Page 31 of Force Play

Tonight’s a start.

She’s coming home with me, and I can give her a place to figure things out before she has to face whatever went down tonight. Like a wounded animal, Indie needs to be coaxed into trusting people and I plan on being on my best behavior; which is a side of me she hasn’t seen yet.

Silence fills the car as we wait on the opening garage door.

Beside me, my passenger is slouched against the seat, squeezing her eyes shut. I can’t help but hope she’s remembering the first time she was here. The way she softened for me. Or the hours we spent talking between the sheets. How much more we shared that night than just our bodies.

Just like that night, I hold the door for her as she slips inside. Except tonight we are going our separate ways. There’s no heated kiss against the wall, there’s no tearing at each other’s clothes in a rush of passion; but she’s here, nonetheless.

“What’s it going to be? Do you trust me enough to take the guest bedroom down here, or do you want to be downstairs?”

“Do I have to worry about you sneaking in during the night?”

“No. I wouldn’t join you in bed even if you begged tonight. You might not think much of me, but I’m not a homewrecker, and until you know for sure that things are over with Brianna, you’re off-limits.”

“I’m off-limits anyway,” she says, her voice lacking the normal venom as she rounds the corner, then turns her head the other way before finally tilting her chin up and looking beyond where I’m standing and into the open concept living room.

“Something I can help you find?” I ask, sucking on my cheek. Because despite looking worn out, there’s a glimmer of trouble behind the sadness in her eyes that tells me she’s up to no good.

“Your live, love, laugh sign . . . where’s it hiding, Martha?” She sucks on her cheek, hiding the twitch of her mouth behind the move.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have a sign.” I lean in close, lowering my voice. “It’s tattooed on my ass.”

Her composure falters, and I can practically see the wheels turning.

“Now you’re picturing me naked, aren’t you?” She gives me an eyeroll and I know she’s going to be okay. “This room has an attached bathroom with a tub.” I tip my head toward the guest room my parents typically stay in. “A nice, deep, soaking tub with lavender salts and everything.” In a small way, this is me taking care of her, but it’s innocuous enough that she might let me get away with it.

“In your dreams.” She scoffs, her soft footsteps moving towards the door.

“Every. Damn. Night.” Looking over my shoulder, I watch as her steps halt for a second before she shakes her head and seals herself behind the door.

Between the adrenaline from the game, having Indie in the stands, and now knowing she’s right downstairs, I’m too amped up to sleep. Nothing has helped. Not the push-ups I did on my bedroom floor to wear myself out. Not the hot shower afterwards to calm me down. Not even counting Sheriff Sluggers, the Bandits mascot, leaping over my bed for the last twenty minutes, has helped to dull the spike of energy thrumming through me from having her here.

If I stare at the ceiling fan any longer, I might lose my mind. Resigned to a long night I slip out of bed and head to the kitchen for a drink of water. The whirling sound of the jets coming from her bathroom reaches me as soon as my feet touch the cool wood floor at the bottom of the stairs.

Fuck. She’s in the tub. My tub. In my house. Wet, naked, and probably relaxed.

At least that means she wouldn’t find me creeping around in nothing more than my briefs sporting a now fully hard erection, because I don’t need to imagine what Indie looks like without clothes. That picture is etched in my memory, and it’s currently starring in the reel of dirty thoughts running through my brain.

Backing away from temptation, I finish the task that brought me down here and grab a cup from the kitchen. Normally I use the fancy dispenser to get crushed ice for my water, but I need the blast of freezing air to cool me off more than I need those perfect tiny pieces of ice.

Not to mention, I can’t bear the thought of her hearing the mechanical grinding from the ice machine and getting out of the tub to cover her flawless body with a towel. It might make me a masochist, but the idea of her bare and dripping under my roof is the most divine form of torture. Filling my glass, I bring it upstairs with me knowing I’m about to do something I shouldn’t.

I drain the cup in one long drink, a last ditch effort to cool the inferno bubbling under my skin. It does nothing to take the edge off. Glass forgotten on my nightstand, the hard surface of the headboard bites into my bare back, and I palm myself through the black cotton of my briefs. Even if I wanted to think of someone else, it wouldn’t work.

Trust me, I’ve tried, but she’s the only one I want. It took fighting it exactly once before I realized it was going to be a thing. Since then, I’ve only spent time with girls that are the polar opposite of Indie. A fact that absolutely makes me a jackass.

Now she’s here in my house, and I don’t even have to close my eyes to conjure what she would look like. Fucking perfection.

Beads of moisture hanging from the dark curls sticking to her tipped back face. Her pouty, cupid’s bow lips slightly parted as the hot water laps at the peaks of her dark nipples, the swells of her breasts floating near the top of the water and dotted with goosebumps.

I can picture it all, down to the sound of her breath hitching when I take her heavy breasts in my hand. Playing with them the way she loves—biting, sucking, pinching. It’s almost enough to have me coming all over my stomach in record time.

My hand disappears under my waistband and my cock jumps at the contact. Being around her again and not being able to have her is like walking a fucking tight rope—each step is more precarious than the last. It’s not until I smooth my palm down my shaft that I find my balance.

There’s no substitute for her soft hands, but I wrap my fist around the base anyway, giving it a squeeze. My own touch is nothing compared to her—how she used both hands; her thumb smearing the bead of precum over the head every so often, the tip of her tongue darting out like she needed a taste.

My muscles tense and my strokes slow, drawing each memory out until the pressure turns to blistering heat at the base of my spine.

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