CHAPTER 31
“Good. Glad that’s out of the way.”
I shouldn’t be disappointed. There are so very many reasons this is a bad idea–not least of all, the fact that he never actually said he wanted me. I’m not a smitten teen; I know that a few make-out sessions do not a declaration of love make.
Even if he were interested, which he just clarified he isn’t, he’s on my team. That mess is just begging to blow up. Especially if my preferences get out. The truth of the matter is, as much as I say that I don’t date ballplayers, they don’t date me either. The few occasions when I broke my rule, they were the ones to run away faster than a runner stealing home. At least in my experience, there aren’t a lot of pro athletes eager to give up control once they step off the diamond and into my bedroom.
I keep waiting for him to leave. We’ll be fine tomorrow, but I don’t exactly feel like being walked to my car after all of this.
Reyes crosses the small room instead. He crouches at my feet and rests his forearms on my thighs, and I try not to let this position go to my head. There’s no way he knows what this does to me. He can’t possibly know how looking down at him like this floods my core with heat. How badly I want to toss his hat away and bury my fingers in his hair.
He can’t possibly know, yet this is not the first time he’s dropped to this position before me. I think of the starlight sparkling in his wet hair and the need in his dark eyes as he kissed water droplets from my thigh. Of his fingers digging into my muscles and the quartet of dime-sized bruises darkening the back of each leg.
“You’ve got to tell me if I’m messing things up here,” he says. “You know how much I care about you, right? As a teammate and a friend; it’s the most important thing in the world to me, not to ruin that.” He licks his lips and scratches his throat, drawing my eye to the bob of his Adam’s apple and thoughts I should absolutely not be entertaining. “But I also think that I’m not the only one here wanting something more.” When I open my mouth in search of a rebuttal, he hurries to add, “More than a hook-up.”
He reaches for my hand, and I think that he’s forgotten my injury in the heat of this moment. His tenderness catches me by surprise, even if he’s never shown me otherwise. A gentle grip brackets my wrist, and his lips sear their healing touch to my palm.
When he turns his eyes back on me, they’re hooded. Heavy with something more than lust. He wets his lips again, and I give into the need to touch him. To toss his hat aside and feel the softness of his skin. To slide my fingertips down until his racing pulse drums against them.
“What if I can’t give you what you want?”
“I don’t want you to give me anything,” he says, and his pulse races ever faster. “Just let me take care of you. Please.”
The way his voice nearly breaks on that last delicious syllable ruins me. So damned close to begging, and he went there on his own.
I drag the thumb of my uninjured hand over lips that part for my slightest touch. He leans into me, following my fingers until he has to grip my thighs to steady himself.
“Why?” I ask him, so many questions wrapped up in that one little word. Why me? Why this? Why are you on your knees?
“You’re the first person in a long time that I’ve wanted to want something with. I will always love the game, don’t get me wrong, but I get butterflies each time I drive up to the stadium, and I stopped getting that feeling just for the sport a solid few years ago. It’s you. Win or lose, whatever happens out on that field, I’m still always excited to see you.”
With a nod and a half-smile that spreads slower than the heat in my cheeks, I give in.
“Make me feel good, Reyes.”
He looms over me when he stands. His long body unfurls while I’m trapped by the hard planes of sculpted muscle. But he doesn’t pull me to my feet. He doesn’t try to take charge of this dynamic blooming between us. His fingertips are cold when they slip beneath the hem of the hoodie I stole from him. They tickle my hips, the bit of fat that cushions low on my stomach, but pause, as if waiting for permission, once his blunt nails scrape the band of my sports bra.
I lean forward and raise my arms, and he does the work without a single word exchanged. He peels the heavy material from my body, careful not to pull my hair. Even more careful once he reaches my sore hand.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. But he isn’t staring at my body. His eyes aren’t glued to my small breasts or the hint of cleavage this red sports bra gives me. Mateo Reyes stares at my face with hooded eyes and repeats the compliment that sends electricity racing down my spine. “So fucking beautiful.”
I try to stand, but he shakes his head. This is it, I think. The moment he expects my submission.
The moment that I have to decide between letting him have that control, against my every instinct, pushing for the pleasure that only dominance can give me, or putting an end to this once and for all.
“Let me do the work,” he says. “Tell me what you want–I just want to be the one to give it to you.”
“Take your shirt off,” I demand, testing his promise that’s still too good to be true. “Slowly.”
I swear to every god I don’t believe in, Reyes blushes. He takes his time revealing smooth golden skin the color of fallen leaves beneath an autumn sunset. Six-pack abs blurred by a delightful layer of fat. The sparsest trail of black hair beneath his navel. He is a specimen among men, and there’s so much more of him left to admire.
“Pants, too.”
So very much of him to admire. His joggers and briefs drop to the floor, and he steps out of them with his cock already hanging heavy. Harsh fluorescent lighting gleams in the moisture beading beautifully at his swollen head. Reyes isn’t huge but he’s gorgeous. Smooth brown skin, a shade darker than his stomach. Prominent veins make my mouth water at just the thought of tracing them with my tongue. His partially circumcised foreskin pulls back enough to bare his ruddy tip, and I am tempted to take just his head into my mouth and tease him until he begs for release.
His smile morphs into something almost smug. He’s getting almost as much pleasure watching me appreciate him as I am waiting to see what he asks for next.
Instead of asking, he drops to his knees with grace and a troublemaker’s grin. His hands slide up my thighs as he kneels naked before me, and when his fingertips reach my waistband, I lift my hips in silence. My pants have barely disappeared over his shoulder before his lips are on my skin. Wet kisses mix with gentle bites, tracing up one thigh and changing direction down the other before his breath can tease the wetness soaking through my panties.
“Reyes.” I bury my fingers in his hair, but I don’t guide him. Yet. “Kiss me.”
He looks up with his teeth still buried in my flesh. His question is nothing but a moan and raise of his eyebrows. I answer him in kind.