Page 8 of Perfect Playbook

“You think you can boss me around after two months of kissing me?” I keep my gaze fixed on the poster and my red letter A. I might manage to keep steady but I have to work hard to hold back the pleasure his invitation gives me.

I care about Logan, so I’d love to go to a game and actually watch him do his thing live, in the flesh. I’d love to scream my head off when he scores instead of holdingit in with balled fists so people don’t think I’m being murdered in my dorm room while watching him on TV or online. I should support him as a friend, anyway, I shouldn’t care what other people think, but I just don’t want to be labeled as one of those girls.

The tip of Logan’s tongue rests on his lip, and he’s deep in concentration, as if he’s painting a masterpiece for the Louvre. His features stir that warm space between my legs that never cools when I’m around him. The heat between us when we actually do touch makes me think about my virginity all the time. It’s never been such a big thing until now.

I stare at his profile out of the corner of my eye, and that strong jaw of his clenches with focus, his hand grips the marker firmly, and he strokes the paper with its tip so damn smoothly.If I give it to anyone…

His gaze flicks up, and I fix mine back on the paper, but I feel his dirty-boy smile throbbing in the space between us and I have a feeling I was caught red-handed admiring him.

He shuffles over to me on his elbows until he’s less than an inch from me. Brown eyes sink into me. A subtle wave of dark hair falls over his forehead, and the shape of his lips is too much sometimes. I can’t even look at the man without bursting into flames. He’s so damn beautiful.

“You asked if I’m telling you what to do?” He cocks an eyebrow. “I guess the answer is yes.” He presses his lips into mine. They’re warm and soft and caring.

It’s like I’ve been waiting all my life for that kiss, and despite my mind constantly telling me to slow down, my body rages forward. I part my lips to give him access, and he sinks his tongue inside my mouth. The next thing I know, he’s lowering me to the floor, or maybe I pulled him ontop of me. It’s hard to tell who’s initiating when it comes to us because it’s all so natural, so organic.

He writhes on top of me, rubbing himself on my thigh, and I raise my hips up into him in sync, grinding as hard as I can. My jeans are too damn thick to give the relief I need, but I know I’m wet enough to soak right through them. My nipples are diamond-hard when he laces his hands through my hair, plunging his tongue in further, lapping me up like a hungry man.

I want him inside me, and not just in my mouth.

But just as he has every other time, somehow, just as I’m about to shove my hand down his pants, he eases back and slows us down, prying himself off with a devilish laugh that somehow says,not yet. It’s good he has self-control. This whole thing between us is confusing as hell; crossing that line isn’t wise until we figure this out. Then again, does anybody really know what they’re doing that first time? Surely, it always happens something like this? People take it a little further each time until the wildfire gets out of control?

He snatches the marker back in his hand and taps it against his palm, staring at me cool as ever. “You coming to the game is a fair exchange,pastelito.”

I could melt at the sound of his term of endearment, and in Spanish, no less.Little cake. The choice couldn’t make me feel more special.

I laugh. “Oh, you speak Spanish now?”

“I got an app on my cell. It’s pretty good actually. But don’t deflect,bonita.” He quirks that playful eyebrow of his. “I’m going to the equal pay rally, you come to the game.” He taps my nose.

He always says how cute my nose is. He likes my nose.Mynose. I like his, too. I worship every inch of the way he looks.

This is the third time he’s asked, and we’re friends. At some point, I need to drop the ego. He’s dropped his to come with me.

I pretend to be aloof. “Fine. I’ll come.” Really, I can’t wait to see him play in person.

“Good.” He pops off the floor and rushes to his backpack. “Because I bought you a jersey.”

My heart flutters. “You bought me a jersey?”

He pulls it out. It’s not just any jersey. He stretches out the fabric to show me the back.

Hunter. Number 9.

His strong frame saunters over to me and puts the fabric flush over my body, smoothing his hand along the shiny polyester, and one of my pebbled nipples sends a flood of wanting to my core. His hands wrap around my hips and pull them in close. The top falls and crumples, held up by our kissed hips.

“You’ll look so good in this.” His voice is gravel.

I can’t wear this. “You should have saved your money. I can’t wear the shirt, Logan.”

“Wear the jersey, Shay.” Something in his gaze tells me he’s not taking no for an answer. “I’ll go insane if you wear anything else.”

I walk up what feels like hundreds of concrete steps to get to the top of the stands. Just because Logan is on the team doesn’t mean he has endless access to free tickets. It means alot to me that he bought one for me. Apparently, I’m sitting with the right winger’s girlfriend who has two season tickets, and Logan scored her second. I don’t know her but as I ascend the stands, a girl with long red hair and a Golden Sierra Wolverines jersey is standing waving at me.

It must be Kelly.

“Shay! Up here!”

She’s so very much my opposite and waves her arm wildly in the air, long red curls fling from side to side like she’s in a shampoo commercial.

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