Playing the Field ebook final draft

by Gray, Mackenzie

  The shock of sweetness from the strawberry helps pull me from my exhausted stupor. I eat another slice of toast before deeming myself full.

  Mitchell stares out the window and asks casually, “Any plans for today?”

  It’s Saturday. Usually I’d be working at the restaurant for a twelve-hour shift, but Katie called last night and told them I was too sick to work, so I’m off the hook. I could definitely use the money, but I also need a break. Between school, work, acting as Mitchell’s fake girlfriend, and my financial worries, I’m running myself ragged. A day off is long overdue.

  “That depends,” I say, snuggling deeper under the covers. Heat radiates from his body, and I have half a mind to shift my leg so it rubs against his.

  “On what?”

  Be bold. Be brave. “On whether these future plans involve your friends or just you.”

  That beautiful smile makes an appearance, and I have to blink a few times so the bright white dots disappear. It’s that brilliant.

  “Today, it’ll just be you and me.” He leans over to set the empty plate on the side table. “What do you say?”

  Intense fluttering fills my stomach. I have no idea where this is going, but I want to find out. “I say yes.”

  We end up driving to a nearby park with a blanket, a lunchbox stuffed full of sandwiches and fruit, and a thermos full of ice-cold lemonade.

  The weather is gorgeous: partly cloudy, low humidity, a breeze that is quintessential fall. Mitchell unfolds the blanket under a massive oak tree with sprawling, low-hanging branches that offer plenty of shade. After slipping off my sandals, I sit on the blanket as he settles next to me, setting out the food and drink. We briefly stopped at his place so he could change, although I wouldn’t have complained if he had stayed dressed up. There’s something about tailored slacks and a fitted button-down that gets my blood flowing. I’d almost prefer that to a naked man.

  This is probably one of the nicest days off I’ve had in years. Mitchell stretches out alongside me, feeding me grapes like I’m some Greek goddess. We cover all the basics of ourselves. We share our childhoods, embarrassing moments, favorite holiday traditions. We laugh. A lot. Away from his friends and father, he’s sweet and silly and, well, kind of a dork.

  Make that a major dork.

  Right now, he’s singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow in a high-pitched voice that cracks when he reaches the high octave. Oh, and he’s shoved two grapes up his nose, one in each nostril.

  An older couple sitting on a nearby bench stares at him in horror. My face is buried in my hands as deep, aching laughs spill from my mouth. His voice warbles, a hideous shrieking quality that makes birds take flight, and I swear a child starts crying on the playground.

  When the song is over, I lie on my back and watch the clouds drift past. My stomach is on fire, but it’s a good kind of pain. The pain that comes from beautiful things.

  “I could honestly make a career out of this,” Mitchell says, pulling the grapes from his nose and chucking them into a bush. “I’d sell out the concert halls. I probably wouldn’t even be able to walk down the street without someone recognizing me.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “You have a gift. It’s true.” Then I think of something else. “But who knows. Once you’re a hot-shot soccer player, you might not be able to walk down the street without being harassed either. Enjoy the anonymity while you can.”

  His smile slips, and I regret ever bringing up the subject.

  “That’s if I even make Manchester’s team,” he says, tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear. His fingers linger, tapping my jaw in affection.

  I turn and prop my head on my hand. I clasp his wrist, not breaking eye contact. “You’ll make it,” I tell him. He’s one of the strongest players on the team. Those recruiters would be idiots not to take him. “You mentioned you’re meeting with them this week?”

  “On Tuesday.” A grimace twists his mouth, and I fight the urge to lean forward and press my lips to his. I want to see him happy, however I can manage that.

  “They wouldn’t fly all this way if they didn’t see promise in you.”

  “I guess.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. He just shrugs, like it’s no big deal, even though it’s most definitely a major deal.

  I don’t know why I lower my voice as I say, “I believe in you,” but I do. The words are intimate, held close like a secret just between us. This isn’t something I feel pressured to say based on the contract. This is real. This is me wanting to support Mitchell because I care for him.

  His face softens, a bit of pleased surprise lighting his features. “You do?”

  “I wouldn’t say it unless I meant it.”

  Emotion brims in his gaze. Our faces are only a few inches apart. I’m pinned by the heat radiating from his body. Somehow, I find his hand drifting to my waist, fingers slipping beneath my shirt to reach skin.

  My mind blanks at the touch. I start to lean forward when a child squeals from the playground, and I jerk back.

  The moment passes.

  Soon, storm clouds roll in, so we pack up our lunch and head out. I expect us to turn north toward my apartment, but instead, we head south.

  “Aren’t we going the wrong way?” I ask. Raindrops ping against the windshield, and he turns the wipers onto a higher setting to battle the deluge.

  “My roommates are out this weekend.” His fingers flex on the steering wheel. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel that he wants to. “I thought we could head to my place and hang out for a while.” He clears his throat. “Unless you’re tired. In which case I can take you home.”

  What time is it? Hard to tell with the dark skies. I check my phone and realize it’s nearly eight pm. Where did the day go?

  There are so many things I need to do. My thesis is in shambles, and I don’t know how I’m going to save it. There’s a very real chance I won’t be able to complete it on time, if at all, depending on whether Dr. Stevens allows me to change my topic. My acceptance into the University of Chicago banks on my summa cum laude status.

  But right now, I don’t care about any of that. How can I when Mitchell’s scent is permeating the car, wrapping around me like a warm leather jacket?

  I don’t want to go home.

  “Let’s go to your place.”

  I swear I hear a sigh leak through his nostrils, but it might be the wind from outside. We lapse into silence for the remainder of the ride. Water hisses as cars cut through the damp asphalt. Sirens peel in the distance.

  Mitchell eases off the gas. The rain is coming down so hard we can barely see three feet in front of us. Both of his hands grip the steering wheel, and I unconsciously clutch the edges of my seat, sinking further back. It makes me nervous being so close to the windshield.

  We slow to a crawl, but on the passing lane, cars fly by. I’ll never understand the rush, especially in crummy weather, where one wrong move can send your car sliding into a telephone pole.

  Taking a breath to ease the tension gathering in my body, I ask, “How much longer?”

  “A few blocks.” We slow to a red light. The car next to us, however, punches the gas. I gasp as the driver narrowly misses slamming into another car with the right of way as he slides through the intersection.

  “Idiot,” Mitchell mutters.

  Luckily, we turn onto a quieter street. Mitchell pulls into the driveway of the one-story, ranch-style house he shares with his roommates. My nerves jangle from the stress of driving in bad weather, and the thought of being alone with Mitchell in his house isn’t helping. It freaks me out because I really, really like him. More than I ever thought I would.

  This thought does wonders at lifting my post-sickness fatigue. I hop out of the car and bolt to the porch, and he’s two seconds behind me, unlocking the front door and pushing it open. A crack of lightning splits the sky, throwing the world into brilliant white light. Thunder crashes, shuddering through the earth.

  He ushers me inside and
locks the door behind him. We stand in the foyer, soaked to the skin.

  Mitchell’s throat works. His gaze dips to my chest. Lower, to where the fabric of my baggy, mustard-yellow dress is plastered to my belly and thighs. I fight the urge to tug the cotton away from my chilled skin. Let him look. It makes me feel powerful to have this effect on him. He doesn’t even bother hiding the erection that currently swells between his legs, straining against the damp fabric of his shorts.

  “I’ll get you some dry clothes.” His voice is a soft rumble. He gestures for me to follow him down the hall. It’s a good opportunity to ogle his ass, which looks spectacular in a pair of khaki shorts.

  His bedroom is masculine, with clean lines and very little clutter. The room is dominated by a queen-sized bed, with a dresser on one wall and a desk shoved into the corner, all dark, glossy wood. His soccer bag sits beside the closet, cleats and uniforms spilling out. It smells like him, like man and earth and salt and soap.

  My arms hang awkwardly by my sides while he pulls out clothes from his dresser and tosses them to me. “You can change in the bathroom.”

  The heat of his gaze follows me as I head to the attached bathroom and shut the door, feeling weak in the knees. My focus immediately lands on his walk-in shower, and I imagine us standing beneath the spray as he lifts me up and wraps my legs around his waist. As he pushes my back against the wall and pounds into me, over and over. I close my eyes on a sigh. Tell my body to cool down. I’m going crazy with want.

  It’s probably tacky of me, but I snoop through his cabinets. Toothpaste, floss, various first aid supplies. Since when does a college-guy ever have extra rolls of toilet paper? And it’s not the scratchy kind either.

  When I stumble across the box of condoms, my heart nearly seizes.

  Don’t think about his dick. Do not think about his dick.

  With a nervous giggle, I close the cabinet door and shed my sopping clothes, wincing at the satisfying slap as they hit the tile. I can’t help but inhale as I tug on his clothes. The shirt falls to my thighs. The exercise shorts fall past my knees. With my disguise, I should be used to wearing baggy clothing by now, but it’s different. These are Mitchell’s clothes.

  As soon as I exit the bathroom, I pull up short. Mitchell, who changed into worn jeans and a black t-shirt, smirks at me. “Find any skeletons in the closet?” He takes the wet clothes from my shaking hands. It’s everything I was wearing, including my bra and underwear.

  Before I can respond, he gives my body one long sweep, his gaze warm. “You look good in my clothes.”

  My nipples rise to attention.

  Lord.

  “Be right back.” He slips out the door to throw my clothes in the dryer.

  I perch on the end of his bed, hands shoved between the backs of my thighs and the mattress. I’m starting to sweat. I lift my arm to check for body odor when Mitchell returns to the sight of my nose shoved into my armpit.

  My arm drops. Whoops.

  His focus locks on my chest, gaze so hot my skin tightens with heat. “Do that again,” he says.

  My pulse skitters at the roughness of his voice. “D-do what?”

  “Lift your arms.” Slowly, Mitchell shuts the door.

  The click of the lock is like a gunshot.

  Chapter 21

  mitchell

  Slowly, Rebecca lifts her arms. It’s taking everything I have not to close the distance and put my mouth on her. Everywhere. Her breasts push against the fabric, showcasing the soft swells, her long braid snaking in the valley between. Tension throbs between us, the pull growing stronger the longer we remain apart. I want to both coddle her but also fuck her so hard the bed breaks. I like her in my shirt, naked beneath my clothes. I like that she didn’t protest when I offered them for her to wear.

  “Now,” I say, and the words scrape against my throat like gravel. “Arch your back.”

  Her nipples press harder against the cotton, their darkened points evident through the white fabric. My cock grows heavy between my legs. This girl. She’s beautiful and she’s in my bed, and I’m going to make her feel better than anything.

  Arousal brings a pleasant flush to Rebecca’s cheeks, a much better sight than how wan she looked last night.

  I take a step forward. “Lie back.”

  She does, never taking her eyes off me.

  Reaching over, I slip off her glasses and set them on the bedside table.

  Rebecca sucks in a shallow breath, then releases it. “I can’t see,” she whispers, darting a look at where her glasses rest. That lemony scent drifts upward, soothing my nerves.

  “You don’t need to see. You just need to feel.”

  She jolts at the first brush of my fingers against her arm. It’s a lazy touch, without pressure or force. I brush the inside of her forearm, my fingertips trailing from her wrist to the inside of her elbow, until she relaxes completely. The touch shifts higher, a whisper. I touch the length of her neck before drifting upward, where I trace the shape of her lips.

  The first time I kissed this mouth, I was punched sideways by desire. Since then, my need for Rebecca has only grown.

  Without her glasses, she looks different, but no less beautiful. I’d even go so far as to say she looks like the girl from Ray’s—Blue Girl—except there’s no way that could be true.

  “I think I must be the biggest fool.” I track my fingers as they sweep across her forehead, down her delicate nose.

  Rebecca’s eyes flutter open, dark and endlessly blue, reminiscent of the ocean’s deep. “How so?”

  Tilting up her chin, I wait until her gaze lifts. “For not noticing how beautiful you are.”

  A shy smile creeps across her face. “You’re very kind.”

  Kind? A strangled laugh snags in my chest. Turned on is what I am.

  Leaning forward, I fit my mouth over hers, plying her lips open with sweet, drowning kisses. Her sigh slips into mine, tasting of mint and lemon, and a feeling of comfort moves through me. I suck her lower lip into my mouth, pulling on it gently, pretending it’s a different part of her body—her nipple, the nub between her legs. A low groan vibrates in my chest as my dick twitches.

  There’s too much space between us. I pull her closer, cupping the back of her head with my palm. Another groan slips out before I can stop it. “I dream about this mouth.”

  She’s breathing unevenly, her eyes glazed. “You do?”

  In answer, I deepen the kiss. Her tongue brushes mine, and I go up in flames. “Yes. God, yes.”

  “Wh-what do you dream about it?” She breaks away, waiting for an answer.

  “I dream about your mouth all over me.” Even speaking of this sends any remaining blood rushing south. I press my hips against the mattress, that sweet pleasure-pain shooting electricity up my spine. I really need to get a hold of myself. “I dream about you sucking me off again.” My thumb coasts along her bottom lip. “I dream,” I say, my chest experiencing strange palpitations at the memory of the swing set in the park, “of you kissing my hurts away.”

  A soft, single word: “Oh.”

  Then she smiles, and I can feel my heart stop, feel it roll over and expose its vulnerable underbelly, because that smile—that smile is just for me.

  We come together again, and it’s so much more with my small admittance. There’s a tenderness in the way her hands cup my face, how she molds her curves to my angles. Once our mouths find each other, we don’t pull apart, as if doing so will send everything back to how things were four, five, eight weeks ago, before we knew what it felt like to bare ourselves. The feeling’s fragile, like spun sugar in danger of collapsing.

  I tug up the hem of her shirt, slip it over her head to reveal the expanse of smooth, creamy skin. My mouth waters at the sight of her breasts, those perfect nipples begging for attention.

  Leaning forward, I brush barely-there kisses alongside one swell, skirting her nipple. My arms cage Rebecca’s body as I press her back into the covers, but she bows upward, refusing t
o be directed, telling me without words where she wants me the most. My breath wafts against her skin as I laugh lowly, circling her areolas with my tongue. The fingers of one hand trail down her stomach.

  “Is this what you want?” I murmur, sinking my teeth into the soft flesh, a small love bite. She jumps in surprise, breathing ragged.

  “You know what I want.” Her fingers dig into my biceps, nails cutting in little half-moons.

  Now there’s the Rebecca I know. Wanton. Demanding. So sexy she makes me ache.

  When she got me off at Daniel’s party, she tortured me out of my mind. Now it’s my turn to return the favor. I’m going to take it slow. So slow she’ll be begging me to fuck her.

  “Unfortunately,” I say breezily, “I’m not a mind reader.” I plant a wet trail to the other breast, giving it the same torturous treatment. I lave over one nipple, then blow cool air across it so it tightens even further.

  “Mitchell,” she snaps.

  “Tell me what you want, Becky.” I love riling her up.

  Her eyes snap with temper and heat. Oh, yeah. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Instead of answering me, she spears her fingers through my hair and tugs my head until it’s right where she wants it. “Suck my nipples. Now.”

  My hips jerk against the bed at the demanding tone, the dominance. A woman who knows what she wants in bed is my kryptonite, and I don’t waste any more time.

  Plumping one breast in my palm, I latch my mouth over the turgid peak and suck hard.

  Her moan about shatters my eardrum.

  “Harder,” she grates, her hips rolling in that instinctive way. The animalistic part of me, the one I try to suppress, wants to flip her onto her stomach and pound her from behind. I nip at her nipple teasingly, and she mashes my face into her clean, sweetly-scented skin. I switch my attention to her other breast, my hand wandering south, playing with the elastic waistband of her exercise shorts. She pauses, gasping for air as I skate my fingers over her sweet little pussy, the slick material of the shorts offering a slippery barrier between my hand and her sex. Her limbs quiver as I slip my fingers down the seam of her lips, the fabric damp, keeping the touch light. I want her to work for the release. I’m not just going to give it to her.