by Marie James
My hackles immediately go up. I know what he’s getting at, but it doesn’t piss me off any less. “She’s at home too much. I guess I was just worried about her.”
“Worried?” He looks over at me before I can school my face back to passive. His eyes narrow as he reads my protective stance of Olivia clear as day on my face. “Fuck, Daniels. Don’t tell me you’re getting tangled up with her.”
“You should stay out of it,” I sneer. I shouldn’t react this way. He’s not approaching this in a disapproving way, but more like a hopeless, cautious concern.
“I knew her before Duncan died. No one loves someone that hard and survives losing them the way she did. I saw her at the funeral, she was a shell of her former self. She was an amazing woman and—”
I close the distance between us. “Is, Ashford. She is an amazing woman.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “I don’t mean anything negative, I just mean I’m surprised she’s not institutionalized.”
“She’s not fucking crazy,” I hiss. I run my hands through my hair, trusting it’s enough to keep from ripping his throat out. Does he know about her watching the recorded videos? Staying locked in her apartment for the last eight months?
My hand is around his throat before I even give it a second thought.
“Damn, man,” he gurgles around my fingers.
I release him and take a step back. I’ve never been a violent man, but this asshole talking about Olivia in anyway but positive makes me want to bash his head in.
He rubs at his neck, the look on his face softening.
“I was about to do the same to you, asshole. I didn’t like the idea of you sniffing around her after seeing the way you fucked and then treated Simone, but it’s clear the situation with Olivia isn’t even remotely the same.”
“Since when are you worried about how women are treated? I’ve seen you go through girls like water in a sieve.” I lower my indignant eyes, forcing him to look directly at me. Contempt washes over me at the hint that he thinks I’m anything like him, that what I feel for Olivia is even remotely similar to the situations he gets into with women.
His face grows serious. “I don’t treat women like shit, Daniels. I may not call them the next day, but they understand where I stand before I pull my cock out. Which reminds me, can you give me Emerson’s number? She forgot to give it to me after the party.”
This motherfucker.
My fists clench at my sides.
“Joking, dude. Fuck, seriously, let me go hit Coach up for some Midol.” He grins and starts to get dressed. “Do you need a heating pad too?”
“I don’t even want to know why you know so much about periods, man. You sure you got a dick in your pants, or are you hiding a clam to go along with those crabs?” JJ breaks into our conversation, smacking Liam upside the head. “Don’t let Seafood Platter over here get you riled up. He knows as well as I do that little sisters are off-limits.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.” I turn my attention to JJ, if anything to keep from laying out Liam.
“Our boy here,” Liam says, walking up and wrapping his arms around JJ’s shoulders just to be shoved off, “has had a hard-on for Owens’ little sister for the last two years. I swear, his cock gets stiff every time he sees her.”
“Owens? Pitcher for Dallas?” I ask with a smirk.
“And best friend,” Liam adds, looking at JJ.
“Fuck off, asshole,” he says, walking away.
“Just so you know,” I say to Liam, “I treated Simone like shit because she disrespected my girl at the diner.”
“Your girl, huh?”
I shrug before bending down to tie my shoes. It isn’t a lie. If I had it my way, Olivia would already be mine.
“Does she know she’s yours?”
“She will.”
“Well,” Liam says, slapping my back. “Let’s go get your girl out of the stands before the cleat chasers run her off.”
I laugh. “You just want to go score with one of the freshman girls.”
“You gonna give me Emerson’s number?”
“Not a fucking chance,” I say.
“Then don’t worry about the freshman chicks.” He gets a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Hopefully one of them is Catholic.”
“You looking for a religious experience?”
“No, just a tight ass to fuck.”
“And they have to be Catholic for that?”
He laughs at my question.
“It’s not religious, man. You know a butt slut, a Mormon virgin?”
I shake my head.
“Seriously? The Missouri compromise? The Christian side hug? A thirty-three percenter?”
I shake my head again and keep a straight face, just fucking with him at this point. I knew what he was saying at butt slut—it’s what we called them in high school.
“Fuck! Do you live under a rock! A girl saving her vaginity? The fucking poophole loophole?”
“Sorry, man. Not a clue,” I deadpan, having a hard time not smiling at his ridiculousness.
“Forget it, man. Look that shit up on Urban Dictionary,” he mutters.
“Hey, guys,” JJ says, running up to us, “wait up.”
“He saw Ainsley in the stands,” Liam whispers before JJ makes it across the room. “Could he be less obvious?”
My laugh echoes off the walls as we make our way to the waiting women.
* * *
“Hi,” a tiny girl who I know is a freshman but looks twelve says as soon as I enter the stands. My skin crawls at the idea of anyone being attracted to a girl who looks so young.
“Hey,” I answer, walking right past her to the blonde beauty a few rows up.
We look at each other for a long moment without even speaking. Her hair whips in the gentle breeze and the thin strap of her tank falls off of her shoulder, revealing the added color to her skin from the sun. I want to trace the line with my tongue.
“Have fun?”
She grins. “It wasn’t absolute torture.”
“Good to hear.”
“Hey SLS.” JJ’s voice comes from my left. “Didn’t see you up here.”
“My ass,” Liam mutters on my right.
“SLS?” I ask with confusion.
“Scott’s Little Sister,” the redhead says from beside Olivia, a frown marring her pretty face. “Most people call me Ainsley.”
My eyes widen in understanding when she looks at JJ the way I imagine I look at Olivia. I don’t know if their situation is any better than the one we’re facing.
“Olivia,” JJ says, stepping past me and wrapping his arms around her in a brotherly way. “You look great. It’s good to see you.”
When he pulls back, their voices lower, and I watch my teammate comfort the girl I’m falling for, wiping a tear from her cheek and hugging her a second time. I clench my fists at my side, my fingers twitching at their familiarity.
Hating that he’s the one touching her and not me, I pull on his shoulder until he releases her. “Paws off, Jessup.”
He laughs, but steps away so I can wrap myself around her from behind. She stiffens, her reaction a contradiction to how she acts when we’re alone. Remembering what she said about the lady in the grocery store and feeling judged, I step back. I don’t release her fully, keeping a hand on her lower back.
She glances up at me in a silent thank you.
“You guys want to grab something to eat?” JJ asks, standing awkwardly beside Ainsley, arms down by his side like a pole.
I smirk at the way her pinky finger twitches as if she wants to reach out and touch him, but won’t because of the unspoken law of sisters being off-limits. I almost feel sorry for them, but remember the way Liam was sniffing around my sister and let go of it real quick.
I look over at Olivia, judging her mood. The faintest of nods tells me she’s had enough for the day.
“Nah, man,” I answer. “We ate lunch before practice and I have a ton of homework. Thin
k we’ll just head back to the apartment.”
“Ashford?” JJ says, getting the tom cat’s attention. “Wanna go eat?”
“No thanks, man,” he answers, never taking his eyes off the tiny girl who spoke to me earlier. “Lining up my next meal right now.”
“Gross,” Ainsley mutters.
“On that disgusting note, let’s get out of here.”
“I agree with JJ,” Olivia says, leading the way out of the bleachers.
“You hungry, SLS?” JJ’s voice floats up from behind as we make our way to the parking lot.
“Sure,” comes the meek reply.
The girls hug at the truck, Olivia promising to attend more practices and get together with Ainsley soon. My heart grows just a little more at how much my girl is breaking out of her shell right in front of me.
“You have a ton of homework?” she asks fifteen minutes later as we step into the apartment.
“Nope. I was hoping for more baseball,” I say, gently pinning her to the closed door.
“You should’ve stayed at the field if you wanted more baseball.” Her head tilts to the side as my nose drags up her neck.
“I was hoping for first base right here, possibly stealing second,” I whisper in her ear.
“If you play the same way you did at practice, you won’t even get your cleats on first, buddy.”
I smile against her skin, loving that she actually paid attention today while regretting her seeing me in less than top performance.
“Let me try,” I say against her lips.
Her content sigh gives me the opening I need and I slip my tongue against hers. Kissing Olivia Dawson has easily become one of my most sought after means of entertainment.
“First,” I whisper, breaking from her mouth momentarily, only to dive right back in.
Her small hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and I have to bend my knees to get the contact I truly want. Whimpering, she deepens the kiss, angling her head to the right.
Agile fingers work her shirt up until they’re on the warm skin of her stomach, itching to go farther.
“This okay?” She doesn’t even bother opening her eyes as she gives an affirmative nod.
Both thumbs stroke over her ribcage, catching the bottom of her bra. My hips bolt forward of their own volition, meeting the heat emanating from the apex of her thighs. Fuck, do I hate denim right now.
Lowering my mouth to her shoulder, I allow my tongue to swipe at the skin there, and her moan forces me to nip. I could spend the rest of my life tasting this woman.
Erotic pain washes over me when she takes my hair in her grip and urges me down. I take a step away, forcing her hands from my head. I understand getting carried away—usually, I’m a fan of it, but only if both parties are all in. I search her face for doubt, a hint of unease, or discomfort. I find swollen lips, pink cheeks, and heavy-lidded eyes.
“You putting the brakes on, short stop?” Her playful tone is the only answer I need.
“Not today, Liv.” I close the distance between us. “You’re the one driving this machine.”
She yanks at the front of my shirt again, and I gladly fall against her.
Lips crash, tongues tangle.
Her hands, mercifully, reach down and tug my shirt up and over my head, so I do the same with her tank top. Standing in awe, I stare at her cotton-covered globes. My eyes travel over the milky white flesh just above the cups of her bra. Sweeping an eager tongue over my bottom lip, my cock thickens further. “You have amazing breasts.”
“They’re practically covered,” she smirks. “You should remedy that.”
My eyes pull from the gray cotton for the first time since it made its appearance to look into hers. “Liv, I don’t—”
My words fall away when she reaches behind her and flicks the clasp open. A second later, the fabric falls from her skin, exposing her dusty pink nipples. My mouth waters and I grow infinitely hard in my basketball shorts.
I look back into her eyes—if she’s offering, I’m sure as fuck not squandering this opportunity—and find nothing but the same arousal I feel.
“Hell yeah,” I pant, reaching and clasping her small rib cage in my hands. I lower my mouth to the perfectly puckered pink flesh and her body melts against me.
Her head tilts back, causing a soft thud to echo through the otherwise silent apartment. Soft, panting breaths escape her lips as I tease her with my mouth.
“Second base,” she whispers.
Chapter 29
Olivia
The foreign feeling of heavy warmth startles me when I wake to the sun streaming in through my bedroom window. However, it’s the fact that the heaviness is a hand cupping my bare breast.
“Don’t freak out,” Bryson mutters against my neck.
“We slept together.” I freeze at my own words and the way they sound. We didn’t sleep together; we closed our eyes and passed the night away in slumber.
“We did,” he confirms. “It was amazing. You’re easy to snuggle with.”
“I fell asleep on the couch. How did we end up in here?” I shift my weight and turn over to face him.
The sleepy, disheveled look first thing in the morning is seriously working for him.
“I carried you, but I was a good boy. Even though your jeans probably weren’t the best option to sleep in, I didn’t even attempt to make you more comfortable.” The bright smile on his face shows me he’s quite proud of himself.
“Such a gentleman,” I praise as his hand reaches up, pushing my long bangs behind my ear.
“Not exactly,” he confesses, running his thumb over my naked breast.
I follow his gaze, needing to see his hand on me.
His long finger traces over a strawberry-shaped hickey an inch above my nipple.
“You marked me,” I whisper.
Cupping my chin, he says, “You marked me, too.”
“Where?” My voice is low, almost seductive in the early morning light.
His hand clasps mine and he raises it to his chest, covering his heart. I swallow roughly as a riot of emotions bombard my head. I didn’t expect the tender sentiment, but damned if it doesn’t confuse me with the other things bouncing around in there.
I close my eyes, unable to handle the adoring look he’s giving me.
“Don’t close me out, beautiful. I’m here.” His words are strained, full of emotion and rejection.
A tear rolls down my cheek. All I seem to do around him is cry, but the alternative is trying to put into words what I’m feeling, and since I don’t understand them fully, it’s an impossible task.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll go, give you some space.”
I shake my head, clinging to his hand. “I want you here, Bryson. I’m trying.”
He pulls me against his chest, but his bare skin against mine doesn’t hold the same comfort it did last night.
“I’ve got class.” Grateful for the temporary reprieve, I nod against his chest before he gets up, leaving me alone in my room with a soft click of my door.
Waiting until I hear the shower turn on, I throw on a t-shirt and finger comb my hair in the mirror. Once the hiss of the water starts, I head to the kitchen—coffee always makes things clearer.
Shortly after I’ve filled my cup and taken my position on the couch, Bryson comes out dressed for school. His distance doesn’t go unnoticed when he sits in the armchair rather than beside me. I know I’m not being fair to him, but I warned him before the truth about Duncan was brought to light. I just never anticipated hurting myself when I couldn’t let him in.
“Want me to grab you for practice this afternoon?”
I shake my head. The last thing I need is to be around other people.
He nods as if he knew the answer and was only asking out of courtesy. He gives me a chaste, emotionless kiss on my forehead and then he’s gone. He deserves more than I can give him, but I also don’t want to lose him. I’m having a day today, but before him, they were all bad.
He’s brought light in my life and I’d be a fool not to grab that while he’s still offering. My brain understands the reasoning, if only my heart would get in line.
I sit in contemplation until my coffee turns cold. Not solving a damn thing, I finally go to the kitchen and notice the coffee still sitting in the pot. Bryson didn’t drink any this morning either, I realize, my shoulders drooping under the weight of exhaustion and guilt.
“He couldn’t get out of here fast enough,” I mutter, cleaning my cup and the coffee pot.
Dishes lead to wiping everything down, which begins the spiral into an all-out cleaning frenzy. Cabinets are emptied and rearranged, only to be changed again. Floors are scrubbed by hand, and pristine walls are wiped down. I know none of it needs to be done, but the minute my hands stop cleaning, they’ll reach for the computer. Bryson deserves better. Duncan deserves better. I deserve better.
Forcing my hand still when I begin to scrub the counter tops for the third time, I rest my head on my forearms and let the tears fall. Trying to stop them now will only give me a headache, which will lead to the migraine medicine, and that ends in sleep.
Surrendering to the emotions, I slide down the cabinet and cry, each tear that falls another crushing defeat. I weep on the kitchen floor until my sobs are waterless and the migraine I was hoping to avoid is battering against my skull.
I claw my way up the cabinet, knowing there’s no way to avoid the medicine, computer, or bed. With a small sliver of hope, I opt for Tylenol instead of the prescription meds that will knock me out with certainty.
Holding a cold bottle of water against my forehead, I sit on the couch and thrum my fingers on my laptop. As much grief as the videos of Duncan bring, the joy at seeing his face, hearing his voice, is equally present. It’s that comfort I’m seeking when I yield to the pull and log in.
Picking the most lighthearted one I can find, I click play and let my fingers trace his handsome face. I appreciate the healthy look in his eyes, the fullness in his cheeks. His remission didn’t last long, but the bounce back his senior year in high school was remarkable—it gave us hope.
