Page 46 of Pitcher

Her breathy voice interrupts my internal struggle.

“What now?”

Ugh! What now? Now, I want you to sit on my fucking face until you come down my fucking cheek.

With my palm, I add pressure to her hand, forcing it deeper inside her. “Add another finger,” I say when she gasps from the intrusion.

My hand twitches as it’s everything I can do to keep it from diving inside her panties.

“Spread them apart, stretch yourself…”

She does as I ask, her stomach sinking in and out with her heavy breaths. I have to end this before I come in my fucking pants. Pushing her hand down and out of my way, I tell her to keep fingering herself, and then I make the most fatal mistake of my life and put the pad of my finger to her clit and rub until she calls out my name.

If I buy chocolate and dinner it will be like PMS week. Anniston won’t think it’s a big deal, right? Or even if we went out for Mexican food later… Neither of these ideas screamI love you, right? We’re friends and roommates. It would be awkward if we didn’t do something for her birthday.

She’s single.

I’m single.

We have no prior commitments for tonight.

Granted, I could go out and get laid for my time and dinner, but I’m not in the mood. I’d rather swing by the grocery store, grab a pint of ice cream and some tacos from the food truck across from the campus, and watch game footage with Ans.

That’s what friends do.

Chill.

We would be chilling together on her birthday. Together. But not together.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why do I give a shit? I’m gonna stop for food. She can eat or not. And if she wants some of my ice cream, I might share it with her.

After the night that will forever go down as one of the best nights of my life, Anniston and I have been different toward each other. Not necessarily awkward, more like hesitant. Each joke is weighed in our heads before we say it, which is never what we’ve done before. Both of us have zero verbal filters, so actually thinking before we speak to each other has made it a little quiet around here, to say the least.

Passing each other in the hall in a towel is a whole different kind of issue.

My dick has laid claim to that body, and it’s all I can do to prevent him from convincing me to grab that clingy-ass towel and toss it out the window where it can never cover her body again. Not to mention the lack of restraint on her part. My contact list is now down to fifty-five names. All of them are guys, except for my mom and our dry cleaner. I’ve even found two pairs of her underwear in my gym bag. Anniston McCallister is staking her claim.

Things are definitely complicated.

The problem is, she’s still not willing to go to Washington, and I’m still not ready to settle down. We’re a fucking disaster.

After I spend nearly a half hour debating on what to do for Anniston’s birthday, I step out of the car and drag my tired ass into the locker room. Despite tracking Anniston’s phone—it’s for her own protection, not because I’ve become obsessed—and seeing she’s still at the library studying, I have no motivation to practice. The only practicing I want to do is with her. Practicing with the team is a formality anyway. I don’t learn anything from it other than how to be a team player. Kind of.

It’s a waste of time.

Time that I could use for writing down the pros and cons of taking Anniston out to dinner or staying in where no one can steal any glances of her.

That’s it. I should skip practice. I’m due for a stomachache or some tendinitis.

“Von Bremen!”

Also, I wouldn’t have to deal with the smell of armpits and ball sweat after being surrounded with Anniston’s body lotion that I’m sure was developed by Salem witches. I was out… It happens. The shit makes my dick twitch every time I get a whiff. I can’t even narrow down the exact scent that makes me crazy. But I can tell you it makes me think of sunscreen, which then makes me think of her in a bikini. And visions of her in a bikini take me on this path of envisioning her tits underneath said bikini, which all leads to me jerking off until I come all over that fucking lotion bottle.

Voodoo magic.

There’s no other explanation for it.

And yes, I rinse it off for her. Jeez. I’m not inconsiderate.

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