Page 19 of Play Maker

Chapter4

Aftercare

Lo

One end of the little gold barbell floats like a bobber on a pond, except I’m not fishing, and it’s not water that it is floating in.

It’s him.

Specifically, his cum filling my bellybutton, coating my stomach, sinking into the dips and lines of me.

A deep, rough chuckle forces its way out of him, yanking my attention back.

He’s already standing, tugging his jeans up over his hips, buttons slipping through denim like this is nothing to him.Not even enough to take his pants fully off.

I blink, slow and heavy, my head still spinning, my brain foggy, my insides wrecked. Battered. Hollowed out in a way I didn’t expect. I have overthought this moment a million times and have told myself not to romanticize it, to be done with it, yet still … totally not what I expected.

“That little thing is drowning in me,” he says, almost amused.

“Yeah,” I murmur, voice raspy. I pull my knees up, curling into myself, then slide stiffly off the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet as I hurry to the bathroom to clean up.

I decide a quick shower is in order.

When I come out, he’s standing at my window, looking out toward Legacy Field.

“Good view of the stadium across the valley.”

“Close enough to see but not feel consumed by.”

He turns but doesn’t look at me and runs his hand through his hair, his biceps—hell, his whole arms are bulges, veins … Why the hell are veins hot?

“You have jumper cables?”

“There’s some down in the maintenance barn. I could get a shovel and?—”

“I’ll crash on the couch,” he says, jerking his chin toward the stairs.

The words slice sharper than they should.

Heat flashes under my skin—humiliation, regret, frustration. I don’t even know anymore.

“You’ll sleep in the bed,” I snap, my voice sharper than the wind outside. “Jesus, Kolby, I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch just because you’re being a pussy and can’t look at me. Get the hell over yourself, because you keep acting like a giant bitch baby, the whole family will be wondering what happened, and it’s none of their damn business.”

His jaw flexes like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t.

Without another word, he strips down to his boxers and drops onto the bed, stiff and resentful as hell.

I crawl in on the other side, wrapping myself in my blanket like it’s armor.

We don’t touch. Hell, we barely breathe.

* * *

Sometime during the night, I must drift because when I blink awake, it’s not so dark out, and I’m wrapped around him. Arms slung over his chest, my leg tangled over his.

His scowl is deep, even in sleep, like even resting he’s pissed at the world.

I untangle myself in a panic just as I hear the heavy tread of boots on the stairs.

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