by Cassie James
What is it with these guys wanting to cancel on me at the last second?
“What? No!” I sidestep to put myself between him and the front door, just in case. My muscles twinge, and I briefly consider the fact that maybe I should reschedule. I’m exhausted (thanks, Hank), and I’m sore in all the right ways.
But I’m not about to turn this man away now that he’s here.
I stalk toward him, grab his arm, and pull him toward the couch. He continues to eye my mess, and I can practically see him twitching to clean it up. I pull him toward the other end of my massive sofa instead.
“Watch a movie with me?” I ask, and even though he glances back at the ice cream one last time, he eventually gives in and drops down next to me on the sofa.
“You promise you’re okay?” he asks as I start scrolling through listings again.
“I’m just tired. Lay off, Mom,” I joke as I snuggle closer to his side and snatch the buffalo check blanket off the back of the couch. Warmth floods through my body, and a sense of contentment settles over me as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me even closer.
“So if I’m Mom, does that make you Oedipus?”
My finger stills over the remote button as I lean my head back to get a better look at him. His hair is pulled back today, piled on top of his head in a bun that’s almost as messy as mine. He ditched his sunglasses somewhere along the way, and even though he’s purposefully staring at the television rather than down at me, I can see the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
“We went straight to an Oedipus complex? Harsh, dude.” Oliver’s lips twitch, but he keeps his attention turned toward the TV. I huff a sigh, and his lips pull up a little more in the corners. He knows exactly what he’s doing right now. Joke’s on him, though. Just because I’m not the attention seeking type doesn’t mean I don’t know how to get it when I want it.
“Just because my mom skipped out early doesn’t mean I have mommy issues. And let me tell you something—I’m not the team mommy. I mean if anyone’s the team mommy, it’s you, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks as he finally turns his gaze toward me.
The way his eyes crinkle at the very corners makes something inside of me go all warm and fuzzy. I shoot him a playful wink, and he outright smiles again. “Just that I’m not the only person on the team wearing mom jeans these days.”
“Listen, Gemma, I get it. I’m a worrier, but you can’t make mom jokes to me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’m assuming you’re not actually into fucking moms, which would be very unfortunate for all the moms in the room. You know, if there were any.”
I reach around to pinch him on the side—a punishment that is much more effective on people who aren’t all steely abs and zero percent body fat. I’d be more pissed about it if I wasn’t reaping the benefits of bodies like his right now.
Oliver wrestles my pinching fingers away from his side, and I have to fight off the giddy smile that threatens to spill over when he locks his fingers with mine.
“I thought you were tired,” he eventually says, a wicked smile on his face.
It’s hard not to feel a little re-energized by Oliver’s presence. Even though he’s one of the more serious guys on the team, I can feel relaxed with him.
It’s been years since I’ve been able to feel truly carefree in a man’s presence. Colin didn’t do carefree. He was so serious all the time—and he commanded the same from everyone around him.
I really should have realized sooner how miserable I was.
“You’re supposed to be picking a movie,” Oliver reminds me.
“Oh, right.” I inch over and then very slowly—as if it will somehow hide what I’m doing—slide into his lap. His eyes look from mine to the ice cream on my thighs when the blanket slips away before I can catch it.
“You’re a little ridiculous, you know that?” His smile is warm so I know he’s only teasing.
I answer with a wide grin as I settle more comfortably in his lap. For a man with next to no body fat, he’s surprisingly comfortable. I mean, reasonably, it could be all my ass that’s providing the cushioning, but he’s not complaining, so I’m definitely not bringing it up.
“Were you a momma’s boy?” I ask, the teasing having sparked my curiosity.
“Were you?” he deadpans.
“I’m serious!” I say with a laugh.
He gives in and chuckles along with me. Who the hell are we right now? I can’t remember a time we ever laughed this much together.
“You’ve said it yourself, you’re a worrier. And we both know the mess on my carpet is driving you crazy. Either you grew up a total momma’s boy, or…”
“I was the middle kid of five,” he says, cutting me off in the middle of my thought.
I forgot he has siblings—and I definitely didn’t realize he has four. And to be in the middle of all that madness…
Maybe Isaac was right the other night. I don’t know any of them as well as I thought I did, and Cyrus’ insistence on first dates with all of them is turning out to be the best thing that’s ever flipping happened to me.
“I have two older brothers who are complete shits—always have been—and a set of younger twin sisters.” His tone starts to turn more serious. “Dad worked two jobs so Mom could stay at home, but it was still a lot with five of us. Matt and Mason were always into something, and Joey and Jaimie were a handful. It was easier to help instead of add to the chaos.
“Plus, the girls are only a couple years younger than me. I spent all of high school looking out for them and keeping the super shitty dudes in our hometown away from them.”
“You started rugby in, what? The eighth grade—right?”
His eyebrows hike toward his hairline in surprise. Just because I didn’t remember all of his siblings doesn’t mean I don’t still know plenty of other things about him.
I care about him, just like I do all the Storms.
I listen when they talk.
“That’s right.”
My heart swells as he tugs me closer and buries his face in my hair for a moment. He takes a deep breath in, as if he’s savoring me.
“I had to bulk up to keep my brothers from kicking my ass all the time, and then I was actually good at it. Plus, I didn’t mind the added bonus of how it kept the boys away from my sisters.”
“You’re a good person, Oliver,” I mumble as I lean my head against his chest, listening to the calming, steady sounds of his heart beneath my ear. He grunts a response, but all I hear now is the sound of his heartbeat.
The world shifts, and I flail for half a second before I feel a prickly kiss on my forehead. I snuggle closer against the warmth surrounding me as my consciousness almost instantly starts to drift again.
But then everything sways one way and then the other, and my eyes pop open.
It’s dark in my house, but I can just make out Oliver’s silhouette as he carries me down the hallway. A horrible feeling washes over me as I realize what must have happened. Not only did Oliver skip out on practice early to come check on me, and I convinced him to stay and watch movies with me rather than ever asking what he planned for our date. And then I fell asleep?!
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I ask as I try to squirm free from his arms.
Oliver tightens his hold as he turns to fit us through the doorway to my bedroom.
“Seriously,” I continue, “you shouldn’t have let me sleep, Ollie! What time is it?”
“Gem,” I somehow manage to not glare at him at the use of the much hated nickname. And I refuse to admit that I deserve it—I know he hates being called Ollie. “You were exhausted. What kind of asshole wouldn’t let you sleep in that situation?”
The words hang heavily in the air between us as he stoops to lay me in my rumpled sheets. I fist my fingers around a handful of his t-shirt before he can pull away from me entirely and yank him forward. Oliver stumbles but catches himself, hover
ing over me as I lean up to press my lips against his softly.
I wrap my free hand around the back of his neck and tug at him until he’s bracing most of his weight on one arm and rolling his body gently against mine. I can distinctly feel his cock press against me in a slow grind. It’s the most agonizing thing I think I’ve ever experienced.
I pull back, panting between soft, slow kisses.
“What’s today’s item?”
“You should get some sleep,” he answers in a pained voice.
“You should fuck me,” I insist as I arch my body against his, reveling in the way our chests heave against one another. Everything might be soft and gentle, but that doesn’t mean we’re not both precariously close to the edge of losing control. “What’s today’s thing?”
He doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he angles his head down like he’s going to bury his face in the crook of my neck. I run my fingers down his chest and over his abs, feeling his muscles twitch as I trail down to the outline of his hard dick through his jeans.
“Oliver, what is it?”
“Massage oil,” he groans as he turns his head down to lick a path from my shoulder to my collarbone.
Bet he hates that he got something so damn messy.
“Where is it?”
“In my bag.”
I squeeze him through his pants and he arches into my touch with a low groan. As I run my lips over the shell of his ear, he shivers and the sound wrecks me. I just know this night with him is going to be exquisite.
“How much you want to bet I’ll be completely naked before you make it back in here with the oil?”
I laugh as he jerks away, shoving himself off the bed and taking off through the doorway. I shed my clothes and purposely toss them all over the place knowing it will drive him crazy.
I’m wrong, though, I guess—because he doesn’t even spare my haphazard piles of clothes a glance as he stumbles back into the room, his gaze zeroing in on me.
He hasn’t even touched me and already every part of me aches.
My muscles.
My pussy.
My heart.
“Holy shit, you’re fucking beautiful.”
Oliver strips his shirt off over his head. My eyes zero in on the tattoos that cover his left arm from wrist to shoulder before bleeding onto the skin of his chest. I’ve never gotten to admire them so openly before.
Every part of me that was sore and hurting earlier in the day is on fucking fire now, aching in the way where I need him to soothe it. I crook my finger at him, snagging my fingers in his belt loop when he steps close enough.
He snatches my hand away from the button of his jeans and wraps my wrists in his grip. He drops a kiss to my lips before turning me toward the bed. I squeak out a surprised shriek when his hand lands one sharp smack on my ass as I crawl onto the bed.
I turn my head to glare at him over my shoulder, but the sight of his proudly jutting cock stops me short.
Good lord.
Oliver closes the distance to the bed with one long stride and hooks his hands around my ankles. When he jerks me by the ankle, I topple flat on the bed.
My breathing gets erratic as he runs his hands along the back of my thighs, fingers ghosting over my skin as they trail over my ass and toward the small of my back. He nudges my legs apart to kneel on the bed over me.
I shudder at the feel of him pressing into me as he reaches for the bottle of oil. My ass grinds up against him.
“If you keep that up, you’re not getting your massage,” Oliver mumbles near my ear before sitting up, fingers running along my back and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “And trust me, darling, I’m fucking great with my hands.”
The prove it that’s on my lips dies away at the sensation of the cold oil dripping onto my back. I shiver with pleasure as Oliver digs his fingers into my tense muscles. His calloused hands run over my skin in measured, controlled strokes, and I swear I start to turn to putty at his touch.
He ghosts his hands over my sides, fingers only briefly grazing the sides of my breasts before moving down toward my hips.
I push myself up, forearms bracing my weight against the mattress as adrenaline kicks in to give me what feels like superhuman strength considering my body now feels a bit like jello. Oliver bows over me, hands reaching to cup my breasts as he tangles his lips with mine.
Kissing from this angle is complicated, my oil slicked back sliding against his chest as I grind my ass uncontrollably against his heavy cock.
Even with all the oil, I can feel the distinct moment that pre-cum starts to slide across my ass.
I’m pretty sure I won’t be walking straight tomorrow, but I am so unbelievably fucking ready for this.
I pull my mouth away and gasp out, “Condoms are in the bedside drawer.”
Oliver nips a trail of kisses along the side of my neck and shoulder as he pulls away from me. I miss him the second his touch is gone.
I end up biting my lip to keep from laughing when he knocks the massage oil over in his haste to get to the condoms. He mutters a string of curses that I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to hear. I don’t say a word, mostly because I’m busy enjoying the view.
Even his ass is phenomenal.
Growing more impatient by the second, I end up snatching the bottle away from him and rolling over to hide the oily spot on the bed. Maybe if he doesn’t have to stare at the mess, he’ll forget it’s there long enough to fuck me properly.
It seems to work.
I watch through hooded eyes as he rolls a condom down his length, hissing through his teeth the entire time. Properly protected, he climbs back toward me, nudging my thighs apart as he settles comfortably between my legs.
“Sorry for the mess.”
“Who gives a shit,” I gasp out in response as he finally starts to push into me. It only takes a minute for my body’s protest of overuse to subside as he starts to fuck me slowly.
And god, I’d make a big ol’ mess every fucking day if it meant I’d get mind-numbing sex with Oliver every time.
Sixteen
Ben
December 04
“Tell me if this hurts.”
I suck a sharp breath in between clenched teeth, and Gemma tuts as she straightens my knee back out and presses against my thigh experimentally. I could kick my own ass for the grunt of pain I can’t quite swallow at the pressure exerted on my knee as she tries to get it flat against the table.
“Sorry, Ben,” she says with her own sympathetic hiss.
And even though she would be totally within her right to gloat at me since I’ve been a total pain in the ass about this, the only thing reflecting in her eyes is genuine regret. She turns away from me to make a quick note in her laptop, and even though 85% of my attention is fixed on how goddamn miserable I am about my knee, there’s another 15% of me that can’t help but stare at her ass.
“It’s been seven weeks.”
I tear my eyes away from her ass. Gemma jerks her head around to glare at my petulant tone. I shrug. Like a fuckin’ kid.
She drops onto her rolling chair and zooms across the room, rolling to a stop at the edge of the table as she motions for me to sit up. I try not to grimace at the sharp, searing pain that always comes after a particularly hard therapy session. The annoyance in her eyes gives way to concern, and my gut burns.
“It’s a pretty serious injury.” Gemma runs her hands over my knee and leg, flexing it experimentally. And even though it fucking hurts, that doesn’t stop my stupid dick from perking up at the feeling of her hands running over my muscles as she works. “I told you rehab could take a while. Are you doing—”
“You said eight weeks.”
Gemma’s head snaps up, and her eyes narrow. I twist where I’m sitting, feeling like a kid getting ready to have his ass chewed by the principal when she tuts again. “No, I said eight to twelve weeks… Have you been doing your exercises?”
Not exactly.
I don’t sa
y it out loud, but I’m positive the way I dip my head closer to my chest is all the answer she needs. In theory I know it’s fucking stupid, but I really thought pushing myself at home would help rehab my knee quicker.
My cheeks burn when she wraps her fingers around my thigh and squeezes. My chin’s basically flush against my chest at this point, and she squeezes my quad even tighter trying to get me to look up at her. But I’m just not real sure how to tell her I don’t know what I’m going to do if this is what ends my rugby career.
I can’t go back to my podunk, middle of fuckin’ nowhere Pennsylvania town after failing at the one thing that actually got me out in the first place. I might be a workhorse, at least in the sense that I’m strong and stubborn, but I’m just not cut out for mining work like every other man in my family who wanted to get out but never managed.
“You want to play this season, don’t you?”
My head snaps up, and my eyes narrow. Fucking obviously. I keep the words to myself, though, because the last thing Gemma deserves is my shitty attitude because I messed up—again.
She quirks an eyebrow, knowing exactly what I was thinking.
Her fingers go lax on my thigh, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She makes me as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It’s definitely the team’s worst-kept secret that I’ve had a debilitating crush on her since day one. The type that makes talking hard because she’s just so… everything.
She’s smart. She’s got a killer sense of humor. She’s hot. And she’s always deserved more than some guy who’s got everything riding on the Storms.
She deserves more than me.
Gemma thumps my knee, like she can hear my inner self-loathing and is tired of me being a whiny little douche, and I jerk my head up. Her eyes are crinkled—something I can’t quite place swims in the dark brown depths—and my heart does something that would make a cardiologist nervous.
“You’ll play this season, but you have to trust me.”
