The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

I give a little yelp of surprise and wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me into the living room in three long strides. I’m on the couch in his lap the next moment.

  His eyes are wide and brilliant as he strokes my cheeks. “Stay with me.”

  “Well,” I say, squeezing the back of his neck. “That was the plan. I want you for more than a sad little weekend. A month or so would be much better.”

  His lush mouth tilts on a smile, but it doesn’t fully bloom. He stares into my eyes, his expression almost shy. “No. Not a month, Cherry.” The tip of his thumb touches my lower lip. I don’t miss the way he trembles too. “Live with me. Here. Make a life with me.”

  His words strike us both mute. Ethan looks as if he can’t really believe he made the offer. Me? I can’t believe it either.

  His thighs shift and harden beneath me, and I realize he’s holding his breath. Maybe I am too, because I exhale on a long, ragged sigh.

  “You mean that?” I whisper.

  His throat works on a swallow. “Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

  “Ethan…” I can’t speak. My fingers thread through his hair, holding on. This is too much, and yet all I want to do is sink into him, rest against his strength for a good, long while. Never leave his side. “We just started going out. We’ve only been together a handful of times.”

  All true and yet, even as I say it, I know I want this. I want to be with him.

  “Doesn’t change the way I feel,” he says. “I’m miserable without you. I need you, Fi.”

  A little sob bubbles up, and my voice breaks. “I need you too, Ethan.”

  It feels like we’re saying something else. But it doesn’t matter because he’s kissing me, deep and searching, a little bit frantic as if he’s trying to convince himself this is real. And I’m kissing him back, every bit as desperate.

  Ethan holds my head, angling his mouth so he can delve deeper, and, God, he tastes good—feels good.

  Gently he touches my check, his fingers tracing it. “How is it,” he whispers, “that I was just fine being alone until you kissed me in that club?”

  I swallow hard, my skin flushed with heat. A lump in my throat makes my voice thick. “I don’t know.” But it’s the same for me. One beard dare, and I was lost.

  His fingers run down the side of my throat, then up again. “You’ve ruined me, Fiona. I’m not sure I know how to live without you anymore.”

  Before I can answer, he pulls off my shirt. My bra follows as he kisses his way along my neck. His fingers fumble with the zipper of my skirt.

  “Take off your shirt first,” I tell him, needing to see him too.

  He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look away from me, just reaches back and hauls his shirt over his head. All those hard-earned muscles shift and bunch beneath his smooth skin as he flings the shirt away.

  Not one to go by half measures, he gently sets me aside and stands to push his sweats down, leaving him gloriously naked, that thick, long cock of his straight and proud and hard, the silver piercings winking in the light.

  While I stare, Ethan steps back to look at me, his brow raised in expectation. Waiting.

  I rise to face him. The zipper makes a loud hiss as I lower it. I shift my hips, shimmying, and the fabric slithers along my skin, my skirt falling at my feet.

  For a long moment, he stares at me, his chest lifting and falling with each breath he takes, his cock quivering, as if impatient. Then he sinks to his knees. I expect a kiss, his mouth exploring my body. But he doesn’t do any of that.

  Ethan Dexter wraps his arms around my waist and presses his cheek between my breasts. He hugs me close and sighs with his entire body. “I love you.”

  My breath hitches with an audible sound, and he glances up, his hazel eyes solemn and intent. “I do. So fucking much. Every hour of every day. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

  Relief and happiness are a liquid warmth running through me. My hands tunnel through his silky hair and hold him secure against me. “I love you too, Ethan.”

  A shudder wracks his body, and he lets go of a long breath. His arms squeeze me tighter. When he speaks, it’s a broken rasp, as if he’s come to the end of a long journey. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go again, Fi.”

  I can’t help but smile. “We’re really doing this? Living together?”

  He smiles too, his beard tickling my skin. “Fuck yeah, we are.”

  For the rest of the night, it’s just Ethan and me, every touch an affirmation of all that we’ve been missing, of all we’ll have from this day on.

  Living together? We got this. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Fiona

  Having never lived with someone, I worry how moving in with Ethan will be. Awkward? Stifling? Will we crash and burn?

  Because, no matter how much I want Ethan, we’ve only physically been together a handful of times.

  But he doesn’t give me time to worry. Every night he’s in town and off early, we go out and explore New Orleans—at a jazz club, where I cajole and entice Ethan to dance, or at a restaurant so good, I’m hard pressed not to moan with every bite. I’m a New Yorker at heart, so I’m used to good food. But New Orleans could give New York a run for its money.

  We don’t hide being together. And a few pictures of us have popped up, along with speculation about Ethan’s new girlfriend. But the virgin witch hunt remains. Mainly because Ethan stubbornly refuses to talk about me—even if to confirm or deny a sexual relationship.

  “It’s none of their fucking business,” he grumps. In public, he’s more restrained and simply says, “Unless it’s about football, no comment.”

  Despite that ugliness, I’m happy. There are so many things I come to anticipate and love, namely the look on Ethan’s face every time he walks through the front door, his expression lit with happiness, his eyes hot with need.

  Because the second he’s home, he’s backing me up against the wall, or bending me over the arm of the couch, fucking me like he’s making up for years of lost time.

  I can’t keep my hands off him either. I catch him doing sit-ups and jump astride his hips before he does another crunch. His chuckle dies in a strangled groan when I kiss and lick my way over his hard body, tugging his shorts down to pull out that glorious, thick cock I crave.

  Ethan’s often away. It isn’t great. But it doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. Because I know that on the nights he is home, we’ll fall into his massive bed to cuddle under the covers and talk about anything and everything until a touch or a look triggers the need we have for each other and we come together like a conflagration, burning hot and bright. Only when we’re completely worn out will we fall asleep.

  More importantly, I know I’m loved. And I love him. Having that security in my life is a joy I only now realize I’d been searching for all along.

  I grow inordinately giddy at the sight of Ethan’s big shoes—which include a ridiculous amount of sneakers—lumped together with mine, of my body washes and hair products crowding out his lone shampoo and soap.

  I get to talk to Ethan’s parents, an experience I’d feared would be awkward as fuck, given the circumstances. But they’re warm, nice, normal. Ethan’s dad thanks me for making his son happy. Ethan’s mom assures me her son has impeccable taste, so if he likes me, she will too. I’m left blushing and stammering that, yes, I’d love to meet them when they return to California.

  Ethan’s little brother is a slightly tougher judge. He asks me if I like Minecraft. When I confess to having had an Enderman figurine on my desk in college, I’m deemed cool.

  But I fall irrevocably head over heels for Ethan when he takes my hand one sunny morning and asks me to come out to his studio. I’ve been there before. It’s a bright, airy space. His older work hangs on the walls or sits stacked in the corner. A few pieces are half-done and on easels, waiting for completion.

  Ethan specializes in photorealism. He uses lush colors and goes
for close-up studies. Most of his subjects are football related, though he’s done a few people as well. He’s been working on one of Drew, dressed in his uniform, helmet on the ground, his hands low on his narrow hips as he looks off in the distance.

  “Anna asked me to do that one,” Ethan told me. “It’s going to be a wedding present. Though I seriously think she’ll enjoy it more than Drew will.”

  I think he’s right.

  Today he walks me out to the studio, a secretive smile on his lips.

  “Have you finished your portrait?” I ask, though I don’t know when he’d have found the time. We’ve been in each other’s pockets this past month.

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Why do you look so smug?”

  His grin grows. “You’ll see.”

  “Tell me.” I tug on his hand.

  “No.”

  “Tell me, tell me, tell me.” I tug again, wiggling his arm as I smile up at him.

  He laughs and swings me up in his arms. “Little pest. So impatient.” He kisses my nose and carries me up the stairs. The sharp scents of paint and turpentine mix with the warmer scent of pine and fill my nose as he opens the door.

  Ethan sets me down, and I turn around only to gasp, my hand flying to my lips.

  The canvases and easels are gone. In their place is a woodworker’s fantasy: circular saws, band saws, table saws, routers and lathes, miters, drills, joiners… Everything I need to make furniture.

  “I thought maybe you could get started sooner than later,” he says, mirroring my thoughts.

  “Oh, yes,” I murmur, walking around, taking it all in.

  Work tables, a dust vacuum, stacks of different types of lumber. Emotion grabs me by the throat as I turn back to Ethan, who leans against the doorway, hands in pockets, a curious, almost anxious expression on his handsome face.

  “Where’s your painting stuff?” I croak out.

  “Moved it to the guest house,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t need all this room, anyway.”

  I swallow convulsively. “How—when?”

  He pushes off from the doorway. “Found a guy who was retiring. Bought up the whole lot. Had some guys deliver it yesterday.” He looks around and then back at me. “You like it?”

  “Like it?” A laugh gurgles in my throat. “I love it. I love you.”

  Without another word, I launch myself at him, and he catches me, holding me secure as I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss his neck. “Thank you, Ethan. It’s the best surprise ever.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose, before nipping it. “I love you too. Happy birthday, Cherry.”

  His words bring me up short. “How did you know?”

  Ethan gives me an exasperated look. “Ivy wouldn’t go to our last division championship game because it was your birthday. That was two years ago today.”

  “You remember that from two years ago?”

  “You think I’ve forgotten a single thing about you?” With a sigh, he leans his forehead against mine. “What I want to know is why you didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

  My gaze skitters away as I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m just not used to waving my own flag about stuff like that.”

  With a firm but gentle grip, he turns my face back to meet his. I find it totally hot that he can hold me up with one arm. His expression is soft. “You don’t have to wave your own flag anymore, Fi. That’s my job now. My privilege.”

  My lips wobble on a smile. “Okay.”

  He kisses me, lips to lips, then pulls back. “My birthday is June second, by the way.”

  I laugh and wrap my arms around his neck, bringing myself closer. “Duly noted. Expect furniture. Maybe a console for that monolith you call a TV.”

  Ethan gives my ass a squeeze, looking smug once again. “Sounds perfect.”

  Perfect. For the first time in my life, everything is perfect.

  * * *

  Dex

  Arizona is…fucking dry. I suck down Gatorade as I get into the elevator and push the button for my floor, my suite. Yeah, I upgraded to a suite with the hope that Fi would come with me. But she informed me last night that she was “riding the crimson wave” and there was no way she would be traveling. It took me a moment to figure out what a crimson wave was, then I promptly blocked the image from my mind. Or tried to. Some things can’t be unimagined, unfortunately.

  And yet I love that she was comfortable enough to tell me so bluntly. I love having bras hanging to dry in my laundry closet, the multiple bottles of shampoo, conditioners, and body wash—sweet Jesus, girls have a lot of fucking body washes— cluttering up my shower. Hell, I even love the boxes of tampons invading the sink cabinet.

  And I don’t give a shit if that makes me weird. Because all of it affirms that Fi is living with me. That she’s claimed my home and me.

  So when she looked at me yesterday with pained eyes, I manned up, asked for a list of what she needed, and went to the store to buy her brownies, Midol, and, yes, more tampons and pads—what the fuck “wings” are I don’t really want to know.

  I did it without one word of complaint, and then I left for my game, a man content.

  Now I’m going to sleep and looking forward to getting back home. For the first time in what feels like forever, I think of my townhouse as home, and ain’t that a beautiful thing?

  I’m smiling as I pull out my phone and check my messages while the elevator takes me up to my floor.

  CherryBomb: I ended up working on a piece today. Tired now so I’m going to sleep. Good game, baby. You were great! See you soon. XOXO

  I still can’t believe she watches my games. Fi has never hidden her dislike of football. Now she not only watches, but she sleeps in my jersey—when I don’t strip it off her.

  I let myself into my room and am greeted with light instead of darkness. Did the maids turn on the lights? For some reason, the little hairs at the back of my neck rise.

  I hear a noise, and I realize I’m not alone.

  Instantly, every muscle tenses, my senses going on high alert. Then I see the bra on the floor. Lacy and pale purple, it lays like a heap of discarded flower petals, and my heart stops. I’ve seen a bra like that before.

  Fi? Is she here? Was she trying to surprise me? I set my phone down on the table and move across the room toward the bedroom door. A tiny pair of underwear dangles from the door knob.

  I cross the small living room in two steps, a smile blooming.

  The smile dies a swift death when I reach the bedroom.

  “What the fuck?” My shout echoes through the suite.

  The naked girl in my bed winces but puts on a brave face. “Hey there. I…ah…”

  “How the fuck did you get in here?”

  I’m trying real hard not to shout again or lose my shit; I’m a big dude, and there’s a very naked chick alone with me. I’m aware of her vulnerability and her sheer stupidity, even if she isn’t. I could be into beating women for all she knows.

  And I’m also aware that she could spin this any way she wanted. Suddenly I’m afraid of her. Of what she represents.

  I back up, my shoulders hitting the wall. “You need to get out. Now.”

  The girl rises to her knees, her tits pointing straight at me. The sight does nothing but send a rush of frustrated outrage through my chest.

  “But, Dex, honey, it’s okay. I want to be here! I want help you.”

  I laugh without humor. “I don’t think you’re getting it. I don’t want you here, and the only way you can help is to get dressed and go.”

  “I’ll split the money with you,” she says, parting her thighs.

  I look over her head. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that earning money on your back will eventually eat at your soul.”

  “Are you calling me a whore?” she screeches.

  Oh, I want to laugh. I really do. Only I want to punch the wall more. I take a breath and relax my fists. “Out. Before I call the police.”

&
nbsp; I hear her huff, and she launches off the bed, gathering her clothes.

  “Are you gay? Is that it?”

  And there it is, the cheap shot. I don’t even answer. When she stomps past, I look down. Thankfully she’s dressed—if you call the band of pink spandex that barely stretches over her ass a dress. “Come anywhere near me again, and I will call the cops.”

  Her face flushes red. “I wouldn’t fuck you now if you begged me on your knees, asshole.”

  Right. That’s why she’s hovering in front of me, her eyes wild and desperate. I gesture to the door, and she snarls again before rushing off. The slam of the suite door tells me I’m alone.

  I want to sink into my bed and sleep. But I’m not touching it now. Instead, I reach for the phone and prepare to hand hotel security their ass.

  It isn’t until I’m in a new suite—comped after profuse apologies from the management—and crawling under fresh sheets, ready to drift off, that my eyes snap open with dread as I realize something. The little witch stole my phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Fiona

  Expect the unexpected has got to be the most annoying phrase ever. I mean, if you’re expecting it, how can it possibly be unexpected? And yet that stupid phrase runs like a taunt through my head when in the kitchen for my morning coffee, I open my browser—as I always do—and see my own face smiling back at me.

  It’s weird. I stand there looking at myself, the same face I see every day in the mirror, but I can’t quite accept that it’s me. Why is a picture of me front and center in my Twitter feed? And then the shape of me takes more meaning. It’s not just my face. Not by a long shot.

  Hot prickles of sheer horror explode over my face, my arms, my entire body. Bile surges up my throat as I stare at the picture—multiple images of the same picture—that’s been splashed all over social media.

  It’s me, managing to grin as my tongue reaches out to flick a familiar, pierced nipple. Jesus. It’s the picture I took in bed with Dex, me in all my naked glory draped over his chest as I playfully lick his nipple. We’d been laughing as we took the selfie. Having fun.