by Sosie Frost
My hand tickled over her thigh without a single breath of protest from Rory. She gripped me, tight, but she didn’t move away.
She pressed against me instead.
I stroked her clit, a tiny little button that trembled because of my touch.
Amazing.
She wanted this. Wanted me. Wanted more.
A touch wasn’t enough. I circled with my finger, pressing hard against that perfect spot just to hear the tremble in her voice and savor the heat pulsing from her slit. Rory gripped me, her fingers tangling in my shirt as she struggled to remain standing.
What sort of gentleman was I?
I had a table. A desperate woman. A waiting slit.
And I needed to see her, to study and taste and delight that dangerous place of no return.
I tensed to move her, but Rory jumped as if I had clocked her instead.
She pushed me away, brushing her dress over her thighs.
I frowned. “What—”
Rory grabbed my cheeks, inadvertently slapping hard against my head. I saw stars, but, when I opened my eyes, she was there. Staring. Eyebrows arched high.
“Your pupils look good.” She spoke too loudly. “Yep. You’re gonna be fine.”
What the hell?
I blinked a split second of utter confusion, but the door banged open, and an army of eight-year-olds invaded the locker room. Lachlan bounced them around on a tour of the practice facility, exhausting the few camp counselors desperately trying to keep the kids from climbing through players’ lockers.
Rory plastered a fake smile on her face and greeted everyone.
“Hi there, kids. I’m Doctor Merriweather!”
The children screamed in unison. “Hello, Doctor Merriweather.”
“I was just…checking over a patient,” she said.
The campers didn’t care, but Elle wasn’t buying it. “Right. Just playing doctor, huh?”
I hopped off the table. “Thanks, Doc. I’m feeling a lot better.”
Rory groaned. “Why do I doubt that?”
“Second trimester?” Elle asked.
What the hell was this magical trimester? And why did it embarrass Rory so much? She ducked away from Elle and Lachlan and raced to the door.
She was embarrassed.
Terrified.
Running.
That figured.
I raced after her before Rory attempted to wall-flower herself straight into the foundation. I chased her to the hall, but she wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
“Rory,” I said. “It just got a little out of hand.”
“No…I’m pretty sure I got into your hand.”
“You’ll get no complaints from me.”
She didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t even look at me.
Christ, what had I done?
“I think you should help Lachlan out. The team’s supposed to mingle with the kids.” She stepped away. “I’ll go see if the medical team needs me.”
“Rory, wait.”
She slipped away without another word.
Great.
I couldn’t let myself get distracted like this, not when I had a hard enough time keeping my head in one piece. No reminder on my phone or set schedule would help me with Rory, and any energy I focused off the field would only hurt my chances of success.
I knew how to win a football game, but scoring with Rory? It wasn’t just a bad idea; it was the wrong game to play.
And yet, life already had handed me the ball.
I wasn’t a man who liked to lose.
10
Rory
Maybe I needed to wear two sets of panties around Jude. Obviously, wearing none was a bad idea.
I pawed through my drawers, re-organizing the clothing for the second time that night.
I wasn’t nesting. I was avoiding Jude.
Panties would be my first line of defense. I’d wear the ones that hugged a bit too tight. They were still cute, but the constriction would remind me to keep my damn legs shut. Then, I’d cover them with a pair of my rattiest, ugliest granny-panties. The pair that survived the laundry because they were good for period insurance. One look at the floral yellow monstrosity wouldn’t just frighten a would-be suitor—it’d retract his boys right on up into his gut to hide.
Still, this plan hinged on me keeping the panties on via my own ethical and moral code. That was harder than it should have been. Especially after my first real official game with the team.
Last Sunday, I’d stood on the sidelines cheering and biting my nails raw while watching as Jude, Jack, and Lachlan utterly decimated the opposing defense.
Jude hadn’t looked thirty-three years old. He’d run like a rookie, sweat dripping from his forehead, arms bulging with thick muscles. His gun-metal grey eyes studied only the end zone. That was good. He never saw me staring at him.
Maybe it was a triple panty type of day. I’d add a thong, just to stay appropriately uncomfortable.
I couldn’t afford any mistakes with him. The few moments at the charity event?
Big mistake.
No matter how much I liked it, no matter how much I had always dreamed of a moment like that, it could never be just fun and games. I had a baby on the way. And if that wasn’t complicated enough, I was living a lie and stuck in a relationship with the sexiest man I should never love.
My step-mother wasn’t answering my calls. My step-brother had threatened Jude the last time he texted. And my second trimester subbed out my morning sickness for a dose of hormones that destroyed my inhibitions.
I couldn’t hide from him forever. Fortunately, the Rivets had traveled to a hotel in the city Saturday night before the game. After the win yesterday, Jude came home and hobbled right to bed. Today wasn’t much better. He’d limped to the practice facility, watched films of the best and worse plays, and then dragged himself home to collapse on the couch.
Apparently, this was normal.
The team always looked like they were jumped in a dark alley after a game. He’d recover, he said. It didn’t take a medical professional to realize his butt was kicked.
I thought I had to worry about his head. How was the rest of him going to survive the season?
Fortunately, Tuesdays were the official day off for the entire league. Jude had all of the night and tomorrow to recuperate. That meant he’d be around the house.
And we’d have to…talk.
About what had happened. About what was going to happen.
I knew this arrangement would be messy. I had no idea how much of a disaster it could be too.
I joined him in the living room as he ate dinner—three chicken breasts in a bowl filled to the brim with frozen vegetables and brown rice.
Hell, he couldn’t even get the fork to his lips.
Jude caught my worried glance. “Don’t get worried about me. We won the game.”
“It looks like you lost.”
“That’s the price of success.”
“I’d ask for a refund.”
Phillip snorted from his bed in the corner. At least the dog was on my side.
Jude stretched his legs out on the ottoman before swearing under his breath. He grimaced as he bent his knees, and I hopped up before he did any damage.
“What can I get you?” I asked.
“Ice.” He pointed to the kitchen. “I forgot my packs.”
“I’ll find them.”
“You’re a goddamned saint, Doc.”
“I’ll add it to my bill.”
Jude smiled. God, he had such a nice smile. Something teasing and still genuine. Bright.
I was finally able to look in his eyes again, but a single word from him twisted me into a complete pretzel, every knot another bad decision I’d make around him, for him, because of him.
Now I needed the ice. I dipped into the freezer and took a breath. Time to get this under control. I couldn’t let his voice echo inside me, so deep and rumbling and shaded with promise.
But who could bla
me me? I hadn’t had any relief from the last time he touched me. Four days of lying in bed, aching, thinking about him. I remembered the moments together, but my fingers couldn’t replicate that heated brush of his hand.
Until I finally came and just let myself feel what I felt for him without shame, I’d never be able to concentrate again. I rested his ice pack on the back of my neck. Too bad I couldn’t find a tranquilizer in his damn freezer.
Something buzzed around the kitchen. I frowned and checked the cabinet.
Why Jude decided to stash his cellphone next to the plates was beyond me, but it was the same reason he sometimes left the remote in the fridge and his keys in the door. That worried me more than the pain in his knees.
An alert jingled his phone.
8:00 – Laundry
I shut it off.
Another popped up.
10:00 - Bed
Responsible. I shut it off too. Another immediately appeared.
“Wow…” I cleared it, though it had already been snoozed.
7:30 – Pay Bills (Phone/Internet)
Jude was disciplined, but I hadn’t realized quite how structured he lived. I shouldn’t have pried, but I checked the other scheduled events. Most of them related to Phillip, but the dog didn’t need any help. Lamps were broken when he was hungry, toilet paper stolen when we slept an extra ten minutes, and he now stood on the tables to demand his afternoon walk. He was hard to ignore, even for a disturbingly forgetful running back.
I retuned the phone and ice to Jude. He frowned as he scrolled through the reminders.
“You have a lot of alerts,” I said.
“It’s the easiest way to stay on top of things.”
Was it?
“I’m a procrastinator,” he said. “This way, something pops up, I do it right away. I don’t give myself the option to delay it…except this laundry. Not sure I want to move.”
“I’ll do the laundry.”
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”
Said the man practically salivating for the ice pack in my hand. I jingled it over him.
“Regular season doesn’t count,” he said.
“Right. Where do you want the ice?”
“Everywhere.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Don’t give me any ideas.”
“Why?” He met my gaze, the grey in his eyes heating to silver. “I might like the way you think.”
“Let’s hope you’re not injured there.”
“No…that’s fully operational, Doc.”
I knew better than to tease. I did it anyway. “Even when the rest of you is one big bruise?”
“That wouldn’t stop a man.” His voice traced with the hint of a growl. “Wouldn’t stop me.”
“But your knees, arms, back, shoulders, legs…everything hurts.”
“You learn to live with it. Besides, these injuries give me reason to be…creative.”
“Creative.”
“Don’t believe me?”
“Oh, I believe you. Just wondering what a man who can’t move could do for a lady.”
I wondered a little too hard.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “And impressed.”
“You must be a man of many talents, Jude Owens.”
“There’s so much you don’t know about me, Rory Merriweather.”
That I believed. I hesitated, but Jude patted the couch.
“You gonna stay?” he asked. “I could use the company.”
Awkward conversations like these needed to come with an instruction manual.
So You’ve Been Felt Up By Your Best Guy Friend: A Guide To Handle Life’s Sticky Situations. Or 101 Home Ingredient Recipes To Get The Stains Out Of Your Sofa.
It killed me that the thousands of dollars I’d spent on those anatomy, physiology, chemistry, and biology books never included instructions on how to deal with a surge of hormones.
Whoremones.
Hopefully Jude would understand. The pregnancy made me a little crazy, and I could pin all of my feelings on the baby. Of course, that meant I’d be birthing a scapegoat and not a child, but I’d have many years and lots of candy to make-up for that.
“Um…” So far, so awkward. “I think we should talk.”
Jude rested the other icepack on his shoulder and gave a pleased murmur. “I agree.”
I launched right into it, speaking a little too fast. “Pregnancy is one weird thought, feeling, behavior, and…fluid after another. I know I’ve been acting a crazier than usual lately. A little more forward.”
“Flirty.”
“Yeah, that.” I sighed. “Well, it’s just…the other day at the charity event? Sometimes, when I’m with you, it’s like there’s an itch I can’t scratch.”
“Can’t reach it?”
I cleared my throat. “No, it’s embarrassing.”
“I share a locker room with fifty bare-ass men. It’s nothing I’ve never seen before.”
“No, Jude,” I sighed. He was impossible. “It’s more intimate than that.”
“Want me to leave the room?”
“It’s not a literal itch, Jude!”
He grinned. I smacked his shoulder, and he gasped as I accidentally struck a bruise. Served him right. I wasn’t apologizing.
“You ass.” I poked the bruise again. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He grimaced, reaching under the couch cushion to reveal his very own copy of my pregnancy book, dog-eared and marked with a pen.
“Let’s just say…I’ve been doing my homework.” He pointed the book at me. “And for someone with my attention span, that’s quite the accomplishment.”
“So…you know what I’ve been feeling?”
He didn’t need to gloat. He snapped the book shut and crossed his arms behind his head. Proud “Yep. It’s perfectly natural, Doc.”
“And you’re the expert now?”
“Your baby is about the size of a turnip. You’re beginning to show. You might have another increase in cup size. Your energy is boosted. You have significant blood flow…” He pointed with a smirk. “Down there. And your baby the size of a turnip.”
“You already said that.”
He played it off. “I thought it was funny.”
I took the book from him and smacked his leg. “Well, stop laughing.”
“Look, if you’re in the mood—”
“I am not in the mood.” I stood. “No more baby books for you.”
“We’re grown adults, Rory.”
“And that is exactly why I’m not discussing this with you.”
Jude shrugged. “What happened in the locker room—”
“Was hormones. That’s all.” Even I didn’t believe the lie. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. It’s just…been a while since I’ve…given an exam like that.”
“For me too.”
“You? Really?”
“When would I have dated?” He shrugged. “I wasn’t picking anyone up at physical therapy, literally and figuratively. Then I started training for the season again. There’s not time for romance when you’re working out all morning and afternoon and studying films in the evening.”
“I guess not.”
“To be honest…it’s hard to concentrate on any one thing for an extended period anyway. If I had seen a pretty girl, my career would have been over before another hit.”
I settled back on the couch. “So…that’s all it was then. We both got carried away.”
“Not that it wasn’t good.”
“It was…very good. You’re very…skilled.”
“I told you.”
“No, I mean.” Oh, why was I even saying it? “I bet you’d be better than my previous experiences.”
Jude didn’t suffer any excesses of pride, but this made him smile. “I’ll take that wager.”
“Not that there are many to compare to. They’re hardly worth remembering.”
“Someone had to put the D in the MD.”
“How so?”
“He changed his specialty to gynecology.”
Jude laughed. “You should be flattered. You’re a muse!”
Not the distinction I wanted. “At least he finally got a road map of the area.”
Jude grinned. “Without bragging too much…”
“What man is ever humble about his sex life?”
“My women are always left satisfied.” His eyebrow cocked. “If I can get them to leave.”
“Oh, the life of a chronic bachelor.”
“You had bad dates. I’ve have crazy stalkers.”
I settled into the couch, curling my legs under me. “Like what? What’s your worst experience?”
Jude puffed a deep breath. “My worst? Probably a blonde from three years ago. We had finished fooling around, and she said she wanted my autograph.”
“A little star-struck?”
“She asked to get it tattooed on her.”
“Oh.”
“On her right breast.”
I was afraid to ask. “Why the right?”
“Because she was saving the left for Jack Carson.” Jude laughed. “Poor thing has bare tits to this day.” He winked. “What about you? Worst experience ever?”
I edged a little closer. “If we’re being completely honest—”
“You can always be honest with me.”
My heart fluttered. “Then my worst experience was probably…” I pointed to my belly. “Genie is about the only good thing that came from it.”
“Really?”
“Well, I didn’t come from it.”
Jude groaned. “That’s terrible.”
“Coincidentally, that’s what I thought the whole time.”
He tossed aside his ice packs. “You’re still not going to tell me who the father is?”
“It really doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does.”
He was right, but I wouldn’t admit it. “Suffice to say, he was a mistake. I’d hoped he had a good grasp of anatomy. Kinda ironic, actually. And I thought I’d be able to tell which guys were just in it to score, but after all those years at college and med school…” I looked away. “Well, I was naïve. He fed me a couple lines about me being beautiful and smart and talented and…I liked the compliments, I guess.”