When I get to the house, Blair is already there. She’s on the sofa, bare feet pulled up and crossed, she’s the picture of comfort. I could get used to coming home and finding her here. I love that she feels at ease with my friends, it’s just another way she positions herself above the rest.
Joel stands in the middle of the living room, turning with his arms held out to his sides like he’s a princess twirling in her fancy new dress. Except this Latino princess holds a basketball in one outstretched hand.
“What the hell is going on in here? A fashion show?”
He tosses the ball at my head, which I catch because I’ve got reflexes like a cat.
“Blair is helping me pick a shirt for tonight.”
Ball in hand, I take a seat next to Blair and pull her closer before delving any further into whatever messed-up, dress-up game is going on.
“Why the obsession over attire tonight?”
It isn’t that Joel doesn’t always dress nice, but he’s never asked me, or anyone else I know, if we approved of his outfit. Dudes don’t do that. He’ll be asking if his butt looks big next.
“He struck out getting a number this afternoon and is now all bent out of shape.” Nathan’s voice is filled with humor and judging by the death glare Joel shoots him, I know it’s true.
That makes me smile. “Aww, you poor, poor schmuck.”
“That isn’t what this is about. It was one girl. One girl.” He flashes his index finger, but he sounds so desperate and whiny we burst into laughter.
“Fuck you all,” he says but smiles. He runs his hands down the shirt and rolls the sleeves up on either side. “So, this one is good?”
Blair nods. “You look hot. Black is a good color for you. It gives you the whole dark and mysterious thing with your skin tone and dark hair.”
“Easy, now.” I pull her fully onto my lap.
Joel winks at her. “Muchas gracias, linda.”
“Yeah, definitely do that.” She bounces with excitement. I don’t think she knew he spoke Spanish, and she’s obviously a fan. As is the rest of the female population when he busts it out.
“Do what?”
“Talk in Spanish. Not all the time . . . but drop it in casually. Accents are sexy.”
“All right, all right.” I squeeze her waist. “I think your work here is done.”
She kisses me on the cheek as she stands. “Actually, I just stopped by to see if I could rain check on dinner. I need to finish a paper before Mason’s game.”
This girl’s dedication to schoolwork is insane. “Sure. I’ll text you before I head over.”
She winks and gives a little wave, and I watch her fine ass until the door closes behind her.
“Soo . . .” Joel’s tone reeks of a loaded statement on deck. “You and Blair . . . things getting serious?”
“What? No, it’s just . . .” I don’t know how to finish that statement.
“If you’re having sex, then it’s getting serious. You wouldn’t be mixing business with pleasure unless it’s serious.”
“I’m not mixing—you know what? I’m not even gonna go there.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You haven’t slept with her?”
“Is that really so ludicrous? I’ve only known her a few weeks.” Fine it’s bonkers that I’ve spent so much time with her and we still haven’t had sex, but I don’t want to admit that it’s a big deal.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” He scratches his chin and wears a shit-eating grin. “So, does that mean tonight is the night?”
“We’re going to a high school baseball game, not looking to do jail time for indecent exposure.”
“Don’t bullshit me. Tonight’s the night.” Joel practically sings the words as he dances around.
Nathan draws a heart with both index fingers. “She completes you.”
“Fuck off, both of you.”
“I gotta shower.” Nathan stands and hustles toward the staircase.
“Hurry up. I’m leaving in fifteen, and I need to make a stop for condoms,” Joel yells after him and then looks to me. “You good? Need me to put some in your nightstand?”
My answer is to lob the ball at his head.
“Okay, fine. I’ll lay off. You probably need to go take care of business anyway. Since she bailed on dinner, you have time to rub one out before and after your shower.”
I groan. “For the love of all that is holy.”
“What? Please tell me you aren’t planning to show up to the game without clearing your head?” His shocked expression makes his eyes go ridiculously wide, mouth gaped open. “Dude, you go in there without taking care of business, and you’re gonna embarrass yourself and the whole male population.”
I shake my head and let it hang down between my knees. Is this how a panic attack starts? I seriously need new friends—the kind who don’t interfere in my damn business.
17
Blair
“So how does it work? Do you remember everything you’ve ever heard or read?”
Wes shakes his head, eyes focused on the pitching mound where Mason warms up. “No, not everything. Some things I remember more easily than others, same as everyone else.”
“You just recited all the US and French presidents in order. That isn’t the same as everyone else,” I mock his blasé tone.
“The way I remember things is different. I see it in more detail. I can recite the presidents because I spent a year in fourth grade staring at a timeline banner the teacher posted above the white board. My memory allows me to remember it more clearly than other people, that’s all.”
“So annoying and hot at the same time,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?” He takes his eyes off the field and leans in. “Did you say I was hot again?”
“Your brain is hot. The rest of you”—I let my gaze rake over him and I purse my lips—“is okay, I guess.”
“What if I told you I can recall in vivid detail every outfit you’ve ever worn.”
I narrow my gaze. No way that’s possible. Do guys even notice clothes beyond the amount of skin they show?
He takes my silence as a challenge.
“It’s true. The day you called me a dumb jock you were wearing a yellow dress. Your hair was down, and you looked fine as fuck pacing the sidewalk and practically stomping your feet to pry information out of me.”
I cover my face. “That’s so embarrassing.”
“Wanna know what else I’ve committed to my amazingly hot memory?”
By the way he says it, I have a few guesses that make my heart lurch. “What?”
He leans in until our sides touch from shoulder to knee. He looks at my mouth and brings the pad of his thumb to the corner. “The sounds you make when I touch you. When I kiss you here, you make this adorable little hum.”
The noise sings from my throat on command.
“And when I touch you here . . .” Long fingers wrap around my thigh and move up until his palm stretches from hip to the bundle of nerves, which is throbbing at the prospect of what his magnificent mouth and hands can do.
“Wes.” His name comes out sounding more like a plea than a warning.
He grins and moves his hand back to a more appropriate spot on my knee. Damn appropriateness. “You say my name in the sexiest way.”
We’re still staring, holding each other hostage with that promise of an end to the sexual tension banging between us, when the umpire calls out, “Let’s play ball.”
We watch Mason pitch six innings before he’s pulled to rest his arm. Six excruciatingly long innings, where I spend more time tracking touches and glances than the strikes thrown from the pitching mound. I meet Maria, Mason’s mom, and we make our apologies to her and Cal as we duck out before the end of the game.
“Can I convince you to stay tonight? We have early practice tomorrow before we leave for our game up state. I won’t be back until Sunday night.”
Convince me? Is this guy serious?
“Okay.” I one wo
rd it to avoid the squeal that threatens to embarrass me.
“Can we swing by the sorority house on the way? I need to at least grab a toothbrush and a change of clothes.”
“All right, but I’m coming inside with you. I want to see your room.” He turns the car in that direction, and his excitement about our impending sleepover makes my insides tingle.
“You know you aren’t technically allowed in my room,” I say as I walked us to the side entrance, which is the closest one to my room and hopefully the easiest to sneak him in. “So, be quiet and try to blend in.” I wave a hand in front of him and then giggle because there is no way he is going to blend in.
Thankfully, the house is empty since it’s a weekend, and I shut the door, closing us into the safety of my room. I busy myself grabbing the essentials for a sleepover while Wes roams around my room taking it all in. He looks absolutely ridiculous in my and Vanessa’s ultra girly room with the low ceilings and purple walls.
“Who’s this?” He lifts a frame, my and Gabby’s faces pressed together as we smile into the camera. It was taken right after the accident, and the fresh scars on her face would make me hate the picture if it weren’t for the big smile on her lips. It was the first genuine one I remember seeing after the accident.
The pity in his voice makes me irrationally defensive, and I take the frame from him and place it back onto my desk. “My best friend Gabby.”
He looks guilty at my reaction. “The one who makes the bracelets?”
I nod. “She was in a car accident senior year. That is how she got the scars.”
“I'm sorry.”
I can hear the sincerity in his voice. “Thank you. She’s actually why I want to rule the world. It was her dream for us to be lady bosses.”
“She here at Valley?”
“Sort of. She takes online classes and lives back in our hometown.”
He places a kiss on my forehead and takes the bag I dropped onto the floor. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
“Bless is out,” he says and winks.
There are those tingles again. I secretly love that he uses our ridiculous couple name. Bless is out. Bless ready to get it on.
18
Blair
The White House is empty when we return. Wes tells me we have the place to ourselves for the night, and we settle into the theater room, legs and bodies intertwined. The television is on, but I have no idea what we’re watching. I’m lost to him. His kisses, his hands, his words.
“Why’d you start playing basketball?” I ask as his calloused palms caress my calves and move up, higher and higher but never quite reach the apex of my desire before moving back down. My hands have taken on a mind of their own, tracing the lines of his stomach and arms. If he doesn’t tear off my clothes soon, I’m going to combust. I can feel how much he wants me—it’s pressing against my stomach, but he makes no move to take off my clothes. I thought sleep over was code for sex.
“Girls, obviously.”
I swat at him. “Seriously.”
“I don’t know. I can’t really remember a time I didn’t play. My parents worked a lot, so they overcompensated by putting me in every extra-curricular activity possible from rock climbing to piano to origami . . . you name it, I tried it.”
“Origami?”
He nods, a big proud smile on his face. “Yep, but basketball was the first thing I was really good at. I guess it sounds lame, but basketball was something that got me attention. My dad was always working long hours, coming home about the time I was getting ready for bed at night, and then all of a sudden, he was around more, getting home in time to shoot hoops outside and coming to practices. He was proud of me, and I wanted to keep that feeling. I loved it, don’t get me wrong, but I loved it more because of the way people treated me. The attention didn’t last, of course, I mean not from my parents, but the way other people praised me filled that void.”
“I don’t think I was ever that good at anything,” I admit with a small laugh. “I was okay at sports, got decent grades, but it must be really incredible to have a true talent for something.”
“I have other talents.” His fingers trace up and down my sides in slow movements that leave me equal parts wanting more and wanting just this. “These origami fingers can do magical things.”
“I may have already noticed how good you are with your hands.” My voice is filled with want and desire even to my own ears.
He dips his head, his lips finding my collarbone. “It isn’t just my hands that are talented.”
I respond with something witty and sexy, I’m sure, but the words don’t register above our combined sighs.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, and I’m so keyed up I nearly groan at the hum of pleasure against my hip. “Let me just make sure it isn’t one of the guys needing a ride or something.”
I pry myself off him reluctantly, and Wes fishes out his phone. “Fucking Joel,” he mutters and stands before he adjusts himself—no shame. Wes lets out an audible sigh. “Give me five?”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just need to take care of something.”
Wes leaves me, and I sit, tapping my toes and impatiently waiting for him to return. I do a swipe under my eyes in case any eye makeup has smudged, run my fingers through my hair, check the bra and panty situation to make sure they aren’t all twisted. I’ve been wearing my best lingerie for weeks now just in case.
Minutes pass, and I listen for any indication of what he’s up to. What in the world could he possibly be doing?
The answer should be me. He should be doing me.
An idea forms, and I hesitate for half a second before bounding up the stairs to Wes’s room and grabbing my overnight bag.
There’s no sign of Wes. Maybe he went to Joel’s room for something? I quickly pull the shirt I’m wearing off and then pull on the Valley jersey. Without a mirror, I can’t properly check my reflection, but I have a feeling Wes is going to enjoy seeing me wear his name and number.
I’m contemplating removing my shorts and just making my intentions ultra-obvious, but he appears in the doorway. He’s holding his phone and tapping away like he’s sending a text. When he sees me, he stops short, fingers still over the screen. “Holy shit.”
“You like?” I turn so show off the back and, yes, my ass because I know it looks fantastic in these shorts.
“Come here.”
We meet in the middle, and I give myself over to him. His touch, his kisses, the smell of him . . . I breathe him in. Everything moves slowly, he’s taking his time as if there’s no rush when I’m so keyed up I might die if things don’t move faster. I’m forcing myself to let him take the lead, and it’s as if his restraint is something of Gods and not mere mortals like myself.
I whimper when he finally brings two rough palms up under my shirt, but just as his hands graze the bottom of my lacy bra, he pulls back and lets his hands fall to my hips.
The restraint I’ve been holding on to snaps. “You’re either some sort of saint or you just aren’t as into me as I’m into you.”
He laughs, a deep throaty sound that I feel shake his chest. “I promise you I’m no saint and I’m definitely into you.”
“Then what is it? I have my sexiest lingerie on and I’m practically throwing myself at you. Can we please get naked now?”
He groans and pulls at his hair with both hands. “Fucking Joel.”
The mention of Joel catches me by surprise. Seems like a weird time to chat about his friend. Maybe their friendship really does know no bounds.
“Did Joel do something? Say something?”
“He just gave me maybe the worst advice ever.”
I wait for him to say more, utterly confused.
“This is embarrassing, but I guess I’d rather risk humiliation then have you think I’m not into you. I’m so into you—so much so that I took fucking Joel’s advice.”
“I—”
“Joel lives by the motto that y
ou shouldn’t show up on game day without getting your head in the right place.” He says it so quick that I’m pretty sure I heard him wrong.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Why the hell are we talking about basketball right now?
“You know . . . clean the pipes, buff the wood, polish the rocket?” He uses both hands to point to his junk. “Joel jerks off before—”
“Ewww, okay. TMI. I do not need to know about Joel’s pre-game rituals.”
“No. Fuck. I’m going to kill him.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Joel told me I should jerk off before we had sex. It’s been a while, and he was worried about me making an ass of myself.” He continues muttering under his breath, but I’m doubled over in laughter.
He finally joins in, and it only eggs me on. I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face while simultaneously wondering if it is the end of romance when you find out the guy you want to have sex with is taking matters into his own hands . . . literally.
“So, just now . . . while I was downstairs?” I motion at his crotch, which sets me off again.
He scrunches his nose like he knows he’s said too much. “Fuck, this is humiliating.”
I try to rein in my laughter. He’s clearly embarrassed. “Guys really do that? You jerk off before having sex for . . . what reason exactly?”
“I know it sounds dumb as fuck now, but Joel was convincing.”
“Joel seems like the last person to take relationship advice from.”
He runs a hand through his thick hair in frustration. “I really fucking like you, Blair.”
“I like you, too, but why does that require . . .” I wave my hand in front of him. There’s no way I can bring myself to say it again.
“I panicked. Joel got in my head. I wanted tonight to be perfect. So, yeah, I listened to my douchebag roommate, but don’t think for a second that my restraint has anything to do with not wanting you. I fucking want you so much I listened to Joel.”
“That’s oddly sweet, but I think I’d prefer come in your pants to this jerked off version that has me ready to hump your pillow. I want the perfect, can’t-keep-his-hands-off-me, afraid-of-embarrassing-himself-because-he-might-explode-at-any-moment guy I’m falling for. Just you.”
The Assist (Smart Jocks #1) Page 12