “Oh, love.”

  Chapter 10

  Rhys

  I almost crash the car when I come. The feel of Laura’s mouth on my cock, coupled with the surprise of such an unexpected treat, has me seeing stars when my orgasm hits me. The muscles in my legs tighten and burn, the rush coming over me in a single, almost blinding instant. Laura swallows me whole, her tongue working the head of my dick as I empty myself into her mouth. Sweet girl is very, very good at this.

  “Jesus Christ,” I sputter, blinking back the bright dots that threaten my vision. “That was nothing short of spectacular.”

  Laura sits up in her seat, offering me a sly little smile as she discreetly wipes at her mouth with her thumb. “Thought you might enjoy that.”

  “You didn’t have—”

  “I wanted to,” she says.

  I turn my head to look at her. “Well thank you for that. I enjoyed it very much, if you couldn’t tell.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  I take her chin in my palm and quickly pull her to me. I kiss her lips, but two seconds later she pulls back, eyes wide.

  “You’re really going to kiss me after…”

  “After what?”

  “You know,” she says. “After having you in my mouth.”

  “Of course I’m going to kiss you,” I say. “That was the best bloody blow job I’ve ever had in my life. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I say. I kiss her again, opening her to me. I taste the salt of my arousal on her tongue. “I don’t get it when blokes won’t kiss their girl afterward. It’s rude, for one thing. And I happen to think it’s sexy as hell to taste it, for another.”

  Laura furrows her brow. “You’re in the minority then.”

  “Would you kiss me after I went down on you?”

  “Um. I guess?”

  I make a sharp right, taking us up a wide, pretty street. I glide into the first parking spot I see and put the car in park.

  “You guess?” I say, turning to her. “Well, darling, you’d better. I bet you’ve got a raging case of blue balls. Or would it be blue ovaries?”

  Laura smiles. “Blue clitoris?”

  “Blue labias, I’d say.”

  “Isn’t the plural of labia…well, labia without the s?” she says, laughing.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and lean toward her. “Let’s ask the labia…s what they think, shall we?”

  I’m about to reach between her legs when she catches me by the wrist again. She did the same thing when I tried to touch her before.

  I look up, but she won’t meet my eyes.

  “Do your labias not like me?”

  She laughs a second time. “No. They lo—they like you a lot. But I’m kinda tired, to be honest with you. And, um. Really, really sweaty.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Why don’t we go back to your place so I can get cleaned up first? I could really use a shower.”

  I fall back into my seat and tug a hand through my hair. “Actually, love, I was going to drop you off at your place tonight. As fun as a shower together would be, I’ve got to behave myself during the week. Especially tonight—we’ve got our first training session of the week tomorrow morning. I want to go in fresh. You know, get a solid night’s sleep, have a bit of quiet time with my coffee in the morning. I keep a pretty strict schedule during the season, and it doesn’t allow a lot of time for…er, fun and such, sad as that sounds.”

  “Oh.” Laura tries to catch her face before it falls. “Oh, okay. Yeah, sure, that’s fine. I definitely don’t want to mess with your mojo after last night’s game.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” I say, meeting her eyes.

  “No problem,” she says. “Really. I get it.”

  “I’d love for you to stay over next Wednesday, though. We’ve got a game that night, which means no training the next day. We can sleep in, perhaps you can rub some of that luck off onto me—then maybe some breakfast and little quality time together?”

  She offers me a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. You know, I’ve been wanting to do a moped tour of Madrid. Could be fun?”

  “A moped tour?” I arch a brow. “Is that a thing now?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, looking away. “Just something I thought sounded fun. Funny. I don’t know.”

  “We can play it by ear, all right?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to…” I nod at her lap.

  Laura pulls at her dress, tugging it as best she can over her thighs. “I’m sure. I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Thanks, though.”

  I put my seatbelt back on and coax the car into gear. I hate to disappoint her, especially after that fantastic performance a minute ago. But being a professional athlete isn’t all Lamborghinis and glamorous parties. There’s loads of hard work involved; the tens of hours of training I do each week includes brutal conditioning drills, weight lifting, intense scrimmages, and endless amounts of running. My body’s got to be in the best shape possible to make it through those sessions and then the matches, which means I’ve got to get the proper amount of sleep and rest. I’ve got to eat really, really well, too—no alcohol (except on nights I don’t have training or a game the next day), no dairy or sugar or eating out, really.

  Yeah, I may be a bit anal about keeping such a strict schedule. But with so much on the line, I can’t afford to let loose or make a mistake. My father let loose, started drinking a couple nights a week to cope with the stress of his career. It wasn’t long before he was drinking so much and doing so many drugs he’d get sick at training. In the span of a single season, he went from being one of the most talented players in the league to an emaciated alcoholic who brought down an entire team.

  He brought down our entire family, too.

  People don’t talk about James Maddox around me. But I know what they’re thinking—that I’m just like him, that I’m going to fall short and screw everything up for everyone.

  They’ve got another thing coming. I’m not my father. I didn’t inherit that defective gene that led him down a dark path, a
nd I am willing to go to any length to prove it. My father may have been photographed pissed out of his mind, bottle of gin in his hand. But I make sure I’m photographed enjoying the glamorous spoils of a promising football career. Cars, girls, shopping sprees—not only do I get a lot of mileage out of these things when it comes to endorsements and goodwill with the press, I also get to show the world, and the naysayers back home, that I’m my own man. That I’m making something of myself.

  As restrictive as my schedule is, I’ve got to stick to it. My game depends on it. So do my reputation and my family.

  ***

  Thursday Morning

  “Thank you,” I gasp. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  I thrust my hips with each thank you, burying myself deeper and deeper inside the soft, sweet grip of Laura’s cunt. She begins to contract around me. Delirious with need and relief and excitement, I come, too.

  I fall back onto the bed, blinking against the darkness of the room. Sunlight, strong and white, peeks through the gap in the curtains. As usual, Laura wanted to have sex in the dark.

  “I’d say you’re welcome,” Laura replies, covering herself with the sheets despite the darkness. “But I’m telling you—I think you killed it last night for the same reason you killed it last weekend. You’re super talented. You work hard. So you played great. Those goals had nothing to do with me.”

  I glide my mouth up the slope of her shoulder. “I beg to differ, love. Those things helped. But you’re the one who tipped luck in my favor. You’re the one who made the difference. I mean, I scored three goals in two matches. I’ve never done that before.”

  Laura laughs. I do, too. I’m just so damn gleeful. I killed it on the pitch last night. Absolutely killed it. I played the entire match and scored two of our three goals. Any fears I had of last week’s performance being a fluke disappeared, replaced by the heady euphoria of belief. Belief that this is really happening. Belief that I’m back, that I’m not going to drown.

  Belief that Laura truly is my good luck charm.

  I’ve got to keep her close.

  “I’m going to go clean up,” she says, scurrying to the bathroom before I have a chance to glimpse her hot little body.

  “Give me a moment and I’ll join you!” I call after her.

  I take care of the condom and grab my mobile off the bedside table. I scroll through a couple headlines—BLOND AMBITION: RHYS MADDOX TEARS IT UP ON THE PITCH—and the 182 texts (literally) I’ve received overnight. I pick up Olivier’s first.

  Need to celebrate come over for pool time and drinks today my woman is here you should bring one for you and one for Fred see you soon mate

  I grin. The lads and I were too knackered to do much celebrating last night after the match, so it makes sense Olivier wants to make up for lost time. His flat is ridiculous—as it should be, bloke makes twenty million euros a season—complete with waterfalls in both his bathroom and his rooftop pool.

  I’ve got to admit, I don’t hate the idea of catching some sun while ogling Laura in an itty bitty bikini at Olivier’s extravagant place. Even better, the press knows where he lives, and they often camp out outside his building to catch photos of the celebs attending his infamous pool parties. We always make sure to put on a show for them.

  The last thing I want to do is disappoint our captain. Olivier and I are mates, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got a free pass to blow him off.

  I’ll be there with my plus one, I text back. I head for the bathroom.

  Laura is still wrapped in a sheet, brushing her teeth, when I walk in.

  “So, about today—”

  “You still up for that moped tour?” she asks, brightening even as toothpaste spills from her mouth.

  “The moped tour. Shit! I forgot about that.”

  “Oh,” Laura says. She turns back to the mirror. “I mean, I don’t think it’s too late to rent some—”

  “How about a bit of pool time instead? Olivier—one of my mates on the squad—he’s having a few people over to his flat this afternoon to celebrate our win. It’s always a good time. And I’d love to show you off to the lads.”

  “Oh,” Laura repeats. “Olivier has a pool at his apartment?”

  “Yes. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ll ever see. Definitely worth the price of admission. He’ll have food, drinks, a DJ, the whole thing.”

  She holds back her hair with one hand as she rinses out her mouth.

  “Sounds like you really want to go,” she says.

  “I’m not sure I have a choice,” I reply, scoffing. “When the captain of the squad invites you over, you don’t say no.”

  “Even if you were the star of the game last night?”

  “Even if I was the star of the game, I’ve got to pay my dues.” I sidle up behind her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. I put my hands on her hips and meet her gaze in the mirror. “C’mon, love, I promise it will be fun. I want you there with me. And most importantly, I want to see this hot little body in a bikini.”

  Laura looks at me for a long minute, her hazel eyes trailing over my hair, my face, my groin. I’m naked as the day I was born, and I can tell she appreciates that fact. I step a little to the side, so she can see more of me.

  “God, you’re totally shameless,” she says, fighting a grin. “Totally shameless and totally hot.”

  “You’ll go with me, then?”

  She lets out a huff. “Yes, I’ll go with you. Although I’m not sure how I feel about chilling in a bikini with all your footballer friends and their hot WAGs around. I don’t think I’ll measure up.”

  “Trust me, you’ll slay the competition.” I kiss her cheek. “We’ll do the moped thing another day, I promise. All right?”

  “All right,” she says.

  ***

  Laura

  Later that week

  MADDOX’S HOT STREAK: Rhys dominating on and off the pitch, the headline screams. I scrunch my eyes at the grainy photo of me. In it, I’m biting my lip as I adjust my bikini top. The fact that the picture isn’t so great actually works in my favor; my edges are thankfully blurred, making me look thinner and tanner and more well endowed than I actually am.

  Still, I put down the sandwich I’d been eating and don’t pick it back up again. Yeah, I wanted to eat cheese and paella this semester, but that was before I knew pictures of me in a bathing suit would be in newspapers all over Europe. I’ll probably stick to salads, at least for the foreseeable future. Rhys is hot, and he deserves a hot girlfriend.

  I want to be that girlfriend. I want to be his, any way he’ll have me.

  Rhys is beside me in the photo, his hand resting possessively on my ass. He looks face-meltingly sexy in short, Euro-style swim trunks, the muscles in his abs and legs on full display. My heart contracts. I want. I need. It’s only been two days since I saw him, and already I miss him. Pathetic, I know, but now that I’ve glimpsed his world, felt and tasted and enjoyed it, I want, more than anything, to be a part of it. We just…we get along so well. And he’s so hot. So talented, too.

  I still don’t buy the idea that I’m his good luck charm or whatever. But it’s a thrill nonetheless to think that I’m a part of his life now—that I somehow help fuel or inspire that talent.

  My phone rings. I pick it up and see that it’s Rhys.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “Hello, love,” he replies. “How are you feeling? Everything still all right?”

  Rhys called yesterday before the pictures were printed to give me a heads up they’d be in the papers today. Not gonna lie, I was a little freaked out at first. But he assured me his publicist Cristina wouldn’t let any unflattering photos make the news, and told me he liked the idea of us being seen together.

  I mean. How the hell do I say no to that?

  “Yes,” I reply. “I still think I look a little chubby—”

  “I think you look hot,” he says. “I love those photos of you. As a matter of fact, I might ask for a few copies for…uh, perso
nal use.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my heart swelling as his compliment fills it to the brim. My face is hot. I feel dizzy.

  I swear, Rhys brings me to my knees in a way no other guy ever has.

  “We still on for Sunday?”

  “Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. I clear my throat, try again—this time with more dignity (I hope). “Yes. I’d like that.”

  Sunday is five days away. Five very long days. But Rhys has a big match against Madrid’s rival, Barcelona, that afternoon, and he’ll be preparing for it all week long—meaning he won’t have time to see me. Of course I’m bummed, and I kinda wish he didn’t have such an insane schedule. I’m not the biggest sports fan, granted, but no one really talks about the unsexy side of professional athletics. The daily grind of practice and PT and interviews and meetings. Rhys is hella talented, but he also works really, really hard. So hard that he says he usually passes out by nine every night. In my college student bubble, I guess I never really considered that Rhys’s rock hard abs and his dominance on the field came at a price.

  A price I admit I am willing to pay. Especially when Rhys invited me to a “sleepover” at the penthouse after the game on Sunday, promising to make up for lost time.

  I’ll just have to gird my loins and be patient, maybe use the free time to work on my bucket list.

  “See you Sunday, then,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Can’t wait.”

  Chapter 11

  Laura

  September

  Rhys keeps scoring. I keep falling. I can’t stop wanting to be close to him. Even though I still haven’t had an orgasm with him, he still turns me on, our white-hot chemistry in the bedroom mellowing to a heady, fuzzy warmth in the morning. It’s like Rhys is the sun and I spin in his orbit, basking in his warmth when we’re together, yearning in the cold when we’re not. He is the center of everything, and I gave up the struggle against his gravitational pull long ago. I surrendered, foolishly, not knowing where we are going or what we even are.