Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  Beside me, Maddie and Rafa start to clap, too.

  I glance around. I don’t dance. The last thing I need is a random fan catching me clapping and dancing at a shit pub two days before my match with their camera phone and posting it all over the internet.

  But then I catch Laura’s gaze. She’s still smiling, a wide, toothy thing that makes her eyes glitter. Only now she’s smiling at me. My breath catches.

  She’s so bloody beautiful when she smiles like that. I don’t realize I’m smiling back until my face starts to hurt. It’s like we’re the only two people in the room. A sense of freedom washes over me. Who cares what day it is? a voice says inside my head. Who cares what everyone else thinks? All that matters is Laura, and her smile, and the way it makes me feel. That’s all that exists in this moment, and it fills me up.

  I feel like I could fly.

  Laura is still looking at me. Still smiling that heart-shattering smile. It’s been way too long since she’s smiled like this. Let go with me, it seems to say. Let everything else go.

  I clap, once, totally off beat. Maddie looks at me and laughs.

  We all laugh. I can’t tell if I lose myself in it because I want to—because I’ve been so bored and lost this week—or because it’s exhilarating, like leaping off the edge of a cliff without knowing where you’re going to land.

  I hold my hands up so Laura can see me clapping. She bites her lip, wiggling her hips a little harder in acknowledgement.

  As I watch her, I feel my heart grow bigger with every beat. I like this liberated Laura. I like her a lot. She is fearless and sexy and fuck there it is again—that weird twinge inside my chest, between my legs. The scary need I felt for her after seeing her so lit up that night in London.

  I should be thinking about tomorrow’s training, about William Wallace’s sharp-edged suggestions after my less-than-stellar performance on the pitch this morning.

  But Laura keeps distracting me with her tambourine black magic. She’s having so much fun up there, and I’m having so much fun down here.

  For the most part, I enjoy all the cool shit that comes with being famous. The parties, the free clothes, the toys. Getting lost in a moment like this, though—doing what I want to do instead of worrying what it looks like or who it might offend or hurt—I honestly might enjoy this more.

  After the fourth or fifth song, Laura hangs up the tambourine. Javier leads the crowd in a thunderous round of applause. People even stomp their feet, making the floor jump. Leo takes her hand—seriously, he needs to stop—and together they bow.

  I have a fresh pint ready for her when she finds us at the back of the bar.

  “Thank you!” she breathes. She’s practically vibrating with adrenaline.

  “You were brilliant up there, love.” I offer her a smile. God I want to touch her. Would she let me touch her? Would someone see us? “Absolutely brilliant. You make the tambourine look easy.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s because it is easy,” she says, laughing. She takes a long gulp of beer. “Holy shit, that was such a rush! I’m, like, shaking.”

  Viv touches her pint glass to Laura’s. “Congrats, chica. I’m so proud of you.”

  “So am I,” Maddie says. “You fucking rocked it.”

  “You seriously did,” I say.

  Laura looks up at me and smiles. “Did I see you clapping back here? Or was that some other hot blond guy in a white hat?”

  “You think I’m hot?” I say.

  She gives me a once over, her hazel eyes sparking with mischief. “I do.”

  Before I can think better of it, I loop an arm over her shoulders, pulling her close. For a minute she freezes; she’s just as surprised by this sudden burst of PDA as I am.

  I can’t help it. The serious-minded footballer in me—the one with the weight of the world on his shoulders—knows this is a bad idea. But the man in me wants to touch the girl he’s been eye fucking all night.

  Just this once, I let the man win.

  I reach for her and pull her to me, curling my arm around her waist. She opens her eyes, meets mine. Smiles, a devastating flash of confidence. Of happiness.

  Holding her against me, I start to dance. Little movements at first. I watch Rafa and try to do what he’s doing, sending up a silent plea that no one recognizes me because I definitely look like an ass right now.

  Laura turns in the circle of my arms to face me. Thrusting her body into the waiting curve of my own, she meets my eyes, a wicked smirk on her lips. She slides a hand into my hair and gives it a quick, hard tug.

  Holy. Shit.

  The desire that flashes through me is so white-hot—I’m burning up, I’m on fire—for a second I can’t see or feel or hear anything except her. In the space of a single heartbeat, it’s just us again, the world and all its cares and obligations melting around me and Laura, letting us just be together. I’m not thinking about how late it is, or how much sleep I’m missing out on, or what could happen if I’m caught. I’m not thinking about anything, and it’s bloody lovely.

  I’m practically shaking when I take her face in my hands and bring my mouth down on hers. She rises to meet my kiss, giving my bottom lip a bite. She kisses me harder, messier, making the kiss hers; she takes over, telling me with her tongue what she wants. For a minute I’m lost. She’s never done this before. She’s never been aggressive.

  It’s a total, obliterating, unwelcome mind fuck.

  “Ready for that bone?” Laura murmurs in my ear. “I’m so turned on I could wring out my undies.”

  I don’t waste time thinking about the eighty-seven very good reasons why I should say no—I should go home, get some stretching in, study some play books, rest up for training tomorrow. Instead I grab her hand and spin her around and we are out of the bar and in a taxi in sixty seconds flat. I hate taking cabs, but there’s no bloody way I could wait for my driver to come pick is up. The situation in my pants is a code red emergency.

  I start to give the cabbie my address when Laura interrupts.

  “I want to go to my place.”

  I blink. “Your place? As in your dorm room?”

  “Yes. I want you to come with me tonight.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Isn’t your bed quite…small?”

  “Really,” she replies.

  “Love, I want to be with you, but I am worried—”

  “No one’s going to photograph us,” she says. “I promise. We’ll sneak in through the back, all right?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer her question. Instead she turns to the cabbie with her address.

  Her tone—decisive, confident—signals the end of the conversation. As much as I hate the idea of going to her dorm room, I really like that she’s finally being up front with me about what she wants.

  I sigh, pulling my hat lower over my eyes. The chance of being photographed tonight is quite low. I suppose, considering Laura’s request to get naughty, it’s worth the risk.

  “All right,” I say. I put my hand on her thigh, my littlest finger toying with the crotch of her jeans as we speed through the nighttime swirl of Madrid.

  Chapter 18

  Laura

  I’m still high from my Stevie Nicks moment when Rhys and I tumble into my dorm room. High, and horny as hell.

  A little nervous, too. Because the time has come to…er, come.

  I want to come with Rhys. A real, toe-curling orgasm that he gives me.

  I am going to ask for an orgasm. I am going to tell Rhys what I want.

  I am so turned on from that dancing I could scream.

  My dorm room feels a lot smaller with Rhys in it. He’s never really stayed here before; usually he prefers hanging out at his swank flat, where he can Instagram pictures of his swank shit. I’m kinda shocked, actually, that he agreed to come to my place at all. Almost as shocked as I was when he showed up at the bar.

  I glance over my shoulder at Rhys, just to make sure it’s him. Because this guy—the one who agreed to do anything a
t all tonight—I’m not sure I recognize him.

  He closes the door behind us, sliding the bolt home with an impatient bang. My heart is racing. I take off my jacket and throw it over the chair, clicking on the tiny reading lamp. I should’ve made my bed. I should’ve picked up a little, maybe grabbed some air freshener—

  Stop. I have to stop worrying what Rhys thinks about me, about my life, my world. The only thing that matters is what I think. And I think this dorm room rocks because it’s in motherfucking Madrid.

  Rhys takes off his coat and hat and runs a hand through his rumpled hair. The low light from the lamp catches on the angles of his face. He looks more like Prince Charming than ever: square jaw, perfect nose, long gold hair. Full, sensual lips that are still a little swollen from our dance floor make-out sesh.

  My heart races faster, my resolve wavering in the face of his overwhelming handsomeness. I still can’t get over that he’s Rhys Maddox; that he’s with me here, on a Thursday night, his blue eyes fiery with want.

  He catches me looking at him. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face.

  “Come here, you.” He hooks his first two fingers into the waistband of my jeans. The heat between my legs liquefies. I wasn’t kidding when I said I could wring out my underwear.

  He brushes his nose against my neck. “You were so great up there tonight, love. It was fun watching you have fun. Fun, and a huge fucking turn-on. I’ve been sporting wood since you picked up that tambourine.”

  “Really?” I breathe. He’s nicking my earlobe with his teeth, fingers working at the fly of my jeans. Tell him what you want.

  Why is it so damn hard to tell him what I want?

  “I’ve got a raging case of blue balls to prove it,” he says, dipping a single finger past my waistband into my underwear. My sex leaps in anticipation. I close my eyes.

  Rhys is just so…overwhelming. Convincing. He makes it too easy to melt into him, into where he wants this—us—to go.

  But I’m done with easy. Easy got me nowhere and no orgasms. With a little extra effort and courage on my part, an orgasm could be in my very near future.

  “Wait.” I press my palm against his chest. He feels warm and solid. Alive, his heart beating against my hand. “Rhys, wait.”

  He goes still, eyes flicking to meet mine.

  “Celibacy isn’t a line item on your bucket list, is it?” he asks, half-jokingly.

  I scoff. “No. No, definitely not. But coming is.”

  Confusion dims the heat in his gaze. “Laura, you always come with me.”

  I bite my lip. Fuuuuck this is not going to be fun to say. But I have to if I want to genuinely enjoy sex with him, instead of just pretending to. If I ever want to get out of my own way.

  I owe him the truth. I haven’t not come from his lack of trying. Rhys does try. He does want me to enjoy sex. I’m the one who was too cowardly to tell him what I wanted. I’m the to blame here.

  The only way to fix this is to tell Rhys the truth.

  “Um. Well. Actually I haven’t come with you.”

  His hand falls from my fly. “You don’t come with me? But I feel it, every time I make sure—”

  “Rhys, I’ve been faking it.”

  The words hang between us like a ticking time bomb I fully expect to blow up in my face. He searches my eyes, and keeps searching, his nostrils flaring. His anger makes him feel huge. We’re both breathing hard, my boobs bumping against his sternum.

  “You’re very good at faking.” The words are clipped, his voice gravelly.

  “I’m scary good at it. So good that for a minute there I even convinced myself I was the perfect girl I’d been trying so hard to be.”

  “And being that girl made you unhappy.”

  “Yes. Exactly. I can’t fake it anymore. I can’t keep pretending that a fake orgasm is as satisfying as a real one.”

  “Of course it isn’t!” Rhys digs a hand through his hair and looks away. “Fuck, Laura. Why didn’t you tell me? Why all this faking bullshit in the first place?”

  “Because.” I take a deep breath, let it out. “Because I was an idiot, for one thing. For another, I thought part of playing your ‘perfect’ girl was being as chill and low-maintenance as possible. Like, not asking anything of you that you might not want to give, or that might gross you out. That probably makes, like, no sense at all to you, but I want you to know how sorry I am, Rhys. Really, really sorry.”

  I don’t tell him how much I liked him—how much I wanted our “casual” relationship to be something more serious—and how afraid I was back then of messing things up because of that. I just…I don’t want to go there tonight. I don’t want things to move beyond casual with Rhys anyway. I can’t ever truly accept myself, and love myself, with his perfection in my face all the time. I won’t be able to see past it to more important things. Things that are more fulfilling than having a perfect body, or being the perfect girlfriend.

  He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Is that why you’ll never let me go down on you? Because you think it might gross me out?”

  I roll my lips between my teeth. “Yes. I just assumed that, um. Like most guys you were just offering to do it without really wanting to. You know, to be polite or whatever.”

  He’s searching my eyes again, the heat in his gaze returning with a vengeance. “Laura, when I say I want to eat your pussy, I fucking want to eat your pussy. I’m not being polite. I’m not playing some twisted game, trying to get out of something that’s ‘gross’. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is gross about you or your body. I want to lick your cunt and make you come—that’s what I mean when I say ‘I want to go down on you’. Nothing more. Nothing less.” His accent is dipping now, becoming less cut glass, more rough and round. Fucking curls into fecking. “Got it?”

  A shiver darts up my spine. “Got it.”

  I love when he loses it. When he drops the fancy pants accent and morphs into an angry, passionate Welshman.

  I love it when he says dirty words like pussy and fuck and cunt. Hearing those words come out of his Prince Charming mouth almost makes me come on the spot. I’m turned on, I’m dizzy with desire, I don’t know what to do or say next.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I never meant to lie to you. I understand if you want to leave.”

  He takes a step toward me. “Don’t think I’m not tampin’ fumin’ ragin’ about this—”

  “Tampin’ fumin’ ragin’?” I grin. “I’ve never heard you use that one before.”

  “It’s a Welsh expression. Means pissing mad.” He waves it off. “Anyway. I’m pissing mad you lied to me. But you’ve got another thing coming, love, if you think I’m not going to pick up the gauntlet you just threw down.”

  I draw back. “What gauntlet?”

  “I’ve never made you come before. I fully intend to fix that sad fact tonight. You gave to me without ever taking anything in return.” Rhys takes another step forward, surrounding me, challenging me, and holds out his arms. “So take. Fucking take what you want, Laura. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

  I freeze. I wasn’t expecting such an enthusiastic response.

  He leans forward, lips brushing my ear as he murmurs, “And don’t you dare ask me if I mean it.”

  Another shiver moves through me, this one potent enough to have me sucking a breath through my teeth.

  Okay. The ball is in my court. Okay.

  My hand is still on his chest. I rake my gaze from that spot down the length of his body, drinking him in as my thoughts riot. The ball’s in my court, so what do I do next? I’m used to giving, giving guys what I believed they wanted. I’ve given so much and so often that now that it’s my time to take, I have no idea where to start.

  Rhys must sense my hesitation. He runs his thumb along the exposed ridge of my collarbone, his touch soft, teasing. “Take your time, love. I assume you’ve come on your own? Masturbated?”

  “Yes.” I swallow. “I masturbated to you, as a
matter of fact. Before I knew you. You were, like, my ultimate fantasy crush.”

  His mouth twitches. “So tell me what I did in your fantasy to make you come.”

  A spike of heat impales the growing throb between my legs.

  Okay.

  “Okay,” I say. I’m really going to do this. I’m going to say what I want, and I’m going to take it.

  I lift my palm from his chest, put it back down. “This—your shirt—take it off.”

  He jabs his tongue against his bottom lip, still smirking. With deft fingers he works at the row of buttons down the front of his shirt, never breaking eye contact with me. More of his tan, muscled chest is revealed with each button he works through its hole, a smattering of dark blond hair peeking through the widening v. Ornate script is scrawled in black ink across his pecs; beside that, there’s a cross, a bleeding heart in faded red, a flag. There’s something sinister about Rhys’s tats. Something dangerously, tauntingly masculine.

  After he unbuttons the last button, Rhys rolls back his broad shoulders and pulls off the shirt, tossing it onto the chair.

  Looking at his bare torso, the tight, thick skin rippling with sinew and muscle, I can’t help it. I lick my lips in appreciation.

  “You are abso-fucking-lutely delicious,” I say. My eyes rove over his ink. “How old were you when you got all these?”

  He hesitates. I’m not surprised; whenever I ask him about his past, he coldly shuts me down.

  He doesn’t this time, but he doesn’t answer my question, either.

  “You know you can look and touch,” he says.

  “I know,” I say, reaching for him. “I know.”

  The sound of my palm scraping against his chest fills the small space between us. His breath catches when I thumb his nipple, my fingers digging into the rock-hard ridges that define his abdominal muscles.

  Oh. Oh, yes, there are definite perks to dating an athlete. Those muscles are one of them.