Page 50 of The Game Plan

“It’s just me.”

“Miles?” She struggles to sit up. “Where am—oh.”

“We’re going to go to bed,” I tell her. “I was just taking your shoes off.”

She blinks the sleep out of her eyes. “I can stay?”

“As long as you want, baby.”

She melts into the pillows with a smile on her face. “We can have our slumber party.”

“That’s right.”

Sam manages to take off her boots, kicking them to the floor. “Can I... never mind.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to sleep in your shirt.”

Bam. My cock reacts instantly to the mental image of her in my clothes. I have to work to swallow the lump in my throat. How am I supposed tojustsleep beside her tonight?

“Anything you want.”

Her smile makes my stomach lurch.

Withdrawing a shirt from my dresser, I hand it over to her and point her in the direction of the Jack and Jill bathroom I share with Greg.

All of the houses in Athlete’s Village are laid out the same. Two bedrooms and a bathroom downstairs, four more rooms and two bathrooms upstairs. Small galley kitchen, bigger living room. Virtually no yard. Pre-furnished. They’re comfortable enough. I have no complaints.

Greg keeps spare toothbrushes handy for his infrequent overnight guests. I snag one for her, and we brush our teeth side by side. It’s oddly intimate. I kind of dig it.

My shirt hangs down to her knees, the neckline gaping open to expose her bare shoulder. Her fuzzy neon blue socks come halfway up her shins, leaving a solid six inch gap of leg on display. I can see the pointy pebbles of her nipples through the thin fabric of the shirt.

I hold out my hand and she takes it, scurrying to my side. Sam wraps her arms low around my waist and tilts her head up for a kiss.

I can’t get enough of her. It’s like there’s an itch under my skin I can’t quite scratch. I’m not sure I want to.

We crawl beneath the covers, and she gets all up in my personal space bubble. Her socked feet tangle with my legs. She takes my favorite pillow and I let her.

“You good?” My voice is scratchy. I clear my throat. “You keep passing out on me.”

“Sorry,” she says, giving me an impish grin, not sorry in the least.

“Don’t be. I kind of like it.”

Sam shifts so we’re facing each other. She grabs my arm and situates it across her hip. She moves my other arm to use as a pillow. Her knees kiss mine.

“I kind of like you,” she confesses, and my heart gives a painful tug.

“Good. I’m glad.”

She lets out a massive yawn. “I really am sorry I fell asleep.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t miss much.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises.

“You don’t have to—”

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