Reese
“Are you serious right now?” I stared at him in utter disbelief, my eyebrows practically touching they were pinched so hard together. I picked up the bag of peas again and pressed it back against my side. They were starting to thaw, the bag slippery with condensation, and tiny rivulets of water ran down my hip before falling on the floor, where Oscar happily licked up the small puddles. “How do you think this works? You pass some test on What Makes Reese Holland Tick and we’re suddenly a thing on the down low?”
His jaw worked side to side, and he stared at me mutinously. Okaaay, maybe he did think that’s exactly how this was going to happen. I huffed out a laugh. This was crazy talk. His eyes shone at me like gemstones, his fingers clenching and unclenching by his muscular thighs. Like I was some weird fucking prize he’d set his eye on, and now I was denying him.
“Laird,” I started, but his eyes closed and his whole body relaxed. “I—”
“Say it again,” he interrupted.
“Say what again?”
“My name,” he growled. “Say my fucking name.”
I licked my lips. They were somehow dry despite the pervasive Alabama humidity that had followed us inside and the heat emanating between us.
Us.
I swallowed hard and took advantage of his closed eyes to appreciate all the masculine beauty in front of me. The tattoos on his pecs begged to be traced by my fingers, my tongue, and his abs would’ve made any Hollywood heartthrob jealous. I followed the narrowing of his hips, the thin line of hair at his navel that led beneath his shorts, where a substantial bulge tented the black fabric.
He was gorgeous. And he wanted me to say his fucking name.
“Laird,” I repeated, my voice huskier this time.
Goose bumps rose along his arms, tightened his flat nipples, and a shudder worked its way down his body. Irish green eyes flew open and met my wide chocolate gaze.
“Yes.” Two strides brought him to my side, and from his position above me, he wrapped my ponytail around his fist, tipping my head back and arching my throat. He leaned down and ran his nose along its curve, nuzzled behind my ear, and inhaled deeply.
I forgot how to breathe.
He spoke against my sensitive skin, his lips brushing the shell of my ear with every word. “Ask me your questions. Then I’m going to make you say my name over and over again until I know every version of it coming from your lips by memory.”
If he hadn’t been fisting my hair and holding me captive with his words, I would’ve melted to the floor along with my makeshift ice-pack.
I turned my head instinctively, lips parted, seeking him, but he released my hair suddenly and took a step back. I wobbled and almost fell off the bench, catching myself just in time. Every nerve ending from every hair on my head still tingled from his touch.
“Your questions.” He watched me hungrily, like I was all the desserts he’d ever denied himself to get a body that looked like his.
“I—” Disoriented, I blindly patted the table behind me for my phone, trying to rein in my scattered thoughts. Questions. I needed to ask him questions. “Okay. One second.”
I pulled up my search screen, because I couldn’t think clearly and Google knew everything. HOW WELL DOES HE KNOW YOU, I typed in the box.
The first result was a Cosmo quiz. I clicked on it.
Right. Here goes.
“Question one,” I read aloud. “Her idea of a perfect date is A. Getting dressed up and going to a party. B. An afternoon hike with a picnic. C. Netflix and chill. D. Volunteering at an animal shelter.”
He stared at me intently, as if he was trying to read my mind. “B.”
“Nope.” C, if I was being honest. I didn’t need a guy in my life to do the other items on that list. “Question two. She hates it when her man A. Orders dinner for her. B. Won’t get off his phone. C. Goes out with the guys on Friday instead of her. D. Skips foreplay.”
“D.” His answer was instant, confident.
But still wrong. I couldn’t help but think—with the right guy—there were times when foreplay would be completely unnecessary. Like right now. “Wrong.” Creases formed between his eyes as his brow furrowed. It was B. When I was with a guy, I wanted to know that I was enough to keep his attention, that nothing on social media was more important than me.
“Number three. When it comes to your friends, she prefers A. To always be there when you’re hanging with them. B. You have the exact same circle of friends. C. You each hang out with your respective crowds solo, but still make time for each other. D. Friends, what friends? You can’t stand to spend a minute apart.”
He closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “This is ridiculous. B. We’d have the same friends.”
Ugh, that was so smothering, C was a much better choice. I shook my head and dodged his glare. Oscar followed him as he started pacing from the front door to the stairs. “What’s next?”
“Four. You want to go to the big party on Saturday but she isn’t feeling well. You A. Skip the party to take care of her. B. Go. You don’t want to both be sick. C. Make an appearance at the party, but leave early to drop some soup off at her place. D. Facetime with her the whole event, so she can still be there with you.”
“A. Easy decision.” He nodded once sharply and narrowed his eyes at me, like he dared me to disagree.
I smiled. “You got that one right. You’re one for four.”
But his streak ended there and he missed the next trio of questions about my preferences for living together, my ideal anniversary gift, and when to meet the parents.
A string of curse words flew from him and he stopped right in front of me, pointing at my phone. “This doesn’t mean anything. The fact that I’m getting these wrong.”
I lifted my shoulders insouciantly. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. This was your idea.”
“Yeah, I gotta couple of other ideas I’d rather try out on you,” he muttered, picking up all the trash from our meal and stomping to the kitchen.
I hid my smile until he was around the corner, then I let it stretch wide. There was something endearing about seeing him get so worked up over this stupid quiz. I really should cut him a break, but what was the fun in that? “C’mon, big guy. You can handle it. Only three questions left. Eight. What is she most insecure about? A. Her looks. B. Her crazy parents. C. Her childhood photos. D. What insecurities?”
“D. I’ve never met someone more confident than you.” And the way he said it made me wish it were true.
I swallowed hard, thinking back to those years as a kid, when I was swollen from the steroids and chemo and my hair was patchy at best. Yeah, I was good now. I’d made the decision years ago that fear was the lamest reason for not reaching my goals, because I refused to do anything except live my life to the fullest. But getting to this point was a journey I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And choice B? Overprotective didn’t even begin to describe it. There was a reason I chose to attend a college hundreds of miles from home, in a different time zone. Two reasons, in fact. Mom and Dad.
“Nope.” I didn’t hesitate, didn’t give him time to react to my answer. I rushed right into reading number nine, reciting the words on my phone, but my mind was back in West Virginia, looking out the window of the children’s hospital as my veins were pumped full of poison while people outside the hospital were busy with the task of living. Of doing. Of running and playing and going places without thinking first about the potential germ level and whether their white cell counts could handle the risk.
No, I was never going to be that person again.
Laird shifted in front of me, leaning against the wall two feet away, arms crossed over his chest. My eyes blinked away the past and he came back into focus. “Yup. You got that one right.” I had no idea what the question was. Or his answer. He could have the stupid point.
I cleared my throat, swallowing back the memories. “Last one. When you look at her, you picture A. Later that night, in your bed. Or hers. Wherever you end up. B. The wicked cool weekend away you two have scheduled for next month and the new things you’ll try together. C. That big event at the end of the season, the one you still need to rent a tux for. D. Whether your kids will have your eyes or hers.”
Oh.
Oh.
It was asking where he saw the relationship going. How long he thought this would last. I blinked, caught off guard. “Look, this quiz is stupid, you don’t have to ans—”
“All of them.”
“What do you mean, all of them?” My voice crept up with each word, ending in a near shriek.
His voice was rough, his eyes hooded as he repeated himself. “All. Of. Them.”
I laughed awkwardly, surely he didn’t mean—
“Reese. I can’t count the number of times I’ve thought of you in my bed, under me, on top of me, tangled around me, in every fucking position you can imagine. In my shower. On the couch. The bench you’re sitting on right now, knees bent, ass in the air, tits pressed against the table with your fingers curled around the edges.”
He took a step closer. My pulse skyrocketed.
“I’ve imagined you in a tiny little bikini on the Gulf Shore, me rubbing sunscreen on your back, your legs wrapped tight around my waist while I held you in the ocean, us fishing for our dinner on my cousin’s boat.”
Another step. I bit my lip.
“Did you know the band is invited to the football banquet in January? I don’t normally go, but I wouldn’t pass up a chance to see you in some killer heels and a long dress with a slit up the side, teasing me with flashes of those thighs all night. I wouldn’t let anyone else dance with you.” He paused. “You’d be all mine.”
His arms caged me against the table he’d just talked about fucking me on from behind, and my vision went a little hazy.
“And kids? If we got to that point, I’d want a boy first. One who’d grow up big like me. And then a little girl, one just as gorgeous as you. But a boy first, so she’d always have a brother to watch out for her. To keep her safe when I wasn’t there to do it myself.”
There was a flicker in his eyes at the end, something dark and turbulent. It was gone before I could analyze it though, try to figure him out. He sucked in a breath. When he exhaled, he was inches away from me, his muscular chest bent over mine, forcing me backward at an angle.
His words came millimeters from my lips.
“Any other questions?”
Yes.
When, where, and how fast could we start?
My eyes drifted shut.
And I waited.
And waited.
I lifted my chin a bit, hoping it was enough to close the distance between us.
Nothing.
I peeked. His lips hovered just out of reach, his expression both soft and hungry at the same time. “Give me the words, Reese. Tell me off the field, I can have you. That you’re mine.”
Off the field.
It was like being doused with a bucketful of ice-cold reality.
My pride dueled with my wet panties.
And damn it all to hell, I had a vibrator in my dorm to handle my clit, but nothing to replace my self-respect and dignity if the guys on the line found out, if they treated me differently as a result. School hadn’t even started yet. Gaining a reputation as a slut who failed to make the cut before the first day wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
“I can’t.” The words were faint. I could hardly force them past my lips.
He growled dangerously. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Right now, both.”
I barely knew him, I reminded myself. He was beautiful and said things that made me want to spontaneously combust, but I barely knew him. If this turned out to be a mistake, a short fling—or worse, a one-night stand—how would the rest of the season play out?
Would I be around long enough to find out?
He pushed off the table. Blinked at me as if in utter disbelief, then turned away and rubbed his jaw. His voice was flat with disappointment. “Right. Let me grab a quick shower, a cold one, and I’ll take you home. There are more veggies in the freezer for your side while you wait.” He didn’t look at me, just disappeared through the door to my left, slamming it behind him.
I shivered, despite the heat of the townhouse.
Oscar poked me with his nose, then jumped onto the bench beside me and laid his head in my lap, as if offering himself as a consolation prize. I rubbed his soft, speckled ears and smiled sadly at him.
“Thanks, buddy.”
The sound of another door slamming and then running water broke the silence. Minutes passed. I didn’t want to put my sweaty shirt back on, but I didn’t want to be out here half-naked when he reappeared either.
He probably hated me now, I reasoned, as I rose from the bench and crossed to the door he’d gone through, the one I assumed led to his bedroom.
I cracked it open a tiny bit.
It was empty.
With as much quiet stealth as I could, I opened a random drawer on the dresser against the wall. Socks. I tried the one next to it and paused. Evidently, Laird preferred boxer briefs. But not just plain black ones. Orange, lime green, electric blue, and yellow options were jumbled up in a messy array. I touched the soft material of the one on top, unable to help myself from imagining him in only those, slowly lowering the fabric over his tight ass, until I could see—
The door behind me opened. I hadn’t even realized the water had cut off. I turned to face him.
Steam billowed around him as he stood in the open doorway, water dripping down his chest, the towel around his hips in danger of falling off.
“Change your mind?” He smirked.
“I—” Holy virgin mother of the sweet baby Jesus. “I was looking for a clean t-shirt to borrow. For the ride back.” Even though the towel covered more than the shorts he’d had on earlier today, the effect of him in a towel with a bed right beside us was almost more than I could take. I wiped my mouth surreptitiously for drool.
Four strides brought him to my side. He glanced down. “Snooping in my underwear drawer?” He plucked out the pair I’d been stroking, dark gray with a red waistband and red stripe right down the crotch. Without hesitation, he dropped the towel, and the glimpse I caught of him before he pulled the boxer briefs on confirmed his earlier statement.
His dick was huge. The story he told me earlier about how he acquired Oscar flitted through my mind. That was definitely a prize-winning specimen.
My whole body felt like it was blushing, and I was damp everywhere.
“Wrong drawer.” There was a challenge in his eyes, as if daring me not to react to his outrageous stunt. He reached for a drawer directly behind me, and when he yanked it open, it bumped into the back of my thighs, pushing me forward into him. My hands landed on his abs, splayed across those hard, wet ridges of muscle, and I don’t know if the moan I heard came from him or me.
My fingers curled and his abs rippled as I regained my balance, my nails dragging across his tanned skin. It was a study in contrasts, the cool drops of water on his warm flesh, the way I yielded instinctively as he leaned in, my soft sigh mixing with his harsh breaths. Our thighs were pressed together, and I could feel the impressive bulge growing behind that red stripe down the middle of his briefs.
Before I could respond, react, do something, he released me, a blue-and-white shirt with the Rodner University shark logo in hand. “Here.” The muscle in his jaw ticked as he pulled it over my head, and by the time I’d wriggled my arms through the sleeves, he was fully dressed.
The shirt swallowed me, despite my height, hiding my shorts and falling to mid-thigh. I licked my lips and backed up apprehensively, not sure how to gauge his current mood. His gaze raked down the length of me, nostrils flaring, before he turned away.
“Keep it,” he said gruffly. “It looks better on you anyway.”
The cotton was soft, either by design or from being washed so many times, and it smelled like him, a mix of fabric softener and something muskier, like sweat that came from hot sex instead of cardio. My skin prickled in the spots where his eyes returned and lingered, the neckline, my thighs.
“Thank you.” My words landed awkwardly, too loud in the intimacy of his room.
“Don’t thank me.” His face twisted with a self-mocking smile. “I’ll be jacking off later, thinking about you wearing just my shirt, nothing underneath it except those black lace panties of yours.”