Chapter 19 #2
“The fuck?” I ask, my tone sharp. “You talk about everything else under the sun. You overshare about your family. You yell at me about sandwiches. You want to have a what-are-we talk two seconds after we kiss. But I go down on you, give you a proper fucking orgasm, and you can’t be bothered to stick around until I come out of the washroom?
If one of your ridiculous matchmaking blokes did that to a girl, you’d go fucking mental, Stretch. ”
“I know I would,” she snaps back defensively.
“So why did you do it?” I bite, my voice loud but muted amongst the sound-absorbing walls of hay.
“You had to shower,” she exclaims, covering her face with her hands. “I . . .” Her throat works as she struggles to say the
next part against the palms of her hands. “I have never orgasmed like that before.”
I frown back at her, registering the shame on her face. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it.
She drops her hands, refusing to meet my eyes. “And I realized last night that I’ve never orgasmed until . . . until you.”
My lips part as I struggle to accept this excuse. “What about with yourself?”
“I don’t . . . do that with myself.”
“Ever?”
She shakes her head.
“Christ,” I murmur, pushing my hand through my hair. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t pleasure themselves. It’s
something I thought everyone figured out at a young age, right?
Leave it to Everly Fletcher to be the outlier, once again.
She clears her throat and crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “And I’m guessing you don’t have to shower after you
do that to other girls, so you’ll excuse me for feeling a bit too mortified to stick around and watch you hose yourself off.”
My lips part as everything clicks into place. “You think I showered because of what you did?”
“Obviously,” she bites, rolling her eyes.
I sigh heavily, my jaw muscle working overtime as I admit the filthy truth to her. “I showered because of what I did, not
because of you.”
She frowns, clearly not understanding.
I inhale sharply, wishing I didn’t have to share this part because it’s not exactly the most masculine admission, but I can’t
have her sitting here thinking I was disgusted by her. “I came as well last night.”
“Came where?”
“In my sweats,” I murmur, unable to make eye contact with her. “Your fucking noises and reactions and just . . . everything. It was too much.”
“Too much?”
I nod and shrug. “I lost control.”
“You lost control?” She repeats the words like she’s taste-testing them, her eyes shifting from shame to fascination in a
matter of seconds. The corner of her mouth tugs up into a small, pleased smile, and I instantly regret not just being honest
with her right away. “Has that ever happened to you before?”
“Not without assistance,” I reply honestly. “So, I guess it was a first for both of us.”
She sputters out a laugh and then covers her mouth, her cheeks blazing with a blush that suits her beautifully. Christ, this
girl is hard to stay mad at. She’s just so pure and honest and alive . . . at least when she’s not running out of my flat
without a word.
“For someone who habitually overcommunicates, you could have waited and asked me,” I state solemnly. “I would have told you.”
She licks her lips and shrugs. “For once, I’m not perfect.”
The corner of my mouth curves up at her deadpan tone. She’s fucking funny, even when she’s trying not to be. And I’m an arse. An insecure manchild who should have talked to her before I buggered off into the loo.
“I’m sorry I was cross at you in my texts,” I offer with a shrug.
“I’m sorry I left without just telling you I was embarrassed,” she offers with her own shrug.
“In my experience with sex, if it’s not messy, you’re not doing it right.” She looks away, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. I’d love nothing more than to reach out and grab her by the neck to haul her back to my lips. To kiss away that shame and
make her proud of the fact that she came all over me like that.
It was fucking hot.
Too hot.
Way too fucking hot.
Instead, I force myself to say the next bit because I know it’s for the best. “Let’s just chalk it up to another mistake that
won’t happen again.”
“What won’t happen again?” Everly asks, her voice pitched high and soft.
“You and me.” I gesture between us. “All those reasons you listed last night are still there. We just got carried away last
night. It’s better we quit while we’re ahead before we end up properly hurting each other. We’re just too different to do
whatever it is we’re doing.”
Her brows draw together. “Is different a bad thing? I match people all the time that are very different from each other.”
“You’re not matchmaking us, Stretch.” My jaw flexes as I step away from her to get some distance. Because fucking hell, I
can’t think straight when she’s near me.
There was a reason I avoided Everly Fletcher for four years in college.
She makes me weak, and I can’t afford to be weak right now.
I need to focus on making this move to Colorado worth it, on fulfilling my dream with Cliona to become the Reilly fucking Rugby Twins.
On being so good here that I can get back to Ireland and play for a team there.
Ireland is my long-term goal and where I have my sights on.
Plus, if I couldn’t even maintain a friendship with Finn throughout my childhood while playing rugby, how the fuck would I
manage professional rugby and a situationship with a girl like Everly who would take over my whole fucking world?
“Us being too close is a bad idea for so many reasons,” I add, my voice firm. “Just do us both a favor and don’t get close
enough to make it hard for me to remember that.”
She chews her lip thoughtfully, her body language clearly irritated, but she steels herself as she says, “Well, I’m afraid
we’re going to have to muster all your strength to resist me because I need your help with my auction event we’re doing here
in a few weeks.”
“What do you need from me?”
She licks her lips and lifts her chin, putting on her Everly business hat as she asks, “Do you think you could get some of
your rugby teammates to volunteer to be auctioned off for a date in exchange for a worthy cause?”
“I have no fucking idea,” I reply honestly. “I barely know the team yet.”
“Well, I’d like to come to your training on Friday to have a chat with them and your coach,” she states, struggling to meet
my eyes.
“I don’t know if—”
“I’ll drive,” she replies crisply, her voice curt and dismissive, before turning on her heel and making her way down the ladder,
leaving my head spinning with what just happened.
Somehow in my attempt to get more space from Everly Fletcher, I wound up with the exact opposite.