Chapter 19
SHEPHERD
The loud crack of thunder rolls across the sky just as we step inside. “Perfect timing,” I say, nudging the door shut behind us. “It’s rolling in fast.”
Sutton glances over her shoulder at the window where a flash of lightning cuts across the dark clouds. “That’s Portland for you.”
“Tell me about it.”
She laughs softly, kicking off her shoes and padding toward the kitchen like she’s been here a hundred times already.
Like she belongs here.
I try not to think too much about it as I open the freezer. “Mint chocolate okay?” I ask, grabbing a few different flavors. I may have overspent on ice cream just to get her in here with me for a bit tonight, but it worked so it’s well worth it.
“The best kind you mean,” she corrects. “And yes, that’s fine.” She glances at the other flavors on the counter and adds, “Oh, maybe also a scoop of cookies and cream.”
“Cookies with the toothpaste, coming up.”
She gasps dramatically. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never.” I laugh.
I hand her a bowl and we settle on nearly opposite ends of the couch. The TV hums quietly with the Thursday night football game. Two teams trading drives while commentators debate defensive coverages.
“Is this okay?” I look over at her just in time to watch her pull her spoon slowly from between her lips and damn, she’s so fucking pretty. “We can watch something else. This was just on.”
She smirks. “Of course it was just on. It’s Thursday night. When you’re not physically playing the game, you’re watching it. Totally fine.”
She scoops another bite of ice cream into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing out as she sucks it off her spoon.
Look away, Shep.
Don’t stare.
You’ll creep her out.
For a few minutes we just watch football, eating our ice cream in a comfortable and easy silence. Sutton scoops another bite from her bowl and gestures toward the screen. “Okay explain something to me.”
“Uh oh. That’s a dangerous sentence.”
“Why does everyone run into each other so much?”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s the sport.”
“No, I mean strategically, because it always seems like whenever there’s an opening in the middle of the pack, or whatever, nobody ever goes that way. And then when they’re all in the middle knocking into each other nobody goes around the outside. It feels like common sense to me.”
I lean forward, grabbing the remote and pausing the replay. “Okay. See this?” I shift closer without thinking, pointing at the screen. “This linebacker is reading the quarterback’s eyes.”
“Wait, how can he read his eyes through the helmet?” Sutton asks, leaning closer to see where I’m pointing.
I smile, enjoying her genuine curiosity. “Helmets are open so we can see each other’s eyes. Very few players use visors. But anyway, it’s about body language, where his shoulders are facing, how he’s positioned. Quarterbacks give away a lot without realizing it.”
She nods slowly, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Like poker tells.”
“Exactly like poker tells,” I say, surprised and impressed.
She takes another bite of ice cream, then points her spoon at me. “So, what’s your tell?”
The question catches me off guard. “My what?”
“Your tell.” Her eyes meet mine, warm and curious. “If that guy has one, then every quarterback must have one. So what’s yours?”
I lean back against the couch, considering her question. No one’s ever asked me that before. Not directly anyway. “I used to drop my left shoulder slightly before deep throws. Worked on it for months to fix it.”
“And now?”
“Now I make damn sure defenders can’t read me.”
“So, what you’re saying is football is not only a game of tag, but also psychological warfare.”
“Yeah, actually,” I say, amused by her insight. “It’s as much mental as physical.”
She shifts on the couch, closing the gap between us without seeming to realize it. Her knee brushes against mine, and I force myself to stay perfectly still, like she’s a wild animal that might spook if I move too suddenly.
“What about you?” she asks, turning her gaze on me. “Are you good at the mind games?”
I laugh softly. “On the field, I’d like to think so.
Though every defensive coordinator in the league would probably tell you otherwise.
It’s all about keeping them guessing,” I reply, watching her eyes narrow as she considers this.
“The best quarterbacks make defenders think they know what’s coming, then do something completely different. ”
Sutton takes another slow bite of ice cream, her spoon lingering between her lips longer than necessary. My mouth goes dry watching her.
“So, you’re saying you’re good at…misdirection?” she asks, her voice dropping slightly.
“When I need to be.”
She shifts again, her knee touching my thigh. The warmth of her leg against mine sends a current straight through my body.
“Show me,” she challenges, her eyes locked on mine.
I raise an eyebrow. “Show you what?”
“A quarterback fake. Something to make me think you’re going one way when you’re actually going another.”
I set my bowl on the coffee table, turning to face her properly. “You want me to demonstrate a play fake? Right here on my couch?”
“Unless you’re not as good as you think you are,” she teases, the corner of her mouth lifting in that way that drives me crazy.
“I’d hate to disappoint,” I say with a smile, setting my spoon in the bowl and shifting my weight slightly. I study her face—those deep brown eyes challenging me, that little half-smile that makes my pulse quicken.
“I’m waiting,” she says, her voice low and teasing. She’s still holding her ice cream, but her attention is completely on me now.
I lean forward slowly, my gaze dropping deliberately to her lips just long enough for her to catch it.
Her breath hitches, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound that sends electricity down my spine.
I see her lips part slightly in anticipation, the bottom one fuller than the top, glistening where her tongue has just moistened it.
The faint scent of mint chocolate clings to her breath.
Fuck, I could kiss her.
I want to kiss her.
Her lips are right there, looking all soft and sweet, the corners still turned up in that half-smile that drives me crazy, a smudge of pink lipgloss worn away in the center.
But she asked for this fake out so in one smooth motion, I pivot and reach past her to grab the remote from the armrest. The movement brings us chest to chest for a heartbeat, my face inches from hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her exhale against my jaw and count each dark eyelash framing those wide brown eyes.
“Misdirection,” I whisper, so close I can smell the vanilla in her hair.
Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating as she catches her breath. “That’s…effective.”
Neither of us moves. The remote hangs forgotten in my hand as we hover in this moment, suspended between friendship and something much more dangerous. Thunder rumbles outside, and the sound seems to vibrate through my chest.
“Shepherd…” she breathes my name like a question.
I don’t answer with words because fuck it, I can’t. Instead, I carefully take her bowl and place it next to mine on the coffee table. My hand returns to her face, my thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingers, matching the rapid tempo of my own.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” I murmur, leaning in until our lips are a breath apart.
“You have?” she asks, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Mhmm. Ever since I saw you standing on my porch in my T-shirt that day your shower wasn’t working.”
“You could’ve done it then, you know.”
I swallow back my guilt. “I know. Trust me I’ve been reliving that moment in my head over and over. So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like a do-over.”
She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half surrender, and I’m lost. I crush my mouth against hers, devouring her, all restraint incinerated.
Her lips part beneath mine and the taste of mint chocolate explodes on my tongue.
My fingers dig into her hair, gripping hard enough to make her gasp as I pull her against me.
She responds immediately, her body melting against mine, her hands grasping my shoulders like she’s afraid I might disappear. I angle my head, deepening the kiss, and she makes that sound again—half moan, half sigh—that sends heat spiraling straight to my cock.
I’ve kissed women before. Women who knew what they were doing. But Christ, this is different. Nothing has ever felt like this. Like Sutton’s mouth on mine was always meant to be there, driving me out of my fucking mind.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, tugging me closer.
I can feel her pulse, rapid and strong, against my palm as I cup her face and neck.
When she makes that little sound again—that half-moan that’s driving me insane—I lose what’s left of my restraint.
My arm circles her waist, lifting her effortlessly until she’s straddling my lap, her thighs bracketing mine.
“Is this okay?” I breathe against her mouth, needing to hear her say it.
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice husky and her pupils blown wide. “God, yes.”
She grinds down, and I nearly black out as she connects with my cock, already granite-hard and throbbing.
My hands find her hips, guiding her into a slow, torturous rhythm that has us both breathing harder.
She’s warm and perfect in my arms, her body responding to my touch like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
I trail kisses down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. Her head falls back, exposing the elegant column of her throat to my hungry mouth. I can’t get enough of her. Her taste, her scent, the feel of her body against mine.
It’s fucking perfection.