Page 132 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
She grins and leans into me, and I don’t pull away. Because the truth is, I am having fun. More fun than I’ve had in months, and it’s mostly because she’s here.
Which is a problem, because this is supposed to be temporary. A business arrangement with an expiration date. I shouldn’t be forming attachments.
But watching her sing along to whatever train wreck is happening on stage, seeing her laugh until tears stream down her face, feeling the way she relaxes against me like she belongs there...
I’m pretty sure I passedattachedabout three songs ago.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do about it.
Chapter29
Hunter
Ican’t keep my hands off Juliet. Last weekend, after karaoke. This morning when I was already late for my early morning practice. Anytime that I can make her moan, I’m game.
After all, she’s Juliet Monroe, the most perfect girl ever to graduate from U of W. If you’d told me back then that I’d ever get her in bed, let alone that she’d like being dominated as much as I like it, I’d have told you to go fuck yourself.
We have sex in the shower, water running cold while I press her against the tile and she wraps her legs around my waist like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. Against the kitchen counter last night when she was trying to make dinner, and I came up behind her, pushing her skirt up and forgetting all about food.
In my car after team drinks, parked in the shadows of the arena garage because we couldn’t wait the fifteen minutes it would take to get home. At the arena itself, tucked away in a storage room where we barely locked the door before I had her pressed against the wall, both of us trying to stay quiet while the rest of the team was just down the hall.
Every time it happens, it gets rougher, messier, more desperate. Like we’re both chasing something we can’t quite catch.
I’m addicted. Obsessed. Every kiss tastes like hunger, like I’m starving for something I didn’t know I needed until I had it.
The last time is in the foyer of our apartment. We barely make it inside before I lose what’s left of my control. Juliet drops her bag, keys scattering across the hardwood, and I grab her by the hips, spinning her around to face me.
“Hunter,” she breathes, but whatever she was going to say gets lost when my mouth finds hers.
We don’t even get out of our clothes all the way. Her skirt shoved up, my jeans pushed down just enough, frantic, against the front door like we’re teenagers who can’t wait another second.
She wrecks me. Destroys every defense I’ve ever built, every wall I’ve put up to keep people from getting too close. And I keep coming back for more.
I tell myself not to touch her when we’re not actively fucking. Not to look at her the way I do when she’s reading on the couch, unconsciously tucking her hair behind her ear. Not to memorize the sound of her laugh or the shape of her mouth when she’s trying not to smile at something stupid I’ve said.
Because when this ends, and it will end, she’ll go on like none of it mattered. She’ll pack up her life and move on to the next job, the next opportunity, the next carefully considered step in her career.
And I’ll still be standing here, fists clenched, pretending I didn’t want more.
When we’re finally still, curled together on my bed with the sheets tangled around us, Juliet says something I don’t expect.
“Patrick’s words are stuck in my brain today.” Her voice is quiet, careful. “No man will ever want to come second to my ambition. That’s a quote.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Not because they’re true, but because I can hear in her voice that she believes they might be.
I go still beneath her, every muscle in my body tensing. My jaw locks so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.
“That guy’s a fucking idiot,” I say, flat and certain. “You already know that. Why are you taking his word on this one subject?”
Juliet flinches like she expected me to agree. It was almost as if she was waiting for me to confirm what that piece of shit drilled into her head. I’m unmoored by it.
I watch her for a long beat, taking in the way she’s pulled back slightly, the careful blankness that’s settled over her features. The same mask she wears when she’s managing difficult reporters.
“Have you ever thought about replacing him?” I ask, quieter this time.
“What do you mean?” She gives me a puzzled look.
“You know the Houston Stars team management, right?”
