Page 119 of Plays Well With Others

Something fierce and powerful all on its own—this connection between the two of us.

She wraps her arms around my neck, tugging me closer. But I tsk at her. “You’re not watching me fuck you, baby,” I admonish.

She cries out. “It’s too good.”

Her breath speeds up. Her moans shoot higher. She shudders. She’s so damn close, and I love that I know all her signs.

“Watch us come,” I demand.

I pull out, shift her from her back to her side and move behind her. I yank her against me, her back to my chest.

Lining up my cock, I slide back into her, groaning at the tight, hot feel of her welcoming me again.

In the mirror, I see her eyes flutter closed, but that won’t do. I run a hand over her tits, right to her chin. With a firm grip, I push her face to the side. “Watch.”

Her eyes open and she gasps. “We look so hot,” she murmurs, like she’s adoring the filthy movie in the mirror.

I wrap one arm around her, so I can play with her tits. The other skates over her hip, across her waist, down to her clit.

“I’ll get you there, baby,” I promise, whispering harshly in her ear. Her eyes lock with mine in the mirror.

Those amber eyes are wide and passionate. Emotional and vulnerable. Thrilled and hopeful.

And I’m devastated. I can’t ever turn back. I’m so fucking crazy for her, I have to find a way to tell her. I have to find the right time. The right moment.

No matter the risk.

She screams, then shatters, panting, crying out, moaning.

When I’mthisclose, she watches me, and I crash over the edge too.

After a few heady, blissed out, post-sex minutes, she turns around in my arms. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says.

I can give that to you every night, I want to say.

But I’m pretty sure that’s not how you ask your best friend to be your girlfriend.

38

THE ROMANCE PLAY

Carter

I wake up with a slew of ideas demanding attention and a restlessness in my muscles.

It’s overwhelming, all these bumper cars in my brain and body, but in a good way. They get me up and out of bed. I leave at dawn, giving a sleeping Rachel a kiss goodbye, then I walk quickly to my home, energized by options for real dates, dictating some ideas into my phone so I don’t lose the thread.

At my house, I change quickly into workout shorts and sneakers, and soon I’m out the door, hitting the streets for a run, working up a sweat as the fog rolls through the early November morning.

With my pump-me-up playlist blasting, I fly down a steep hill toward the looming Golden Gate Bridge. I cross the bridge, running romance plays while my sneakers slap against the stone path.

I don’t want to move too fast with Rachel or too slow. Milliseconds make a difference in my job. And they matter in life too. My whole life is all about timing, on the field, and every damn day. My to-do list is a testament to how important tracking time is for me to function. I can’t be sloppy. No mistakes, no missed passes, no dropped balls.

If I’m going to risk our friendship, I’ve got to find the right moment, the right wording, the right…play.

And boom, as I reach the end of the bridge, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it.Yes, thank you, exercise. You always have my back.

Back in Pacific Heights, I race to Beck’s house, hop in my car, cranking up Taylor Swift as I drive. Except, wait. Nope.Love you, T, but you’re the breakup queen.I switch back to my workout playlist, and the rock anthems suit my mood.

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