The Love Series Complete Box Set

by Melissa Collins

  “Hi,” I greet, taking the full view of him in as he stands before me. His eyes scan over me from head to toe, and I wonder if he is thinking about me the way I just thought about him. When he croaks, “Hey,” I know that he is. His voice exudes a calm sexiness, fogging my brain for a second.

  “You ready?” I wink and he wordlessly nods as we walk back to my car.

  The five-minute drive is filled with casual pleasantries—how is work going? What have you been up to? It’s relaxed and easy, a mood which I’ve come to expect when I’m around Conner.

  The gravel of the parking lot crunches under my tires and a cloud of dust trails behind us as we park at the local little league field. Conner shoots me a wry look from the passenger’s seat. “Baseball is more of a team sport. Not really sure what we can do with just the two of us.”

  Leaning over, I unclasp my seatbelt. Pitching my voice low, I say, “Oh, there’s plenty just the two of us can do, but not today. We still have another date left. Don’t you remember?” I add the last part facetiously, reminding him that this was his plan in the first place.

  When we both get out of the car, I fold my arms together, and lean on the doorframe. Looking at Conner over the hood, I try as best as I can to explain our date. “You said you wanted to know me, to do something that was more than just a meal.” As if on cue, the bus from Hamilton Home for Boys—a local group home for orphaned boys—pulls into the parking lot. “This is how I spend my free time.” I swipe my hand to the side, just as the bus pulls to a complete stop.

  Like clowns out of a small car, the fifteen twelve-year-old boys who make up the Elmira Tigers file out of the bus. Excitement rushes off them in waves as their voices smash together in a loud cacophony.

  “Coach Hopkins! Coach Hopkins!” They jump and clamor around me.

  “Hey, guys.” Immediately, they fall in line, waiting for instructions. “Before we get started today, I want you to meet my friend Coach Michelson.” A twinge of quiet nervousness descends on us. “If it’s okay with you, he’d like to help out today.” As soon as they realize I’m not being replaced, they loosen up and greet Conner with open arms.

  Kieran, a kid who I’d consider a natural-born leader, calls out above the group. “Hey Coach, can I pitch today? Last week you said you’d show me how to throw a slider.” His big, blue eyes are begging me with more enthusiasm than usual.

  “You got it, Kieran.” A proud look washes over his face as I pat my hand on his shoulder. “Kieran and Brett, you two lead warm-ups today. Three laps, short toss and then long toss. After that, we’ll do some drills and then batting.”

  “Yes, Coach,” they all call out at the same time. Eager to please and thrilled to be at practice, the boys race out to the field as Conner and I get the rest of the equipment from the trunk.

  As I sling a bag over my shoulder and Conner tucks a few bases under his arm, I worry that maybe this isn’t what he had in mind. “I hope this is okay?” The trunk slamming closed is the only sound for second.

  “It’s more than okay.” A proud smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. Warmth blooms in my chest as his mouth pulls into an appreciative smile—not just because I’ve chosen to include him in this part of my life, but that it even exists at all.

  The two-hour practice passes by quickly. Kieran almost nails me in the head during pitching practice because I was too busy staring at Conner. The way the muscles of his strong arms bunched and pulled as he easily hit fly balls into the outfield served as a somewhat mild distraction. At one point, I almost choked on my own tongue as I watched the lean, cut muscles of his calves shift under his weight. Kieran had to repeat his question because I was so busy thinking about those legs wrapped around my waist.

  We finish practice with some sprints. “Wanna race, Coach Michelson?” The boys have become more and more comfortable with Conner over the course of the morning and they think nothing of his size as they throw down their challenge.

  Life is simple when you’re twelve. You’re invincible and pitting yourself against an athlete like Conner poses no trouble whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder if life will be that simple ever again.

  After the last sprint, the boys fall into a heap on the ground, wheezing and catching their breath. “Might want to think twice before you challenge me next time,” Conner brags, laughing as he tosses them each a water bottle. They exchange a few more good-natured ribs before the bus pulls back in to pick the boys up.

  We grab all of our gear and walk the boys back. Before Brett gets on the bus, he turns back to Conner. “You’re gonna be back next week, right, Coach Michelson?” The two developed a bond quickly, spending most of the practice together.

  Conner quickly glances over at me, silently checking that it’s okay to say yes. I nod and he turns back to Brett who’s watched the brief exchange, hoping for Conner’s return.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Brett.” Brett launches himself onto the bus, excitedly calling out that Conner will be back next week. From the small windows, the boys wave back at us as they pull away, their voices fading as the bus drifts further and further away.

  We toss our stuff in the trunk and slide back onto our seats. “So how about lunch?” Despite his “no meal” requirement, I ask anyway.

  “Yeah, I’m starved.” We pull out of the lot, the cloud of dust returning as we drive away. We decide on a diner since neither one of us are really dressed for anything that’s more than casual. After the waitress seats us and takes our orders, Conner asks, “So where are their parents?”

  I shrug and roll the straw wrapper into a ball. “Don’t know. Some of them are dead, some in jail, some never had any—not that they remember anyway.”

  “How’d you get involved?” Genuine interest accentuates his question.

  “We did a few seminars there for work. After our contract was up, the boys didn’t want our time to end and neither did I. I had really grown to like them, so when they told me about wanting to join the local little league, I knew I had to help them. I pulled a few strings with the league and covered in costs what the home couldn’t. When they asked me to be their coach, there was no way I could say no.”

  “That’s really amazing of you, Dylan.”

  I roll one shoulder, deflecting his compliment. “So,” I venture nervously, “was that what you had in mind?”

  “Nope.” Curtly, he dismisses me. He laughs before adding, “It was way more than I expected.”

  I reach across the small fifties-inspired laminate tabletop, and lightly graze my fingers over the back of his hand. “I’m full of surprises; I promise.” His eyes widen at my suggestive comment and I see his throat work as he swallows; his Adam’s apple bobbing is sexy-as-fuck.

  The waitress returns with our meals, not affording him anytime for a lusty comeback. Over a few plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, we learn about each other’s favorite movies, books, hobbies, and interests.

  “Wait a minute, how have you never seen Field of Dreams?” Incredulity flows out of my mouth at Conner’s admission. “Every American boy has seen that movie,” I mumble around a mouth full of toast.

  “Wasn’t much into baseball growing up, sorry.” His tongue licks along the seam of his lips, catching a drop of coffee before it drips to his chin. “I started wrestling in middle school, and didn’t stop until I had to.”

  “Baseball was in my blood.”

  “Was?” His confusion is clear. “Don’t you mean is? I saw you out there today.”

  Thoughts of Shane haunt my vision. The more time I spend with Conner, the more I realize I’ll end up telling him about Shane, and how his death still affects me, but now is not the time. Deflecting for now, I avoid answering his question and pose one of my own. “What did you want to be as a kid, like when you grew up?”

  A loud, full-bellied laugh bursts out of my mouth when he responds, “Superman.”

  “Really?” I spit out through my laughter.

  “Yes, really.” He crosses his arms
in front of him, pushing his cleared plate to the side. “I always wanted to be the strongest, fastest, most unbeatable man out there. Worked my ass off to get there, too.” A sad tone begins to filter through his words. “I was so close, so fucking close and it was all taken from me.” Though he tries to keep it at bay, his anger hovers at the surface.

  Channeling my inner Dr. Baker, I ask, “What do you want to be now?”

  Anger recedes and is replaced by a flash of light-hearted goodness. “Now? Now, I just want to be happy.” The sudden seriousness of the conversation would have normally turned me off, made me bite my tongue, but not now. So when Conner asks, “What about you?” I grin back at him, more than ready to answer.

  “Happy, too.”

  “Maybe we can help each other out then.” His face brightens, as does mine, I’m sure.

  We exchange a hopeful look across the table as the waitress approaches with our check. He argues about paying, again, but since this is my date, I insist and he defers.

  The minutes of our time together tick away as my car approaches his apartment building. I walk him to the door, half-hoping he’ll invite me in, but when he stops in the foyer, turning on his heel, I know extending our time together isn’t his intention.

  He eyes the stairs. “Look, I’d invite you up, but Rachel had a late night last night. She gets these really bad migraines.”

  A bubble of disbelief flies out of my mouth. “You don’t need to make excuses.” Raking a hand through my hair calms some of the nerves I’m feeling. Angling my head back toward the door, I explain, “It’s okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Dylan,” he calls me back, “I’m not lying.” He walks over, stopping only inches away from me, the heat of his body filling the limited space between us. A work-roughened hand goes to my neck. A calloused thumb traces the neckline of my t-shirt. Conner’s scent—woodsy and fresh from our time outside—curls around me, melting me almost instantly.

  His eyes probe mine, begging me to believe him. And I do. My mouth just doesn’t want to work to say that I do. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the rest of my day with you, but I need to check on Rachel.” A warm breath bathes over my cheek before he presses his lips there. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks before moving his lips to the corner of mine.

  Words are impossible. My mouth is focusing on one task right now, and it’s not speaking. I shake my head, silently saying “nothing” and he moves to the other side of my mouth, pressing his lips to the opposite corner. “Good, then,” he smiles smugly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Not so patiently, I wait for him to attack my lips, to plunge his tongue into my mouth, to pull my body into his. But he doesn’t. The absence of his warmth is noticeable as he takes a step back. Holding up two fingers, he chuckles, “That was only two.” He wiggles them back and forth, mocking my crazed lust and me.

  A deep huff of frustration flies from my un-kissed lips as I scrub a hand over my face. “Oh, it’s on,” I joke. “You’re so gonna get it now.”

  He pulls a face at me, one that is at least partially filled with the same desire I know is in mine. “I hope so.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  June 7, 2015

  Making sure to keep my voice low, I greet Rachel with my standard, “Morning, sunshine” as she stumbles out of her bedroom. The curtains are all drawn, keeping out as much of the light as possible. “Medicine help any?”

  She holds up two fingers, meaning no. “Wow, must have been a bad one if you don’t even want to talk.” One finger flies up, indicating an adamant yes. Lamely, we worked out this nearly uncrackable code for when her headaches are really bad. “Coffee?” One finger.

  I slide her a mug, and slowly she lifts the rim to her face, inhaling the ribbons of steam. After a few sips, she’s able to open her eyes, blinking me into view. “We really need to get you to a new doctor.” Carefully, she nods in agreement.

  Still not capable of speech just yet, I make her the usual day-after-a-migraine breakfast. The only noise that accompanies our meal is the birds chirping outside the window. Kicking back in my seat, I stretch out my legs and fold my arms behind my head. “Date went well?” Her quiet-as-a-mouse voice breaks the silence.

  “Yeah.” I clear the table, careful not to make too much noise putting the dishes in the sink.

  “So, how come you were home so early? I mean if it went as well as that shit-eating grin on your face suggests, it doesn’t make much sense that you were home before noon.” She shoots me an accusatory, but playful look. “And,” she drags out the word as she leans against the counter, “if it went so well, how come you were home alone all night?”

  “I see the coffee is working,” I joke, handing her a dishtowel to dry the plates I’ve just washed. She holds up a finger, snagging the towel from my hand.

  “Spill it.” Her elbow digs into my side, and she smiles playfully.

  “To answer your questions, smart-ass, I was home early because I knew you had a migraine, so I was worried.” Admiration crinkles her brows, and lifts her lips in a soft, thankful smile. “And,” I hand her a coffee mug, “I stayed home last night because you spent all afternoon throwing up because of your headache and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” I pop a quick kiss to her forehead, and she leans against my side, hugging me as tightly as her sore head will allow her to.

  “I love you, Con.” She gives me one more squeeze, looking up at me from my side. “I hate that you have to take care of me.”

  “Want. I want to take care of you.”

  “So, are you going to see him again?” Her eyes light up and I can tell she wants to bounce with excitement, and clap her hands, but her migraine keeps her actions muted. “Oh, can you bring him here?”

  Shaking my head, I pull the towel from her hands and toss it at her face. “Yes, I will see him again, and he is not a show and tell project.” Rachel sticks her tongue out, wiggling it back and forth a few times for added emphasis.

  Before walking away from her to get ready to work out, I add, “I’m going there tonight, actually.”

  “Oh,” she elongates the word, not unlike some teenage girl would. “What do you guys have planned?”

  “Not much,” I quip. “He doesn’t even know about it.”

  Later that evening, with the takeout and a movie in hand, I press the buzzer for Dylan’s condo, nervous anticipation thrumming in my veins. Hearing the muffled sound of his bare feet approach the door only amps up my pulse. Shadows dance in the thin strip of light filtering from under the door as he looks through the peephole. Cursing the lack of my x-ray vision, I wish I could see the look of shock on his face when he registers it’s me on the other side.

  “Am I missing something?” Disbelief affects the tone of his voice, making his words sound rushed, breathless almost. I almost don’t hear his question. The sight of him in low-slung sweatpants and a beat-up old t-shirt freezes all of my senses.

  “Uh, no,” I stammer, holding up the food. Regaining my composure, and willing down the erection jutting against the fly of my jeans, I clear my throat. “Date three. It’s lame, but how does dinner and a movie sound?”

  Making slits of his eyes, the bastard actually pretends to be considering my offer. Not one to miss the chance for a good tease myself, I turn to walk away. “No worries, we can just . . .” His strong fingers wrapping around my forearm stop me dead in my tracks.

  “You win,” he concedes, stepping to the side of the door, allowing me just enough room to walk past him. I drop the food on the table and just as I turn to show him the movie I picked out, his body crashes into mine.

  His lips, hot and demanding, part mine. His tongue plunges deep into the recesses of my mouth, licking, tasting, devouring, every inch it can. Unable to hold back any longer, my hands dive into his too-long hair, tugging hard on the ends. A grumble of appreciation vibrates in his chest as I pull his head to the side, exposing the tan skin of his neck.

  “I thought you sa
id after three dates,” he utters, breathlessly. My lips dance across his skin, stopping only to nibble on his ear lobe before pulling it into my mouth. The tip of my tongue traces along the outer shell of his ear as his body melts into mine.

  “Semantics,” I whisper, reveling in the feel of him shuddering against me. I pull back from him, holding his face in my hands. The scruff of his light beard feels soft and prickly at the same time, the perfect mixture of textures.

  Dylan’s hands reach for my ass, pulling me back into his body. “It’s about fucking time” is all he can manage before his lips crush mine. Our kiss is in perfect timing with the hard ridge of his cock rubbing against mine.

  Clumsily, we stumble down the hallway, not moving our lips or hands from each other for a second. A picture crashes to the floor, but neither of us pay it any attention. The moment we’re over the threshold of his room, our shirts are off. Four hands roam all over miles of skin, raising goose bumps to the surface. Dylan lowers his mouth to my collarbone and further still across my chest. He flicks one nipple-ring with his tongue as he pinches the other and my cock grows an inch. In between moving his mouth to the other one, he mutters against my skin, “I like these.” His pale blue eyes look almost black, his pupils wide pools of bottomless desire.

  When his teeth graze over my nipple, sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body, I lose all sense of my control. We twist in a heap of limbs, falling to the bed. With the palm of my hand, I push him down onto a pillow and hook my thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. “I need to finish what I started last week.” Dylan raises his hips, giving me all the permission and assistance I need.

  His cock springs free—thick and heavy, pulsing with a life of its own. Like some kind of magnetic force is acting between us, my hand is drawn to him. It needs to touch him, to learn every ridge and vein, to commit the feel of him to memory. As I stroke him, from root to tip, stopping to rub small circles on the sensitive underside of his engorged head with my thumb, I lean on my elbow, attacking his neck with my mouth. His jaw is clenched, straining under the pressure of his need. Nearing violence, his hips grind into my hand, pushing his cock against my palm on a loud groan. “Stop the teasing.” His words are breathless puffs, exhaled to the rhythm of him fucking my hand.