Reese
The last four days had been a blur and, despite his best efforts, I’d barely said two words to Laird. Between classes, volunteering at the hospital on different days than each other, and freshman orientation nonsense, the only time our paths had crossed was Tuesday’s band practice. The choreography we learned that day was much more technically challenging, not leaving much down time for chatting, and I’d rushed off for a resident advisor meeting as soon as it ended. He’d tried to meet me for lunch yesterday, but our schedules were off by twenty minutes and I couldn’t swing it without being late for Calc I.
We’d texted a few times, but the messages were stilted at best. It was my fault. I didn’t know how to create distance from Laird without making it weird. How to slow things down without turning them off.
I reread his last words from this morning.
Laird: Can you get to practice thirty minutes early? I miss you.
I hadn’t responded, but here I was, waiting like an idiot in the equipment room for him to arrive to maybe get a chance to talk to him alone and in person. Helpless to resist, despite knowing this couldn’t end well. I wiped my palms on my gym shorts for the third time. My heart beat an uneven rhythm against my ribs as I checked the time on my phone again.
The door creaked open. I swallowed hard past the ball of nerves in my throat.
“Showing up early doesn’t earn you brownie points, hotshot,” Marco sneered as he entered the room to collect his drum.
“Hello to you too.” I fiddled with my harness while avoiding eye contact, adjusting the padding that didn’t need adjusting.
He grabbed his gear and hesitated before exiting. Flustered, I stooped down to re-tie my double-knotted shoelaces.
“Yes?” I asked when it became obvious he wasn’t going to leave.
“You missed a spot when you cleaned my room this week. The desk was still a mess. Do better next time.” The door didn’t quite hit him on the ass on his way out, even though I summoned all my Batman-superpowers and willed it to happen. I flipped him off like a middle-school boy instead, with outrageous exaggeration and both hands, because I knew without a doubt he couldn’t see me.
Bubba came in next, followed by Charlie and Cade. A quick glance at my phone confirmed that practice started in twenty-five minutes. Laird was late, and the opportunity was gone—again.
When Smith barged through the door a short time later, I gave up any pretense of fumbling with my gear and fell in step with him to head to the practice field.
Smith moaned about the semester-long project we’d already been assigned in biology, but I barely heard him. My eyes were laser-focused on the dark-haired guy stripping his shirt off in the distance, revealing the abs my fingers ached to trace again. Laird Bronson. Already on the field. I must not have shown up early enough. Or maybe when I hadn’t replied to his text, he thought I wasn’t coming.
“Right?” Smith nudged me.
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Mmhmm,” I agreed, forcibly ripping my attention away from all that tan muscle and sinew.
Must. Not. Drool.
In public, anyway.
“Really?” Smith raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’ve fantasized about drizzling Marco in warm caramel too?”
I screwed my eyes shut and shook my head violently, trying to force that mental atrocity from my mind. “What the fuck, Robin? Why would you even joke about something that bad?”
He tipped his head back and let loose his spectacular laugh at my expense. “Because, Batman, you were ignoring your sidekick. Not cool. I’m not over here talking just because I like the sound of my own voice.”
Appropriately chastised, I flattened my lips and dipped my head. “Sorry. I was just preoccupied.”
“Picturing a certain someone covered in caramel? Someone li—”
My elbow connected with his ribs before he could complete his sentence, and I narrowed my eyes in a pointed warning to keep him from opening his mouth again. “Watch it. Or I’ll partner with someone else for the Bio project and leave you hanging.”
The stricken expression on his face had me rolling my eyes. As if Batman could partner with someone other than Robin.
When we reached the edge of the twenty-yard line where the other snares had gathered, Laird and Marco were huddled over a clipboard together, much like they were the first day of auditions. Something about that white plastic rectangle seemed ominous. As though it not only held my fate regarding my position on the field, but possibly a hidden message from Laird.
What did it mean if I earned a spot? Was it preferential treatment? Or what if I didn’t? Was it because I wasn’t good enough? Because Laird was upset about my request to slow things between us down? Or, on a more basic level, because I was a girl?
Marco glanced up at me and scowled.
I couldn’t interpret it, but my muscles stiffened in response.
Laird didn’t look at me and his body language gave nothing away.
Smith bumped my shoulder. “You okay there, Batman? You’re looking a little tense.”
“Gotham City has been a little rough this week.” I forced my shoulders to relax and unclenched my jaw.
He flung his arm around my shoulder. “Want to grab dinner after this? We could—”
Laird cleared his throat. “Hate to interrupt you guys setting up a date,” his green eyes glittered as they pinned me down, “but we have a practice to get through. Our first game is Saturday so today is essentially a dress rehearsal. Before we begin, we need to officially announce who will be marching on the field when the Sharks take on Louisiana State this weekend.”
This was it. I couldn’t watch.
I studied my shoes instead, the way the rubber on the right one was starting to curl away from the toe and the laces on the left one were uneven. I should fix it. Maybe try to get some of the grass stains out.
“Me. Marco. Bubba. Van. Charlie.” His voice carried no particular inflection as he continued down the list. “Morris. Topher. Cade. Smith. And Reese.”
Time slowed. Was it just in my mind or did his tone change when he said my name? Almost like a bit of a Scottish burr came through and he rolled the r just a little and lingered over the s. As if he was caressing my name with his tongue. Or was that just wishful thinking?
I blew out my breath, trying to slow my runaway pulse. I wanted to look at him so bad, but at the same time, I was scared of what I might see in his eyes. That there might be too much there and the others would notice. Or worse… indifference.
Arms wrapped around my shoulder and lips smacked against my temple, knocking me back to reality. “We did it!” Smith’s jubilant shout nearly took out my left eardrum.
I grinned at his contagious enthusiasm and returned his hug, pushing thoughts of Laird aside and allowing the news to sink in fully. I’d done it. I’d fucking done it. “I told you we would on the first day. Never a doubt.” My feet barely touched the ground the rest of practice, I was floating so high. A female snare would march in Rodner Stadium in two days, under the floodlights and with forty-thousand Shark fans watching.
I didn’t let Willa’s whining at being paired with me instead of Laird for the second song faze me. Not even when she let the cymbal drop too low for the third time in a dozen measures. For the next two hours, my cloud of happiness was impenetrable.
As I put up my drum after practice while solidifying plans for celebratory pizza with Smith, the sudden weight of Laird’s presence behind me, heavy and unmistakable, hijacked my train of thought, and I dropped my stick bag twice. My lungs struggled to suck in enough air.
“She’ll catch up with you in a few minutes, Smith. I need to talk with her about her timing during the first song before she leaves.”
My spine snapped straight and twin spots of fury darkened my cheeks. There was nothing wrong with my playing and being called out like that in front of everyone? Oh, hell no.
I whirled around to defend myself but stopped short when I saw his eyes. So many things flickered through his green irises. Confusion, hurt, desire, impatience. His fingers pulled at the hem of the Rodner Sharks shirt he’d put back on, and he stole a look at the time on his phone as if annoyed that it was taking everyone more than eight minutes to pack away their equipment.
My stomach churned with twenty-foot waves of turmoil as Charlie, Cade, and Smith headed toward the door, the last ones to leave.
Silence fell.
Unsure of where we stood on a personal level, I shifted my weight and twirled a drumstick in my right hand, letting the polished hickory tumble through my fingers in a practiced blur.
He took a step forward, halving the distance between us.
“There was nothing wrong with my stick work today.” I couldn’t hold that in any longer.
“No, there wasn’t.”
His easy agreement gave me pause and the drumstick fell to the floor when my fingers lost the rhythm. I bent over to pick it up, and he groaned behind me.
“I’ve missed you, Reese.” His voice was rough and deep, quieter than before. “And I want to apologize again for fucking up last Saturday.”
I straightened cautiously, knowing I needed to choose my words with care. He’d moved again, so close I could touch him or he could touch me if one of us reached out the slightest bit. “Look, Laird, maybe it’s a good thing we’ve been busy. That we’ve been forced to slow down the last few days. Because the way things were headed…”
I trailed off at the blazing heat in his gaze as it slid down my body. It screamed the opposite of slow.
“Yeah. About that.” And then his lips covered mine in a hungry swoop, one palm cradling my neck while the other supported the small of my back. I responded immediately, no pretense, no trying to push him away. My mouth clung to his as he tasted me urgently, his lips searching for the best angle to claim me.
I sighed into his mouth, and he took swift advantage of the opportunity, his tongue slipping in to tangle hotly with mine. My hands, still holding the drumsticks, fisted the cotton of his shirt for balance as the force of his kiss arched my back over his arm. Because of my height, most guys in my past hadn’t been able to manipulate my body this easily, but with Laird, I felt small and delicate in the best way possible. Like there was no safer place than his arms because he’d never let me fall. I melted against him, answering each slide of his lips, each parry of his tongue with one of my own.
He moved us deeper into the room as he devoured my mouth, until we were tucked away behind the large floor to ceiling cabinets in the far corner, my back against the cool, painted concrete-block wall. His hand slid around the front of my neck, dropping lower until his thumb toyed with my hard nipple. I trembled beneath his teasing touch.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” Hot breath fanned over my cheek. “Tell me your heart isn’t racing as fast as mine.”
His hand shifted until the flutter of my pulse against his palm was unmistakable. He tugged one of my arms from around his waist, pried my drumsticks free, and pressed my shaking hand to his chest, where his heart pounded the same rapid tempo as mine.
“Tell me to stop,” he dared me.
I couldn’t. I was drowning in the incandescence of his hungry eyes, the heat of his embrace, the intensity of his blunt words. He caged me between the wood cabinets and the unforgiving wall, but I didn’t feel trapped. I felt alive, bright and shiny and ripe in the way only Laird Bronson could evoke. I drew my hands down his chest and slipped my fingers under the edge of his shirt, needing to ground myself with his solidness.
“Laird,” I breathed.
And that was all it took. His name. His eyes blazed and his mouth captured mine in a fiery kiss, while the hand holding the drumsticks lowered until I felt the gentle pressure of solid wood nudging between my thighs. With only a thin pair of shorts and my damp panties blocking him, the soft friction he started as he slid the sticks back and forth had me grinding against him, wanting more of his sweet brand of torture.
“I’ve got you, Reese.” He spoke against my jaw, his mouth nibbling a path to my ear and then down my neck. He nipped the sensitive skin and I shuddered, my nails digging into his muscled back. Laird braced himself with his free hand against the wall, while the other continued the onslaught between my legs. He used the unevenness of the drumstick heads to rub circles around my clit with a teasing lightness that drove me wild. Pleasure began to coil slowly, my breath escaping in jagged puffs as it built.
I pushed my face into his shoulder to muffle my soft cry while my hips rocked in counterpoint to his strokes, seeking more pressure. One of my hands dipped between us, cupping his hardness through his gym shorts. He throbbed as my grip traveled to the base of his dick and squeezed.
Two could play this game.
He growled and sucked the tender flesh on the side of my neck, using the edge of his teeth to scrape my skin. The hand holding the drumsticks moved faster but not harder. I bent my knees, trying to force the issue, and matched his technique, stroking him quickly but softly.
The drumsticks fell to the floor with a dull clatter on the cheap carpet, and his thick fingers replaced the lifeless wood. “I love how greedy you are.” His lips tickled my ear as he whispered the words. I slid my hand along his forearm, reveling in the way his muscles flexed as he touched me. I never wanted him to stop touching me. He cupped me with his hand and ground the heel of his palm against my clit, finding a rhythm that drew the coil even tighter, and I squeezed his hip in response as his name fell like a plea from my parted lips.
“Nothing better.” His pace increased, and one finger pressed up against the thin fabric. I knew he could feel my wetness right through it. I was soaked. “Nothing better than you saying my name.”
The edges of my vision blurred. Everything ceased to exist beyond his hand and the hot, achy anticipation building higher and higher. I was so close. I whimpered, my thighs shaking. He moved impossibly faster, and I bit his shoulder, hard enough that it’d probably leave a mark, but I didn’t care. Those perfect fingers stroked and twisted, and then he pinched my nipple, the sudden sting of it snapping the coil, sending me spiraling into my luminous release while I clenched his hand between my thighs. My toes curled inside my shoes, and no air left my lungs as a soundless moan pushed past my swollen lips. I trembled in his arms as I flew to the stars and back, weightless but unbearably heavy at the same time, while he held me close, supporting me when my legs threatened to give out.
Our warm breaths mingled, his exhale becoming my inhale and vice versa. I was dizzy with remnants of my orgasm when his dick pulsed against my hand, reminding me that I still held it in my grasp. I resumed my lazy torment, aftershocks of pleasure making my strokes eager but disjointed. Laird pushed his shorts partway down, and shifted my hand until it wrapped around his impressive length. He was so big my fingers didn’t touch. I pumped him slowly, reveling in the contrast of hard steel covered by hot velvet. With a rough growl, he wrapped his fingers around mine until I gripped him harder, and then he showed me how he liked it, tight and slow at the bottom, fast at the top, sometimes pausing for a few shorter passes at the head before dropping back down. The chords of his neck stood out in sharp relief, and his eyes darkened and fell halfway closed as he watched our hands.
Biting my lip, I reached down to cup his balls as we worked together to stroke him off. They were already tight and drawn up, and I knew he was close. I rolled them in my hand, and he cursed when I tugged on them, golden satisfaction swirling through me at his response. He crushed my hand tighter around him, our fists a blur as we jacked him faster.
“Do it again.” He pressed haphazard kisses to my neck. “Fuck, Reese, do that again.”
I did, twice. He groaned the first time and came the second, his hips jerking with his release as he spilled over our joined fingers. Laird shuddered as he repeated my name in a whisper with each of the half dozen strokes it took for him to finish.
It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen, his face slack with pleasure as he watched me watch him. He made no attempt to hide his reaction, and he held my gaze with a quiet fierceness, as if he wanted to make sure I saw exactly what I did to him, how he came apart because of me. Something inside of me shimmered and sighed when he used his clean hand to stroke my cheek and trace the curve of my lip reverently. “Reese. I—” He broke off and the moment sharpened. The musky scent of our arousal, the hum of the ancient air-conditioner, the stillness of our bodies after the impetuous intimacy. He dipped his head and his lips met mine softly, like he was saying thank you for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Hot tears I couldn’t explain pricked the back of my eyes as he released me, and I blinked rapidly, ducking my head so he wouldn’t see. His gentleness in the aftermath was my undoing.
He whipped his shirt off and used it to clean us up, then wrapped me in his damp embrace, peppering my face with aimless kisses, as if he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching me yet.
“Forgive me, Reese.” His lips skimmed along my jaw. “Forgive me for last Saturday.” Across my forehead. “Don’t.” The tip of my nose. “Please don’t push me away.” The corner of my mouth.
I shivered. My hands roamed from his waist to his ribs. I couldn’t form words.
And then the door banged open, and Marco’s sharp voice cut across the room. “What are y’all still doing in here?”
Ice froze my veins and I couldn’t move, my wild eyes flashing to Laird’s in a panic. He put a foot of distance between us, keeping his back to Marco and partially blocking his view of me.
“She needed to work on her stance some before this weekend. Her shoulders were slumped and her arms were too low at practice earlier.” He nudged me fully against the wall and raised my arms parallel to an imaginary drum. “It’s nine inches, Reese, not six.”
My eyes widened at the double meaning of his words and he winked at me. I choked on my next breath.
Marco snorted in disgust from the doorway. “Told you we shouldn’t have picked her.”
“It’s not a problem.” Laird dropped his hands to his sides and moved back a step. I bristled at the insult but held my position. “I’m gonna make her do it over and over and over again until I know she’s got it right. Even if it takes her all night.”
Images of us doing it over and over again all night long cartwheeled through my mind. Until we got it right.
“Need any help?” The offer from Marco was grudging at best, the words sour as they lingered in the air.
“No,” Laird responded easily. “I can handle her.”
Dear sweet mother Mary and her perfect virgin womb.
Yes. He could.