Right of First Refusal (Radleigh University #2)

by Dahlia Adler

  I shudder against his mouth for what must be a century. Then he slides up the bed next to me. “Am I forgiven for the panties?”

  “What panties?” I ask sleepily.

  He laughs. “Have I lost you for the night?”

  “Please. I think you know I have way better endurance than that.” I roll over on my side and tug him to me by his open shirt, pressing my mouth to his. The taste of me is sharp on his tongue, and I feel particularly grateful he’s upped his game in the past couple of years. “I mean, unless you’re too worn out…”

  He shrugs out of his shirt and shuts me up by fusing our mouths together, sliding his hand in my hair and tugging. I shove his jeans down his hips and he pushes them the rest of the way off, then helps me out of my dress. When he sees I’m not wearing a bra underneath—small boob perks—he sucks in a breath through his teeth, and looking down at the enormous tent in his boxer briefs, I know exactly how he feels.

  He’s sitting up and I straddle his lap, fully aware I’m soaking through the cotton of his boxers. Boosted by his thighs, we’re almost the same height, and as I rub gently against his cock—just enough to keep us both on the edge but not enough to make either of us go off—I let myself appreciate how fucking beautiful the man is who’s holding me right now. Those gorgeous, warm brown eyes with their mile-long lashes; high cheekbones I could trace with my tongue; the full mouth that brings me comfort in so many different ways…

  If I open my mouth, I’m going to tell him I love him, and it’s far too soon for that. Instead I lift myself higher, arching for him to easily take a nipple into his mouth. He does, sucking so hard it feels like a lightning bolt straight to my clit, making me forget to keep my rocking gentle.

  “Oh fuck,” he groans, gently pushing me back. “You do that one more time I’m gonna come in my shorts. Gimme a sec to get a condom.”

  I drag myself off him, forcing myself still because I know if my clit brushes anything now I will come whether that gorgeous cock is inside of me or not. By the time he suits up and rejoins me on the bed, I feel like I can probably last at least thirty whole seconds. I climb back into his lap, hyperconscious of how different this is from the last time we fucked—when he took me from behind in a space that wasn’t ours, no kissing, no affection at all. I came, sure, but it wasn’t like this.

  Nothing in my life has ever been like this.

  Our lips melt together as I fit him inside me, sliding down slowly to adjust to his size. It feels so fucking good to be pressed against him, chest to chest, arms wrapped around each other, nails digging into each other’s skin as we pick up the pace, careful gentleness giving way to raw, primal need until we can barely catch our breath in each other’s. It’s impossible to tell who comes first, impossible to be aware of anything at all except that the world suddenly seems full of stars.

  I drift off to sleep in Mase’s arms sometime afterward, and am woken even before my internal clock by his impressive morning wood. I’m too sore from last night to fully go again—plus, admittedly, I’ve never been one of those people who can ignore morning breath—but I gladly take my own advice from the night before and put my mouth to good use. Much as I’m not looking forward to this day, his filthy praise definitely feels like the right start to it.

  Afterward, I realize I’ve got nothing to put back on except for my dress. You’d think I’d have learned from spending the night at Jake’s, but I’m still highly unpracticed at sleepovers. While I could generally give less than half a fuck about doing a walk of shame, I really don’t want to bump into Andi looking so glaringly post-coital.

  “You okay?” A gentle kiss lands on my shoulder, then another, and I swear if I could spend this entire day in Mase’s bed, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

  “Yeah, I just gotta get back, sadly. I’ve got practice, a study group for my Comm final, and I promised I’d meet up with Tish today so I can fill her in on…well, you. I’m just trying to figure out what to wear back to my room.”

  “Don’t you have friends in this dorm? Just borrow something.”

  Oh, duh. “I knew I liked you for more than your body,” I say, reaching back to cup his cheek. Then I climb out of bed and search for my phone to text Nora, the closest to my size, crossing my fingers that she’s awake.

  The first thing I see is a Missed Call from my mom.

  “Okay, now I really have to go,” I mutter, tapping out a quick text to Nora, Trish, and Tessa, who share a suite on the fourth floor. Luckily, Tessa’s awake, and she tells me to come by. I beg some toothpaste from Mase, change in the girls’ suite, and call my mom on the way out.

  “Hi, honey. Busy night last night? I called you twice.”

  It’s a patented Molly Holt-Johannssen opener. Whoever thinks Catholic and Jewish moms hold the monopolies on guilt has never met my Lutheran mother. “We were celebrating our first playoff win,” I explain. “There’s no cell service in the basement of the dorm I was in.”

  “Don’t you have finals now?”

  “I’m doing fine, Mom. Promise. Everything’s done but Communications, and I have a study group for it this afternoon.”

  “How’d your Econ project go?”

  “We got an A.” Jake and I may not have done everything perfectly that semester, but we sure as hell did just fine in class.

  I recognize her sigh for what she’d never admit it is—wishing I were more of a shitshow so she’d have a reason to keep stronger tabs on me. One of the reasons she and I have never really clicked is because she needs too much be needed; unlike Cammie, who was a party girl extraordinaire in high school, I haven’t come up with much for her to do. “All right, then. And you have another game tomorrow?”

  “Yup—got practice in an hour. I’m heading home now.”

  “Heading home?” She perks up, and I clap my hand to my forehead as I realize my mistake. “From where?”

  “I stayed over at the dorm the party was in last night. It’s the jock dorm—most of the lax team lives there.” All true things.

  “All right,” she says again after a few moments of silence. “Well, I’m calling because your father wants to know what you’ve decided about going to his wedding.”

  Ouch. My parents do not talk when they can help it. For my father to be reaching out to my mother…that’s pretty bad.

  “I guess his child bride still hasn’t filled him in about our conversation at her bridal shower.”

  “Do I even want to know?”

  “Probably not.” The spring sunshine is delightfully warm through the cool morning breeze, and I take a seat at one of the benches on the quad and watch the usual runners go by.

  I haven’t officially said this to anyone yet, but after yesterday’s game, the one thing I’m sure about is that for better or for worse, lacrosse is coming first in my life. It doesn’t matter if anyone else understands that, or if people think it’s crazy, or if it’s unhealthy that it’s all-consuming. The fact is that right now, in my life, it’s who I am—more than I’m my mother’s daughter and apparently more than I’m my father’s daughter. I chose it when I thought it was mutually exclusive with being Mase’s girlfriend too. “I’m not going, Mom. Don’t be mad. My team’s in the quarterfinals next week, and then it’s just the semis—right before the rehearsal dinner—and then the championships the day of the actual wedding. I can’t—”

  “Honey, you know I don’t get all this sports stuff. That’s always been between you and your father. As long as your choice is right with you, I’m not going to interfere. I don’t agree with your decision not to go, but I don’t agree with his decision to make it that day either. So, you do what’s right for you.”

  “I really do think I am,” I say quietly, my heart swelling with how grateful I am for her trusting me. “I really do.”

  “Okay, then. I hope it’s worth it.”

  Ouch. But I guess I deserve that. Hell, I hope it is too. But I have the faith it will be, and I have to, if no one else will.

  Even though I
’ve said it to my mom, there’s one more person whose blessing I feel like I need to make my decision official. “Mom, I gotta go. I’ll call you after I talk to Dad, okay?”

  “Okay. Good luck, honey.”

  She’s right that I’ll need it, but right now, it’s not my father I care about speaking to. I say goodbye, tuck my phone back into my purse, take a deep breath with my eyes on my dorm up ahead, and then I turn west.

  • • •

  I take a deep breath and ring Lizzie’s doorbell, praying I haven’t caught her and Connor mid-bang. Not that it’s a typical banging hour, but with Lizzie there isn’t really any such thing; a few times freshman year, I came back to a knee-high tied around our door knob during lunch. Thankfully, she comes to the door in sweats and a T-shirt after a few seconds, and with no sign of company.

  “Cait! Hey! Did you text, or just in the neighborhood?”

  “Neither. Sorry,” I add, because even though Lizzie and I shared a room for a year and a half and it’s hard to think of a space being hers and not mine, that’s exactly what her apartment is. Plus, she’s got that whole “serious boyfriend” thing happening now; presumably that makes drop-ins a little less welcome.

  She waves her hand and steps aside to let me in. “Please. Mi casa es su casa—you know that. Walk in whenever. Just, you know, be prepared to see the occasional bare ass if you do.”

  “I’ve been prepared for that since the very first day I made the acquaintance of Francesca Bellisario, thank you very much.”

  She grins. “Touché. Want a drink?”

  “Thanks, I’m good.” My mouth actually does feel a little dry, but I don’t want to draw out the pleasantry stuff; I’m afraid if I don’t say what I have to say, I’ll lose my nerve. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “Kind of.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, I just got off the phone with my mom, and I’ve thought a lot about this…and I’m not going to my dad’s wedding. I just can’t. I’ve worked too hard for the championships, not just this year but ever since I first picked up a crosse. I know it’s just a sport to you, and to Frankie, and to pretty much everyone on the planet, but it’s what got me through my entire adolescence. It’s what got me through the shitty years of my parents’ fighting, and then the shittiness of their divorce. It’s what got me into college after years of being afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford it. And in a couple of years I’m gonna have to say goodbye to it for good, but I’m not ready to throw it away just yet. I can’t let down my team, and I can’t kill their faith in me, captain or not. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  She shoots me a startled look. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  “Because I know it feels to you like I’m taking my dad for granted, when you lost yours. And I get that—I do. Maybe I am taking him for granted. But he’s taking me for granted too, and he’s disappearing, and he’s starting a new family that very clearly doesn’t have any room for me in it. So—”

  “Hold up. Cait.” Lizzie puts a hand on my arm. “I am on your side. I’m always on your side, okay? I just don’t want you to make any decisions you’re gonna regret later.”

  “I know, and I love you for it, but I feel firm about this one.”

  “Then I support you a thousand percent, and say fuck that stupid wedding.” She throws her arms around me, and I squeeze her back so tight I think I might bruise a few ribs. “I’m sorry if I made this about me when you really needed it not to be. I’m still…adjusting. Badly.”

  I relinquish my lobster-claw grip, but keep my hold on her at arms’ length. “Elizabeth Brandt, hush your mouth. You are doing as well as any human possibly could in your situation. Right now I’d rather streak across the lacrosse field during the championships than see my father, but I don’t know how I’d handle it if I couldn’t.”

  She just nods and hugs me again, and this time she’s the one squeezing so tight I can barely breathe. But I can, so I do—just a little exhale full of all the relief into the world.

  The blankets are scratchy, there are moths mating in the fluorescent lighting, and Tessa’s been snoring for hours, but I wouldn’t trade being in this hotel room just outside Philly with my three closest teammates for anything in the world.

  Tomorrow, we’ll be playing for the championship trophy.

  I should be following Tessa’s lead and sleeping, or Tish and Nora’s—they’ve been going through the starting lineup of our opponents, Carolina U, for hours, talking about weak spots and favored scoring sides and angles. But I can’t sit still; my mind is racing with thoughts about the game, the wedding, and how badly I wish I’d asked Mase to come. I didn’t, out of a combination of fear that him seeing me have this opportunity just might be too much, and consideration, since I know sitting in a car that long with an old knee injury is murder, but God, I could use the support. Once upon a time I would’ve been certain I’d see my dad in the stands, but that’s obviously impossible this year, and I know I’ll be on my own tomorrow.

  At least the other girls will have parents and siblings there, and Tish’s mom always brings cookies.

  My phone beeps with a text, and I grab it, eager to talk to Mase. But the message isn’t from him after all: Dude, you need to call Dad. He seriously still thinks you’re gonna show up.

  Matt, texting from San Diego, i.e. Wedding Central.

  Wha?? I told him I’m playing tomorrow. I’m IN PA.

  Yeah, I know. I think Abigail got it into his head that you’d change your mind at the last minute or something.

  Of course she did.

  Lol

  I freaking hate the idea of calling my dad, but Matt wouldn’t tell me to if he didn’t think it were absolutely necessary; he’s even less interested in inserting himself in drama than I usually am.

  Can’t you just tell him?

  Soooo not getting in the middle.

  Probably should’ve seen that coming. Fine. I take a deep breath, find my dad’s number in my cell, and hit Send.

  “Hello?”

  Abigail. Of course.

  “Hi, Abigail. It’s Cait. Is my father there?”

  “Cait!” She sounds almost…happy to hear from me. Is that possible? “Are you at the airport?”

  Oh, well, that makes more sense now. “No, I’m in Philly. My championship game is tomorrow, remember?”

  I keep my voice gentle, as if there’s a chance she actually forgot, but it doesn’t help her reaction. “You really did it,” she says venomously.

  “Got to the championships? I told you both we would.”

  “Skipped your own father’s wedding for a game,” she says in disbelief. “He said you meant it, that sports were your heart, but I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe a twenty-year-old woman would make such an immature, selfish choice.”

  Oh, that is fucking it. I step out of the room and walk down the hall so as not to wake up Tessa. “You know what, Abigail? You’re right—it is selfish. But there’s nothing inherently immature about making a selfish choice. It is hard to put what you know is right for you first, when you know people you love don’t respect your choices. It is hard to say ‘what I want is worthy.’ It is hard to say ‘I know myself and what I need, even if everyone else thinks otherwise.’ Don’t tell me this is immature when it took me months of thinking about it every damn day to make this choice.”

  I can run five miles without breaking a sweat, but that rant leaves me winded, and my breathing is like thunder in the silence that follows. I don’t know if it’s because she’s internalizing what I had to say or because she’s working on thinking of an appropriate comeback, but I don’t want to give her the chance to do the latter before I’ve said everything I need to say.

  “Your mother’s not happy you’re marrying my father, is she? A man almost twice your age.”

  “He’s not—”

  “I said ‘almost,’ and semantics aren’t the point. She’s pissed, right? Thinks you’re making
a mistake? Or at least she’s completely freaked out that you’re gonna have stepchildren your age? I could tell, at your shower.”

  Abigail sighs wearily. “What’s your point, Cait?”

  “My point is that you chose what was right for you over what she thought was right for you, and my father did the same—choosing what was right for his new family over his old one. You chose this wedding date. You put yourselves first. And that’s all I’m doing here.”

  “This is a marriage and a baby; you’re talking about a game.”

  “You’re right, Abigail. I am talking about a game. I don’t know what it’s like to have a marriage and a baby, but I know what it’s like to be part of a team with whom I share something I love. So I can’t put myself in your shoes any more than you can put yourself in mine, but I suspect this is the closest we’re gonna get. So I’m asking you to try to understand me anyway, or at least not to stop my father from doing so. Because I suspect that deep down, when you’re not talking him out of it, he does. He gets it. Just let him.”

  Another long silence follows, and then she says, “Your father’s just outside. Hold on, I’ll get him.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a concession or acknowledgement of anything, but it isn’t a fight, so I’ll take it. “Thanks, Abigail. I really hope you do have a special day tomorrow.”

  If she’s still on the line to hear me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

  A minute later, there’s a fumbling sound, and then, “Hi, Cait.”

  Cait, not Caity-Cat. Guess he’s already been filled in as to where I’m calling from. “Hi, Dad.”

  He doesn’t follow up the greeting with anything, and I don’t know how to either. Do I just wish him a good wedding? Do I say I’m sorry? Am I sorry?

  “I wish I could’ve done both,” I say finally, knowing it’s absolutely the truest thing I could say about it all.