by Lexi Ryan
For once, I don’t know why I act. I just do. I lean in, cup her face in my good hand, and sweep my lips over hers.
Chapter Four
Chris
She draws in a shocked gasp, and I pull back, ready to apologize. Lightning flashes through the windows, and for a second I get to see her face. Her eyes are closed, her head half bowed, as if she’s saying a prayer or making an important decision.
“Sorry, I—”
She reaches for me before I can finish, sliding a hand behind my neck and leading my mouth to hers again. I move slowly, and when my lips are just above hers, she whispers, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and then closes the final inch between us.
Her mouth is soft and sweet, and she tastes like strawberry daiquiris. When she opens her mouth and slips her tongue against my lips, I hear a groan I realize too late is coming from me.
Then it’s a tangle of tongues and lips, and my hands are sliding up her sides. “I didn’t expect this,” I tell her.
“I know.”
The last thing I need is Robbie telling her he suggested we hook up. She’d think I was a total asshole and came inside looking for this when I really just wanted some paper towels to stop the bleeding.
She leans back on the sofa, and following is the most natural thing in the world. As if she’s mine and we’ve done this a hundred times. I love the feel of her under me, and love it even more when she draws her knees up on either side of my waist, and more still when I kiss her neck and she rocks her hips under me and makes the most amazing sounds.
She’s wild and as unreserved as I guessed. She threads her hand in my hair and guides me to the sweet spots on her neck. She finds my good hand at her side and leads me to cup her breast. With every kiss, her moans grow more desperate, and with every touch her hand tightens in my hair.
I turn off my brain and move on instinct alone. I trail my open mouth over her collarbone and down and scrape my teeth over the swell of each breast as my thumbs find her nipples through the thin fabric of her tank top.
“Chris.” She gasps when I run my thumb over her nipple. Christ, she feels good. “This is crazy.”
She’s right. This is crazy and completely unlike anything I’ve ever done before. Part of my brain knows that. “I can stop.”
“Good,” she says. “Don’t. Not yet.”
I groan in relief. Crazy or not, I need more of her before we put an end to this. I love the sounds she makes when I touch her, love the way she rocks her body under mine.
I slide a strap from her shoulder and pull at the fabric so I can taste her, and when my mouth latches on to her breast, she arches under me. “Yes. Please.”
“You feel so good, Morgan.”
In a blinding flash, the lights click back on.
Her eyes fly open. “Stop.” She shoves at my shoulders, breathless. “Okay, we have to stop.”
I sit back, take a deep breath, and scrape a hand over my face and wait for my body to redirect some blood flow to my brain. That moved fast. “Are you okay?”
Frowning, she pulls up her shirt, covering her breast and repositioning the strap. “I’ve just had too much to drink.” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
Her words register, and I draw in a ragged breath. When I got here, I was so preoccupied by how hot she is and how much I wanted to kiss her that I didn’t think about whether or not she was sober. And when I kissed her and everything went so fast, I only thought about getting closer, touching more of her, and eliciting more of those sweet, sexy noises. I didn’t question whether or not that untouched pitcher of daiquiris might not be her first.
“Shit, Morgan. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about how much you’d been drinking. I just thought . . .”
She straightens her shoulders and pastes on a smile that doesn’t fool me for even a second. “It’s fine.”
“Don’t say that if it’s not.”
“I’m not drunk, so don’t beat yourself up. It’s just . . . this is a mistake. You go home and give your left hand a try, and we’ll pretend it never happened.”
I flinch. I’m not sure if I’m more insulted by the fact that what we did is nothing more than a mistake to her or hurt by the idea that she could forget it so easily. Never mind her suggestion that I’ll need to jack off to recover—okay, I totally will, but that’s not the point.
“I don’t need to forget this just because you wanted to stop. I’m sorry we got carried away, but . . .” I pull my phone from my jeans. “Let me have your number. I’ll text you in the morning. When you’re sober.”
God, I sound like an idiot, but I don’t want to walk away and let her go. There’s something special about her. She’s beautiful, but this is about more than green eyes and a smile that could knock me on my ass. I like her. She’s ballsy and hilarious and unapologetic. She’s so many things I’m not. She makes me want to learn the secret parts of her stories, the parts you leave out when you tell your closest friends.
She grabs my phone and programs her number, then stands and heads for the stairs. “I should get some sleep.”
“Want me to tuck you in?”
She stares at me for a beat, and I wonder what’s going on in that mind of hers. She was so open earlier, asking questions as if there wasn’t a filter between her mind and mouth. I want that back. She drops her gaze to the floor and shakes her head. “If I had you that close to my bed, I’m not sure I’d make wise choices.”
I groan at the thought of her making unwise choices. Fuck. Walking away from her tonight shouldn’t be so hard. This isn’t like me. “That’s fair.”
I grab my keys off the end table and head toward the door, but stop when I reach the stairs. She’s gripping the railing, waiting for me to go. When I step toward her, she licks her lips.
“May I kiss you goodnight?” I take another step closer, watching as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “I promise to keep my hands in my pockets.” I flinch. “Shit, now I sound like a weirdo. I don’t mean hands in my pockets in the creepy way.”
She had her lips pressed together, but they part when she bursts into laughter. “Don’t worry. I didn’t think you were going to rub one out while we were kissing.” She squeezes her eyes shut and draws in a deep breath. “But still, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I’m an idiot. “No problem. Sleep well.” I turn to the door.
“No,” she says, stopping me. “You can kiss me, but I don’t want your hands in your pockets.”
I turn back.
“I’d rather have them in my hair.”
I stalk toward her slowly, tilt her face up to mine, and slide my hands into her hair. It’s silky between my fingers and smells like lavender shampoo. Her lips part, and a fist tightens in my gut.
“You’re so gorgeous.” I skim her bottom lip with my thumb, and her eyes float closed.
“Kiss me.”
“As you wish.” I lower my head and brush my lips over hers. When I suck her bottom lip between my teeth, she makes a little sound at the back of her throat, and I open my mouth over hers.
She tugs me forward by a belt loop, and in the next breath I have her pressed against the banister and one of my hands has left her hair and is sliding under her shirt. She’s so soft and warm, and she arches into my touch like she wants to soak it up.
I break the kiss when I realize what I’m doing, and lean my forehead against hers. We’re both back to breathing hard, but this time she’s clinging to me instead of pushing me away.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I whisper into her hair.
“That’s what they all say.” She climbs up two steps and out of my arms. Her smile is a mask that gives me the distinct impression I could see her better before the lights came back on. “Goodnight.”
She turns, taking the stairs. When she disappears into the darkness above, I let myself out.
The rain has slowed, and my mind is so full of Morgan that the short drive to Edward’s goes quickly.
When I get to the guest room, I strip down to my boxer briefs and sit on the edge of the bed. What a crazy night. I left Blackhawk Valley anxious to get away from my friends for a few days—because if you have a secret relationship with a teammate’s sister, you don’t get to complain to your friends after she fucks you over. And Olivia fucked me over good when I caught her with Keegan.
“It was just a kiss, and it just happened.”
The way her hands were threaded into Keegan’s hair made it look like a hell of a lot more than “just a kiss.” Since everything went to shit last weekend, tonight was the first I’ve spent without thinking about the breakup. It’s not like I’m heartbroken. Olivia didn’t have my heart to break. But she did a fucking number on my ego.
Enter Morgan Myers.
I grab my phone. I know I told her I’d wait until tomorrow, but I can’t resist. I find the entry for Morgan and compose a text.
Me: Thanks for bandaging my hand. And for the record, I have no intention of forgetting tonight. Despite what that first love of yours made you think, a girl like you would be impossible to forget.
I throw the phone onto the bed and rub my temples. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes, and I can’t grab it fast enough.
Morgan: Who is this?
I frown. I know she didn’t have my number, but I’d think it would be obvious from my message.
Me: This is Chris. Is this Morgan?
The next text comes in seconds and makes my stomach sink.
Morgan: You have the wrong number.
Chapter Five
Grace
It’s the sunniest day in the history of sunny days, and at nine a.m. it’s already so hot that the short half-mile walk from Willow’s house to my dad’s is enough to leave me sweating. I’m hungover, and even the slightest bit of heat makes my hangovers feel exponentially worse, so that’s not doing much to help me love this town. I still don’t understand why anyone would choose to move to a climate where the average temperature is only a few degrees cooler than the fire-and-brimstone hell my mom is so fond of describing to me.
My head is pounding. I’m pretty sure there’s a toddler with drumsticks in there who’s banging on shit for his own amusement. In my stomach, there’s a war being waged between the half that I imagine as a used car salesman getting rid of inventory—Everything must go!—and the half that’s more like the plant from Little Shop of Horrors—Feed me, Seymour!
“Grace!” Becky calls from the back of the house when I walk in the front door. “Good morning, sweetheart. Do you want some coffee?”
I love this woman. “Yes, please.” I wander into the kitchen without removing my sunglasses. At least the house is cool, which should go a long way to help me keep the coffee in my stomach.
I settle onto a stool at the oversized island, and she tucks a warm cup of coffee into my hands.
“Late night at Willow’s?” she asks quietly.
“Daiquiris” is the only explanation I offer, and because Becky doesn’t have a stick up her ass like my father, she gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
“We’ve all been there.”
I grab the sugar bowl and dump a few heaping tablespoons into my coffee. I couldn’t sleep after Chris left, so I did the next most obvious thing and finished off the pitcher. I’m not typically much of a rum drinker, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me with those dreamy blue eyes. And that goodnight kiss? Hello, nurse. None of that would have driven me to drink if my overactive brain hadn’t insisted on replaying my memory from five years ago.
I take a small, experimental sip of coffee, and when my stomach doesn’t reject it, I follow up with a long gulp. I love Becky’s coffee. She gives the beans the respect they deserve and grinds fresh every morning.
“How’s Willow doing?” she asks.
“She’s good. Getting excited about her summer position.”
“I’m sure she is. I can’t even imagine a summer in London working for some Hollywood hotshots. She would have been welcome for breakfast, you know.”
“She’s got some stuff going on.” By stuff, I mean she still has Robbie in her bed. The truth is, I left a note and snuck out before she got up. I’m not ready to talk about last night, and Willow would see right through me and know something happened.
Willow didn’t go to Champagne Towers High School, so the only details she knows about that night are the ones I’ve told her. She knows about the quarterback who stopped everything before it could spiral out of control, but I’m sure she had no idea that my hero/former crush/the guy who broke my stupid fourteen-year-old heart was Robbie’s ride last night. Hell, after living here all of last summer without ever running into him, I had myself convinced that I didn’t care if I ever saw Chris Montgomery again.
Then, after only ten minutes of having those ridiculous dimples aimed in my direction, I was jumping him like the slut everyone in this town thinks I am.
I don’t even know how it happened. I was buzzed at best, so I can’t blame it on the alcohol. That level of intoxication doesn’t make me do things; it makes it easier to do what I want to do. And last night, I wanted to do Chris.
I liked the way he looked at me, the way he laughed at my crude humor, and the way he asked me questions and hung on my answers like I mattered. And maybe I felt a little vindicated that he wanted me. Perfect Chris Montgomery wanted Easy Gee-Gee.
Only he didn’t. He wanted Morgan, Willow’s sister. The power kicked back on as he said her name, and it snapped me right out of my fantasy and made me realize exactly how reckless I was being.
Bad judgment—that was what last night was. What was I trying to prove by making out with the Chris Montgomery?
The memory makes my stomach heave, and I close my eyes and exhale slowly. I’ll never see him again, so it doesn’t matter anyway.
“Only drug addicts and blind men wear sunglasses indoors,” Dad says as he walks into the kitchen.
Oh, Daddy. I’m his biggest disappointment. When Mom and Dad split up when I was ten, Dad had dreams of getting custody of me and us having this idyllic father–daughter relationship. So he fought Mom in court and got custody—though, to be fair, I don’t really think she fought back that hard. She never quite knew what to do with me. In fact, Mom and I are so different that if I hadn’t seen the pictures of her carrying me, her belly round in late pregnancy, the exhaustion on her face, I wouldn’t believe we were related at all.
Dad got custody, and Mom moved to Dallas. It turned out that Dad was still a workaholic, a police officer above all else, and he had no idea how to relate to a daughter who got boobs way too soon and who looked at boys way too often.
“Where are your manners, Grace?” he asks, scowling at my sunglasses.
“I forgot to pack them,” I mumble, not bothering to remove the offending item.
Dad is not amused. “You missed breakfast—not that I was surprised.”
“Give her a break, Eddy,” Becky says. “You were young once, too. She and Willow celebrated a little too much last night, but they were safe, and it’s not like she was hooking up with random men or something.”
Nope. Definitely not random.
Dad stares at me and frowns. I’m pretty sure he’s spent most of his life waiting for the day when I get knocked up or start turning tricks. Or both. He keeps me on a tight leash because he’s convinced that without one, I’ll self-destruct. To be fair, I haven’t given him much reason to believe otherwise.
“Dash got in yesterday,” Becky says. “He’s taking a shower but he’ll be down any minute.”
Oh, yay and hoorah. I get to meet the goody two-shoes stepbrother today. Joy. Granted, this guy is saving me from a summer in Champagne, so I should be grateful, but this hangover isn’t putting me in the mood to play nice.
“Oh! There he is!”
I follow her gaze toward the stairs, and in that moment my girlie bits do the cha-cha and my heart sends out a warning to my dancing ovaries with all the subtlety of a bat signal. He’s beautiful, his broad shoulders covered in a fitted T-shirt that hugs thick biceps and is molded along a narrow waist. I can’t exactly make out his six-pack through the shirt, but his rock-hard stomach and broad chest are as obvious beneath that shirt as my hangover would be without these sunglasses.
He walks into the kitchen and wraps Becky up in his arms. “Mornin’, Mama.”
Fucking crap on a cracker. I’m dead. Dead.
For one, this is the kind of guy who sees his mom and immediately pulls her into a hug, which—come on—is the sign he’s one of a dying breed of men, for sure. And two, I know him.
After typing a fake number into his phone last night, I believed I’d never have to see his perfect dimples or look into those dreamy blue eyes ever again.
This can’t be happening. This must be a nightmare. The guy hugging Becky is Chris Montgomery. Becky’s son is Dash Dupree, a guy I’ve never met before. Why is Becky hugging Chris Montgomery?
He squeezes her tightly. “You look gorgeous in that color, Mom.”
Becky giggles. “Save your flattery for tomorrow, Dash. I want you to meet Grace.” She takes his shoulders and turns him around to face me.
Luckily, his back is to her so she misses the way his smile falls off his face as he looks at me. “Morgan?”