Page 41 of Playmaker

Now I’ve become a sex-crazed lunatic, just like everyone else.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of spending the rest of my life with someone, but I always imagined it’d come later in life. My career has always been my first priority, and yet I haven’t been able to read one sentence of this textbook since my conversation with Cameron and my brother earlier this evening. The words blur together, seeming to become one, and the only thing on my mind is Cameron’s hand between my legs underneath the table at dinner.

Even though my heart says I should be angry at him, my brain is the more rational of the two. I have no reason to be angry at Cameron when I didn’t specify my wants and needs from the very beginning. It wasn’t ever stated that we were going to be exclusive, so he could have very well assumedno expectationsmeant we could see other people. Now that I’ve had time to think about things and calm down, I realize I could have been more specific about what this was between us. It still didn’t give him the right to push me into Mark’s arms, though.

Flinging my textbook on the floor, I fall back onto my bed and grab my phone off the nightstand. I shouldn’t, Ireallyshouldn’t, but I can’t help myself when I pull up Cameron’s Instagram. It’s a thirst trap I happily fall into a lot.

The first picture is of him on the football field with athletic shorts and no shirt on. He’s holding a football between his hands with his curls held back by a white snapback, and he’s caught off guard, laughing at something someone said, his teeth perfectly straight and white. It doesn’t help that he’s sweating, tiny beads of perspiration traveling down his abs and pooling above the band of his shorts.Game time, the caption reads.

Beneath the photo, I see at least twenty girls have commented on how good he looks or attempted to gain his attention. He’s liked some of the comments, but he hasn’t replied to any of them. His social media is mainly pictures of himself or with his teammates or Ethan. He’s never posted one of a girl, and I’m ashamed to admit I’ve stalked him enough over the years to notice if he deleted pictures or not. He hasn’t.

It makes me wonder if he kept the picture we took the night we snuck out at the beach. It was just us, and he wanted to take a picture with me, which shocked me. He was always shy and tentative about things like that, but that night we were different versions of ourselves.

I’d be an idiot to think he still has it. Not when he hasn’t posted a photo of a single girl on his social media. Then again, he probably has thousands of pictures saved in his phone from girls that are far more entertaining than us on the beach one night.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Ever since I’ve gotten home, he’s infiltrated my every thought. It’s like my brain is chemically wired to want him every second of the day. Or maybe it’s because I’ve never done these sexual things before, and now that I’ve gotten a taste of it, I want more.

Needmore.

Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with Cameron at all.

Doubtful, my brain snickers in response.

I sigh while gazing at the picture of him on the football field. His lips, which are full and wet and so talented when they’re between my legs. His grin, which could drive anyone wild—the kind that could make any girl’s panties drop at the sight of it.

I trail my fingers to the waistband of the leggings I changed into after dinner and push inside to find the sweet spot that only Cam and I have touched.

I’m already soaked from just staring at this man’s picture. All I can think of is his hands on my body and his tongue flicking against my clit.

Why did I put pressure on him?

We aren’t together.

Did I ruin things?

My clit is swollen and sensitive to the touch as it seems to remember all the different ways Cameron has made me come. His fingers, his tongue, his hand . . . my fingers are slippery as I try to replicate what he does to finish me off, but no matter what I do, it doesn’t feel like him.

I want him.

He’s right downstairs.

I can almost hear his voice in my ear. His moans, the way I made him feel, the way he came in his pants just from pleasing me.

Oh fuck it.

With a frustrated huff, I close Instagram and open the messaging app instead.

Are you still here?

I press Send, holding my breath when he replies not even seconds later.

That depends. Are you still upset with me?

Maybe. Come upstairs and find out.

I’m fidgeting on top of my comforter with impatience. I’m craving his touch. His voice. His body. And in less than a minute there are soft taps on my door.

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