Page 30 of Play the Last Track
As we approach my truck, I step in front of Katie and open the passenger side door for her. She glares at me before hopping in, but it only makes me smile wider. Katie stays silent on the way home. The music she puts on fills the cab of the truck, but she doesn’t strike up a conversation.
No, she’s too busy rubbing her thighs together and avoiding my gaze.
I got under her skin, and I plan to stay there.
The smirk stays plastered on my face for the entire ride home, fixed in place until we step over the threshold.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, striding into the kitchen and opening the fridge. I didn’t eat enough after the game, and now I feel like my stomach is trying to eat itself. I pull out some leftover pasta and a bowl.
“No,” Katie says, placing her bag on the kitchen island. When I have the pasta heating in the microwave, I turn to face her, leaning against the counter. It’s the same counter that I leaned on nights ago, before I almost kissed her.
When she told me she liked to hear me beg.
When she left me hard as a rock in the kitchen and I had to count to a hundred before following her because I was so fucking hot, I was scared that if I had to watch her walk up the stairs, I would’ve snapped.
I stare at her, watching as she nervously plays with the hem of the jersey she wears. A jersey with my name on it.
If it wasn’t a kink of mine before, it is now.
“We need to—”
“You look good in—” we both say at the same time. I watch as a gentle blush makes its way onto her cheeks as she realizes what I was about to say. I smile and finish my sentence. “You look good in my jersey.”
“A jersey,” she murmurs.
“Pardon?” I say.
“It’s a jersey.” She tucks her fingers into the hemline and scrunches the fabric in her fist. “Not yours. It was new.”
“It has my number on it.” I take a step toward her. She responds and steps back, but hits the edge of the counter. “It has my name on it. I think it’s mine.”
“You don’t own it,” she snaps. Katie glances up at me through her lashes as I take another step, right into her space.
“Hollie definitely used the black card of mine she has to buy it.” I reach out and tug the fabric of the shirt out of her clenched fists. “So, I do, actually.”
Silence fills the space between us. Nothing but a quiet house and our uneven breathing. I stare down at her, my gaze landing on her lips.
I could just—
“We need ground rules,” she whispers. I can tell she meant to say it differently because she looks shocked at herself. Annoyed, even. Knowing Katie, she probably wanted to say it with her whole chest.
I make her nervous.
Good.
“Ground rules?” I ask.
“We are dat—fake dating,” she quickly corrects herself. I hum in agreement, slipping the fabric through my fingers. Back and forth,along the hemline. I could step back. I could make this easier for her.
But, I really don’t want to.
“We don’t have to be one of those touchy-feely, PDA couples. We don’t have to be sohandsyin public.” She crosses her arms over her chest. The movement only makes her boobs more pronounced, and I feel like pulling her against me. I want to feel her against me, the way her toned curves match my hard muscles in every way.
It’s been so long, and I never want to forget what she feels like.
“We could be.” I tug at the fabric I’m holding, trying to pull her to me. For a moment, I think she might take a step and give in. But Katie remains leaning against the bench, close but not close enough.
“We’re not a couple. In public, where we have to pretend, we are not the kind of couple that likes public displays.” The microwave beeps, and I glance over my shoulder. She uses the distraction to slip away from me. “Keep your hands to yourself, Reed.”
