by Kendall Ryan
What else could that jerk possibly have to add to that last crude comment?
I snatch my phone off the counter and hurry into the living room, out of my parents’ earshot. I don’t want Dad to hear me chewing out his precious quarterback.
“What?” I snap into the phone. There’s a rumble of voices and electronic music in the background. Wes is with the team, and with the women who flock to them, no doubt.
“Jane, I’m so sorry,” he yells over the noise. “That last text, I’m not the one who sent it. One of the other players saw I had a text from you, and thought it would be funny.”
The tension in my chest releases. Thank God.
“Yeah, real funny,” I mutter, my tone equal parts annoyed and relieved.
“What did you say? This place is too damn loud. Let me get somewhere quieter so I can hear you.” The background noise fades as Wes distances himself from the crowd. “This any better?”
“Yeah, much better. Where are you?”
“At a bar downtown. Almost half the team is here, and somehow I’m the one who got stuck as designated driver. Lucky me, right?” I can practically hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. “Not that they need me. They’re all going home with girls anyway. I’m thinking about just calling cabs for all of them and calling it a night.”
“Going to bed early?” I say, testing the waters. I’d love to see him tonight, even briefly, but I don’t want to get between him and his beauty rest, if that’s his plan.
“Nah, I’m still wide awake. But I think my couch is calling my name. I’d love if you joined me, though. We could watch a movie, kill a bottle of red wine. I owe you a drink after that text you just got.”
My head buzzes in giddy anticipation. He’s choosing an evening curled up on the couch with me over the bar scene with his team. I can hardly believe it.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to steal you from the guys.” That’s a thinly veiled lie. Of course I’d rather have him all to myself tonight, but I know team bonding is important, especially for a newer team member like Wes.
“Trust me, Jane,” Wes says, his voice suddenly hushed and sincere. “I’d take a night in with you over any bar in this city.”
My cheeks blaze with sudden heat. That’s not the sort of thing you say to just a friend.
Which is what we agreed on, but I wonder if he really means it, or is just trying to go slow. We hash out the details, and I agree to head over to his place in an hour, enough time for me to wrap things up with my parents and for him to make sure all his drunk teammates are getting safely to their destinations.
After we hang up, I hurry back to the kitchen. I haven’t forgotten about dish duty. While Mom scoops leftover pasta into plastic containers, I get to work scrubbing every inch of the dinner plates with the speed of a seasoned restaurant dishwasher.
Mom seems impressed. “Since when are you so domestic?” she asks, one eyebrow perked in curiosity.
I shrug. Since I got a hot date on the other side of this stack of dirty dishes.
My memory replays our hotel-room make-out session, and part of me wants to take the reins and initiate something more tonight. It’s not like we haven’t had sex before, and after ten years without sleeping with him, I’m definitely developing a craving for it. Maybe tonight is the night to make my move.
The second I set the last almost-clean plate into the dishwasher, Dad lets out a bear-sized yawn. It’s barely eight o’clock. My parents are real party animals. But their early bedtime gives me an easy excuse me to hit the road, so I slip on my leather jacket and start the good-bye hugs, thanking them for dinner. Mom insists on sending enough leftovers home with me to feed a small army, a.k.a. the perfect amount of food for a football player. I’m sure Wes won’t turn down chicken and pasta if I bring it over.
“Have a good night, Janie!” Dad calls as I dash out the door.
But if things go the way I want them to, “good” won’t even begin to describe tonight.
• • •
Knowing that Wes could afford some crazy modern mansion with his NFL salary, it’s even more endearing that he’s chosen to live with a friend of his. Hauling my grocery bag of leftovers up the front steps, I can’t help but smile. The boy I fell for all those years ago hasn’t let his success and fame go to his head. Hot and humble. Talk about the whole package.
I buzz twice, listening to the pad of feet coming downstairs, the metallic sound of the door unlocking, and finally, the creak of the door swinging open, revealing a smile bright enough to light up the whole block.
“Hey, you made it.”
I step through the door and Wes engulfs me in his arms, pulling me tight against him. My cheeks barely come up to his pecs, and for a second, I can hear his heartbeat speed up before he lets me go.
“Come on in. I’m out of wine, so I hope gin and tonic is okay.”
I’m secretly grateful for the change in drink menu. Drinking wine with Wes reminds me of the past. The last time we split a bottle of wine was the night before he left for college, and I want to leave the past in the past tonight.
“A gin and tonic sounds beyond perfect,” I say as he leads me down the hall to the living room, gesturing for me to make myself comfortable before excusing himself to the kitchen to mix our drinks.
I set the bag of leftovers on the coffee table and run my fingers across the arm of one of the leather couches. My mood has improved so much since the last time I was here for the team pizza party. I remember practically using Alex as a human shield to avoid running into Wes.
“You plan to stay here long term?” I ask.
“Nah, probably not,” Wes replies, his low, rumbling voice echoing in the kitchen. “Colin had a spare bedroom and let me move in since my transfer was so last minute. It was no big deal, since we lived together in college and everything. I figure I’ll move into an apartment once the season’s done. I’ll have more time to look for places then.”
He returns to the couch with a drink in each hand, each glass sporting a wedge of lime. He passes one to me and raises his own in a toast.
“But lucky for us, we’ve got the place to ourselves tonight.”
Clink. I’ll drink to that.
The gin and tonic goes down smoothly, and I can’t help but think how good the lime will taste on Wes’s mouth later. One step at a time, Jane. We’ve barely agreed to be friends, and now I want to jump him.
We sit beside each other on the couch, but the plastic grocery bag on the coffee table demands my attention first.
“You know what would be good with a gin and tonic? Pasta.” I snatch up the grocery bag and hand it to Wes. He peeks in, and his jaw drops open when he sees the enormous amount of leftovers. “My mom cooked, not me. And I already ate, so those are all yours. Figured that’s about enough for a late-night snack for you.”
Wes gives me a thankful grin, then heads back toward the kitchen to reheat the food. I settle into the couch, sipping my drink as I enjoy the show of watching him leave. He’s got on a baseball style T-shirt that accentuates those gorgeous back muscles in all the right ways.
I make quick work of my drink, emptying my glass by the time Wes sits next to me with his enormous serving of pasta.
“Another one?” he asks, nodding toward my glass.
I shake my head. I don’t want him running in and out of the kitchen all night. I want him here, next to me.
“Well, here, feel free to have as much of mine as you want.” He reaches over to swap my empty glass with his, letting his arm brush my thigh, which I can only hope is intentional.
“You’ll have to send my compliments to the chef,” he says after a few bites of pasta. “I’ve missed your mom’s cooking. How is she? Good?”
I talk a bit about my evening as Wes finishes the plate of food and then sets the empty dish on the table. As I’m babbling about dinner with my parents, Wes drapes his arm across the back of the couch, comfortable in my proximity, or just plain comfortable. I’m not sure.<
br />
“Still can’t believe I’m here—on this team, back in Chicago. It’s surreal.”
He doesn’t say it, but I think he also means he can’t believe he’s here, sitting with me. Part of me can’t believe it either, but I’m not ready to talk about what this might or might not mean, so instead I steer the conversation toward football. It’s always been a safe topic for us.
“You really did it.” I gaze at him and smile.
He smiles back, but there’s a tinge of sadness in it. Becoming a pro football player has always been his dream—his one-in-a-million dream. And it came true. But it hasn’t been handed to him. He’s earned every bit of it, devoting countless hours to honing his craft, perfecting his throwing arm, spending just as many hours in the gym as he does on the field. There have been sacrifices to get here. And I’m starting to understand that I was one of them. You don’t get to this level by chance, and Wes has prioritized his life to arrive at this precise moment.
I remember watching the televised draft with my dad in our den a few years after Wes and I broke up. I tried to avoid all things football in the years following our breakup, but I couldn’t not know if he was really going to make it to the big leagues. Some desperate, hidden part of me had to know.
When the announcer called his name and the team that had selected him, silent tears streamed down my cheeks. He looked happy, so fucking happy. A smile every bit as wide as the ones I used to be responsible for overtook his face. He made it. All the sacrifices and years of hard work paid off. All of his dreams came true while I had been home nursing a broken heart and an empty womb.
But something about the expression on his face now as he gazes down on me tells me that he’s reevaluating if it’s all been worth it. That old saying “it’s lonely at the top” pops into my brain and sticks. For all of his hard work and devotion, he has no one to share the happy moments with, no one to hold him and let him vent when things go to shit. Which they often do in this game.
Something in his eyes tells me that he knows he’s missed out. Despite being one of the highest-paid players in the country, despite getting to play a game he loves for a living, he’s alone. And lonely. And it’s completely his own doing.
This is not me feeling bad for him. This is just me acknowledging how we arrived here.
Wes takes a deep breath and the tension between us falls away, even if that silent acknowledgment remains.
“Do you still love it?”
“The game?” he asks, his voice now sounding smoky.
I nod.
He thinks about this question for a long time. “The game, yes. All the other bullshit, the politics in this league, no.”
Now it makes more sense why he wanted to come to the Hawks, to play under my father. Dad is known for being the straightest-shooting, say-what’s-on-his-mind coach out there. You always know where you stand, he doesn’t leave you wondering if you might get cut or traded. He’s open from the word go, and highly respected. Or maybe it was just that Wes wanted his shot at redemption—a shot with me, but that’s not something I want to ponder right now.
We’re just friends. But when I meet Wes’s dark gaze, being friends is the last thing on my mind. The truth is he’s so freaking sexy, and no man has ever gotten me hot the way he does.
Without taking his gaze off me, he moves closer. One arm is still on the back of the couch, pulled around my shoulders, and his other hand moves to my knee, one finger innocently touching the hem of my skirt.
Fuck. I stop midsentence, biting down on my lower lip.
Wes shakes his head, letting a quick breath of air out of his nose in a muted laugh. “That drives me nuts, you know that?”
Confused, I cock my head. “What does?”
“When you bite your lip like that.” He runs his finger along the hem of my skirt, then to the top of my thigh. “Drives me absolutely fucking crazy.”
My breath catches in the back of my throat. “Crazy bad or crazy good?”
Keeping his fingers on my knee, Wes pulls his arm from behind my shoulders and softly grips the nape of my neck, pulling me fiercely against him, and presses his mouth softly against mine in a slow kiss.
My heartbeat riots in my chest the second his lips meet mine. They’re soft, yet demanding and I answer his kiss, opening my mouth and letting his tongue touch mine. He tastes like gin and lime and heartbreak, and so many things I won’t let myself think about right now. When he pulls back, it’s his turn to bite my lip, tugging on it gently with his teeth.
“In case that didn’t answer your question,” Wes murmurs, his lips traveling to my neck, working their way up to whisper in my ear. “Crazy good.”
When his lips meet mine again, I push gently against his chest, letting him ease onto his back as I move to his lap and wrap my knees around his hips, letting my tongue playfully explore his mouth. His kisses unlock some secret part of me, and I whimper, tangling my hands in his short hair, using it to tug him even closer. Wes lets out a low groan that rumbles in his chest and rocks his hips against mine in time with his kissing, and I can feel how hard he is beneath me.
Dear God . . .
The thought of his beautiful cock just a few layers of fabric beneath me makes the lace of my underwear go damp.
Shit. I know we agreed to be just friends, but here, drowning in him and his masculinity, it seems like the most futile agreement in the world.
“Maybe you should show me your bedroom,” I whisper between the kisses I’m trailing down his neck.
He lets out a low hum of agreement, then pauses, momentarily releasing his grip on my shirt. “I want to make sure you’re sure about this, though.”
He’s so gentle and sincere, I almost forget that I’m currently straddling him.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “I’ve wanted you in my bed since the moment you walked in. But I’m just as happy watching a movie out here. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
My mouth twitches into a coy smile as I squeeze my thighs tight against Wes’s body, cupping his cheeks in my palms and planting a slow, sweet kiss on his mouth.
“Wes, you’re so sweet. Thank you. But I’m more comfortable with you than I’ve ever been with anyone else. And I’d be even more comfortable on a bed instead of a couch.”
His hungry gaze meets mine, and in one fell swoop, he’s up on his feet, scooping me off of him and into his arms, almost knocking his empty plate off the coffee table in the process.
A laugh bubbles out of me, but Wes doesn’t flinch. It seems nothing can distract him from his task—that task being me. He leans in and nips at my earlobe in retaliation, sending a jolt of electricity between my thighs.
“I’ll get it later,” he mutters into my ear. “Besides, no offense to your mom’s cooking, but you taste way better.”
Oh.
My feet dangle off the edge of Wes’s king-size bed, making me feel even smaller than I usually do around him. As his mouth makes its way back to mine, he pushes my skirt up to my hips and out of his way, the rough skin of his hands palming my ass while his mouth ventures down my neck, along my collarbone, lingering over my breasts. His hot breath makes my nipples harden, pushing up against the cups of my bra.
Our mouths meet again in a hungry kiss, and a desperate groan escapes my throat. Like two sides of a magnet, we were drawn together. In this moment, I believe everything I’ve ever heard about muscle memory, because that’s what this is. There’s no awkward fumbling, no need to go slow and learn what the other likes. We fit together like a lock and key.
And suddenly I need more. I’m out of my white V-neck in seconds.
“Jesus, Jane,” Wes whispers, his gaze dropping to my breasts.
He’s looking at me with such worshipful desire, it makes my insides turn molten. Then his mouth returns to my breasts, kissing along the pale lace of my bra, which he unclasps with ease and tosses to the floor. He circles each stiff pink nipple with his thumb, making my body tremble under
his touch.
Good God, he remembers exactly how to turn me on. I may have the body of a grown woman now, but it’s just as weak to his touch as it was a decade ago. Every muscle clenches and contracts as he takes my right nipple in his lips, sucking, then nipping gently, pulling a gasp out of me.
He glances up at me with a look of satisfaction. “You haven’t changed one bit,” he whispers, flicking my nipple with his tongue. “And I fucking love it.”
He keeps this up, sucking and flicking and nipping as he bunches my skirt all the way up and around my waist, the lace of my panties fully exposed. One teasing finger runs over the fabric, grazing my clit, and I shudder.
I’m so wet, so ready. I need him to touch me.
He takes my mouth in his and slowly begins stroking, circling my clit from outside my panties, and I moan into his mouth. His touch is so familiar, but he was never this much of a tease before. I think I like it.
Finally, enough teasing. Pulling the wet, lacy fabric to the side, Wes plunges his middle finger deep into me and I moan again, curving my hips against his hand as he slides in and out. It’s been so long since anyone has been inside me. As he adds a second finger, I can tell I’m tight.
If my memory of his cock serves me right, we might have to work our way up to that.
My pulse quickens as I grind against the curl of Wes’s fingers, snug inside me, hitting all the right spots. I’m already panting, nearing climax from his fingers alone, when Wes drops to his knees and takes my clit between his lips.
Holy shit.
His mouth is gentle, his fingers persistent, and it doesn’t take more than a minute for me to wind all the way up and then come completely loose, climaxing onto his fingers. He parts me with his tongue, tasting me as I shudder, then kisses my inner thigh and releases my underwear back to its rightful position.
“Holy shit.” I sigh, exasperated. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve somehow gotten even better at that.”
Wes smiles and rises to his feet beside the bed, his erect cock jutting out in front of him, pressing insistently against his jeans. I love knowing that tasting me got him so aroused.