by Cora Carmack
He huffs out a laugh, his head dropping down until I can feel the breath from his laughter singe my collarbone.
“Oh, Daredevil,” he murmurs. “I like you.”
I like it when he calls me that. My stomach swoops low in my belly in approval and anticipation.
This time, I kiss him, and his lips press back against mine so hard that a jolt of something coils down my spine. The hand at the back of my neck tightens, and his other hand rests lightly against my knee. I know he must feel it shaking.
I can’t decide if him being a virtual stranger makes this kind of intimacy more or less terrifying.
His lips open against mine, his breath fanning over my skin, and I think more terrifying, definitely.
But also so much . . . hotter.
He brushes his open mouth against mine, softly, once and then twice, like we have all the time in the world, and I expect myself to be grateful for his slowness, but instead it’s killing me. I want to dive into him headfirst, submerge myself in the way he makes me feel, and not come up for air until I have no other choice.
But I don’t. I let him hold me like the porcelain doll that I’m terrified of being because I’m even more terrified of how badly I want him.
He threads a hand through my hair, cupping the back of my head, and gently tilts my lips up toward his. After a few more soft kisses, his thumb runs across my bottom lip and electricity sparks from that tiny touch.
His thumb trails down to my chin, and he presses down just enough to pull my lips apart. His tongue darts out, tracing my bottom lip the same way his thumb did, and I grip his shoulders hard because I feel like I might fall even though I’m sitting down. One of his hands grips my hip in response as he teases my lips with his tongue one more time.
Then, like he’d been teasing himself too, he groans and pushes the kiss deeper. And my body is ready to throw him a damn parade in celebration. His tongue slides against mine, firm and demanding, but not overwhelming. Not scary. Yet.
He leans into me, pressing me back, and the crown of my head touches the tree behind me. I’ve only had a handful of kisses besides Levi, as sad as that is. And maybe it’s the bad memories that make me look back on those kisses with indifference, but I don’t remember his or anyone’s being this . . . good.
And because I have no filter, I whisper those words against his lips.
“This is good.”
He laughs. “I love it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
He hums against my lips, and it vibrates pleasantly.
“When you say exactly what you’re thinking.”
I pull away. “You won’t love it when I say something stupid.”
And the stupid would come. No doubt about it.
“Are you kidding? I can’t wait.”
I huff and push at his shoulder. My shove sends his back thudding back against the tree, but he laughs and grips my elbow, tugging me forward in response. Hard. I yelp, steadying myself with both hands against his chest, and my bent knee ends up strewn over his lap.
He sucks in a breath, and grips my thigh with one hand. Part of my brain is demanding that I pull away. Kissing a stranger is one thing, but this is something else entirely. But despite my brain’s warning, my body leans into him, shivering when the hand on my leg tightens possessively. His fingers trail down toward my knee, and then slowly, so slowly that it feels like a dance, he pulls until I’m straddling him for the second time tonight. This time, though, I’m not distracted by a wardrobe malfunction. And with him sitting upright instead of lying down, he feels so much closer in every way. Our stomachs press together, and I can feel the rough fabric of his jeans against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. And the fact that my underwear is the only thing keeping the rest of my bare skin from touching him makes that pleasure parade from earlier descend into complete pandemonium.
“I should go,” I say.
But even as I say it, I curl his shirt in my fists and pull myself a little bit closer.
Chapter 5
Carson
Just her number, I’d told myself.
Just a touch, I’d thought.
Just a kiss, I’d sworn.
And yet, my hands are now on her hips, my shirt bunched in her hands, and my chest warmed by the press of her body against mine.
“I should go,” she says for a second time, but neither of us makes a move. She shifts forward, her hips pulling closer to mine, and I hiss at the pressure of her against me. I’m already straining against my jeans, and the tightness goes from unpleasant to torturous as her thighs squeeze against my hips.
Her head tilts to the side, like she’s studying me, and she repeats the movement of her hips. I groan and my head falls back against the tree with a hard thump. Not that I feel it. All the nerve endings in my body seem to be concentrated on where she touches me.
This is the opposite of staying focused, but if this is what distraction feels like, she can drive me to it anytime.
She smiles, and I let it wash away my worries about the future. I let the sweet vanilla scent of her hair override the thought of how badly I need to stay focused on football, of how it’s the only chance I stand at a decent future. I bury all that bullshit under the weight of her heated gaze.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel shackled to a plan or a problem.
I only feel free.
And I only feel her.
I slide a hand from her hip to her lower back, slipping my hand beneath her shirt to touch warm skin. Suddenly greedy, I glide that hand up until my entire arm presses against her and my fingers curl over her shoulder, locking her tightly against me.
She gasps, and though her body arches into mine, her eyes are wide and wary. I worry that I’ve gone too far.
“Tell me, Daredevil.”
She licks her lips, and the muscle of her shoulder tightens under my fingers.
“Tell you what?”
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. But if you don’t tell me what that is, my mind is going to keep thinking of all the things I want to do to you, and the list is already very, very long.”
She licks her lips again, and I jerk her closer, just barely grazing her tongue with my own before it disappears back into her mouth.
She closes her eyes, and her fists pull so hard on the front of my shirt that I know it’s going to be stretched and warped whenever she eventually lets go.
“I want,” she whispers, her eyes scrunched tight.
I can feel my heartbeat at the base of my spine, and one of us is shaking. Whether it’s me or her, I’m too far gone to tell. All I know is that I can feel the heat of her even through my jeans.
“What?” I ask, my voice thick.
“I want,” she repeats, her whisper almost pained. Her eyes are still closed, and though I don’t understand it, don’t understand her, I know I’m pushing her too far.
“Do you want me to keep holding you like this?”
“Yes.” She says the word immediately on a relieved exhale, and then lets her head drop back.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
Her knees squeeze against my hips as she says, “Yes.”
With her head dropped back, I move my mouth closer to her neck, hovering above the place where I know her pulse is beating wildly.
“Where?” I ask. “Where should I kiss you?”
I’m too impatient to wait for her to answer before I drag my lips over her pulse. Her hips buck into mine unexpectedly, and it’s so good I see fucking stars.
“Oh my God,” she says, and I would agree, if my tongue still knew how to form words.
“Oh my God is effing right.” A voice interrupts from somewhere above us, too far above us, because looking up will mean leaving the sweet skin of her neck, a feat I just don’t think I can handle right now. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done to my best friend?”
I’ve got zero fucks to give about the girl talking, but Dallas obviou
sly cares, because with my arm against her back, I can feel her spine straighten. My fingers slip off her shoulder, and like I really had been locking her into place, she’s off of me and standing five feet away in seconds.
I stand too, very slowly and with extreme discomfort.
Dallas is gaping at me, like she’s just as shocked by the situation as her friend. I try for an easygoing smile, but I’m sure it looks as pained as I feel. It’s pretty much impossible to feel comfortable while having a hard-on and being the subject of intense study by two pretty girls.
I clear my throat awkwardly, and when Dallas still doesn’t say anything, I look to her friend. She’s the opposite of Dallas—nearly a foot shorter, pixie haircut, olive skin, and completely unreadable. I add, “I’m Carson.”
Dallas’s friend doesn’t smile. Instead, she turns to Dallas and asks, “Are you okay? I saw that hottie you went off with inside, and you weren’t with him. I was worried.”
I think of the guy on the balcony, and the surge of bitterness I feel is so powerful I can taste it on my tongue.
“That hottie,” I begin, “is a tool.” God, I’m even talking like her. “Be glad she wasn’t with that asshole.” There. That was better.
The girl’s hair is barely longer than mine, but when she tosses her head, she somehow has the same effect as if she were tossing a mane as long as Dallas’s. She fixes her gaze on me and says, “Hey, Romeo, I was talking to Dallas. Not you.”
Emerald eyes meet mine, and we both burst out laughing. Whatever tension had been wracking Dallas disappears with her laugh. I stop before she does, just watching, enjoying the way the Shakespeare mention makes her face light up.
“What? What did I say?” her friend asks.
Dallas takes a step closer, hesitates, and then crosses to stand beside me.
“It’s okay, Stella. I’m fine. Promise.”
Stella’s gaze flicks back and forth between the two of us.
“You sure? How much have you had to drink?”
“None.”
Stella’s eyebrows raise, and some kind of silent conversation passes between the two of them. When Dallas faces me, her expression, like her friend’s, is hard to read. I miss her openness.
“I should probably go,” she says. And unlike when we were kissing, this time I can tell she means it.
Part of me is relieved that one of us is able to step away, but I’m both ashamed it wasn’t me and disappointed that it was her.
I shove my hands into my pockets. “Okay, Daredevil.”
Her friend snorts. “Daredevil?”
Dallas doesn’t look away from me, and neither of us bother replying.
“It was nice to meet you, Carson.” She holds out her hand, and I take it. A handshake isn’t exactly what I want, but I’ll take it. She smiles, and I smile, and I can’t resist using her hand to tug her a little closer.
I lean down to her ear, wishing I could talk to her without her friend watching us like we’re the best new reality show on TV, wishing she would be the Dallas she was ten minutes ago. “You’re not going to make me beg, are you?”
She pulls back to look me in the eye, and her lips are distractingly close to mine.
“For what?”
Even though she definitely kissed me back, I still find myself anxious to ask, “Your number?”
“Oh.” Her face falls for half a second before she smiles, and that one second of disappointment undoes me. What does she want? And more important . . . how do I give it to her? “Right. Give me your phone.”
I hand it over and wait while she programs her number in. Her friend Stella is still there watching silently, and this is quickly becoming the strangest night of my life. But when she hands back my phone and our fingers brush, I know I wouldn’t have it any other way.
She smiles and turns to go, but I can’t resist pulling her back one more time. This time I’m less controlled and when I whisper into her ear, my lips brush against her skin. Her fingers wrap around my forearm and squeeze.
“One more thing I’m willing to beg for, Daredevil.”
The goodbye kiss she gives me is short and chaste and only lands on the corner of my lips, but I feel it all the way down to my knees.
I watch her leave, and am disappointed when her friend is the one to look back over her shoulder and not Dallas. They don’t head back inside, but instead slip through a gate on the side of the house. I stay outside for a few minutes, but then decide that I have no interest in sticking around now that Dallas is gone.
There’s a sliding door at the back of the house, and when I open it and step back into the noisy house, I pull out my phone.
I start scrolling through my contacts while I meander through the crowds looking for a familiar face to say my goodbyes. I reach the Ds, and Dallas isn’t there.
My stomach falls, and my feet pull to a halt in the middle of the room. I shouldn’t be this devastated by a girl not giving me her number, but I also don’t know how to block out the feeling that’s spinning through me. I go to shove my phone back in my pocket when I see it.
Daredevil.
It’s two names down from where I had expected to see Dallas’s name, and the spinning sensation in my chest doesn’t lessen, but spirals even faster.
“McClain, why are you grinning like an idiot?”
I look up, and there’s Levi Abrams on the couch with a petite brunette sitting in his lap. Silas Moore and a few other teammates are with him, and my grin falls.
The world wastes no time in reminding me exactly why I shouldn’t be getting distracted by girls or parties or anything like this.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Abrams.” I look around at the rest of the team members. The new coach is strict about inappropriate conduct, so I’m surprised there are this many players here and at how wasted they all are. They take shit for granted . . . things I would kill for. But I’m used to feeling that way. Growing up poor makes you hyperaware of all the other things people take for granted. But in this case . . . it might eventually work to my advantage. Let them rest on their laurels. It makes it that much easier for me to catch up. “I’m heading out. See you guys at practice.”
I hear some calls at my back, some asking, some daring me to stay and party with them. I just wave a hand and head for the door.
And maybe I’m borrowing trouble, but as I head for my truck, I type out a quick text.
Still thinking of that list.
Dallas’s reply comes a minute later, and I settle in behind the steering wheel, not bothering to turn the key in the ignition.
Who is this? Carson?
I hope there are not any other guys
out there making a list like this one.
And if there are?
I’ll just have to make sure my list is
better.
Maybe I should make a list of my own.
Maybe we should make one together.
Maybe we will.
Chapter 6
Dallas
Stella kept me out late again on Saturday (thankfully not at another party, but at the coffee place just off campus). Even after we turned out the lights for bed, we stayed up a while longer talking across the small space that separated our twin beds. Because of that, I snooze two too many times, making me a few minutes late for church on Sunday morning. When I squeeze past Dad sitting in his usual spot at the end of a pew a few rows from the back, his gaze turns steely.
I knock a hymnal off the shelving on the back of the pew, and it thumps against the carpet, drawing even more attention to my late entrance as the youth minister finishes greeting the congregation. Dad shifts, flexing his fists on his knees, and I rush to pick up the book and plop myself down beside him.
That would normally be the end of it. I would sit incredibly still until all the eyes left me, but somehow in my rush to sit down, I ended up with a few stray strands of hair in my mouth. I claw at my cheeks, trying to find the offending hairs and pull them away.
Dad ma
kes a low grumbling noise that reminds me of a grizzly bear.
I show him my teeth in a grimace barely passable as a smile. If he wants a proper and polite daughter, he shouldn’t have spent my childhood dragging me to places where I was predominantly surrounded by men.
I fix my gaze straight ahead, taming my hair and clothes just in time for the youth minister to say, “We’re so glad to have you all this morning. Please take a few moments to greet your neighbors and say a warm hello to any new faces.”
The pianist and the organist start an upbeat version of “Joyful, Joyful,” and I wish that I had managed to be just a few minutes later. Maybe it makes me heartless, but this is my least favorite part of church. Dad and I are immediately inundated with former players and parents of players and teachers. It used to be that they all wanted to stay on good terms with Dad so that their kids would get more playing time. I had hoped that Dad’s new job might make us a little less popular, but no luck there.
Dad’s all smiles, shaking hands and laughing, his loud voice carrying and no doubt drawing more people toward us. I stand there awkwardly, smiling (horrendously fake) smiles and nodding along like I know a good daughter should. Mostly the men talk to Dad, and the women talk to me since there’s no mom to play that role. I get compliments on my hair (which I know is a hot mess because it’s hella windy outside) and my outfit (which is lined with wrinkles and smells of Febreze since I just grabbed it off the floor of my dorm room).
And of course . . . there are the questions.
“How’s college?”
“Have you settled on a major?”
“How are your classes?”
“How does it feel to be all grown-up?”
Plus a few questions about Dad and the university team, like I know or give a crap about that.
On the surface I’m all Oh, haha. I’m great. Loving it. Everything’s great. Just great. Hah. Hah. And underneath I’m like Dear God, why is this hymn SO LONG?