PROLOGUE #2
“This can’t go anywhere, though,” he warned in front of my lips. “I’ve worked too hard to be distracted. No one can find out. I want to be known for football, not my personal life.”
I was so lost in the silent storm that had been brewing between us, I’d have agreed to anything.
I got it. He didn’t want any attention drawn to himself.
Neither did I. All I wanted was his attention.
And somehow, I’d gotten it. Me—boring Jeremy Tanner, who shouldn’t even have existed on Chris Mightener’s radar.
Who’s ever had the chance to have their fantasy man choose them?
I had, though. He chose me for a reason and kept coming back. I know we made a promise that we never promised, but…God, how can it be over? How can you not form some kind of emotional attachment after almost two years of screwing around?
I just…have this feeling that something could be different. It says something if he’s coming to say goodbye, right? Like maybe it’s not a goodbye.
NFL players travel. He’s not going to Mars. We could still see each other.
An unexpected chime from my phone has my arms flailing, and I nearly drop the device. Get a grip, Remy. Jeez.
Glancing at my screen, a text alert from Jamie has me tensing. Please don’t tell me he forgot something or is going to prod me again to meet him out.
JAMIE: You are such a bad liar.
What the heck is he talking about? I text him back for clarification.
JAMIE: Either I hallucinated as I was driving away, or one very large tight end was creeping through our backyard and into your bedroom window.
What? Oh, my God! He’s here?
Scrambling off the couch, I nearly drop my phone again. Fumbling it in the air, I’m glad Chris isn’t here to see that I can’t even catch a phone compared to his grace with a ball, but then a deep voice rumbles behind me.
“Remy?”
I let out a squeak. My phone clatters to the floor when I jump at the sight of a shadowed figure in my bedroom. Dropping, I palm my device and pop back up like I got shot out of a Jack-in-the-box.
“Chris! Hey! Hi. Hey there… Um, you’re here.”
“Is Pajamies gone?” His whisper filters through the open doorway.
“Yeah,” I laugh breathlessly, as if I haven’t embarrassed myself enough. Cologne can’t cover up awkwardness.
That nickname he gave Jamie is pretty funny though. My roommate could never be bothered to change out of his pajama pants for the eight o'clock class they had together.
His wide frame steps into the light, his shoulders filling the doorway. Can you swallow your own tongue? It’s really not fair how good he looks. There should be hazard tape wrapped around him.
I’ve always been proud of my self-control.
I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t complain about feeling like they’ve overindulged during holiday dinners.
Whenever I go shopping, I ask myself if I simply want an item or if I actually need it when I decide on what to buy.
Jamie teases that I’ve never even returned a library book late.
I can withstand temptation, except when it comes to Chris Mightener. The man is a walking temptation.
I can tell he shaved for his trip to rookie camp.
There’s no trace of the dark scruff that usually frames that square jaw of his.
He once told me it helps him look more menacing to his opponents, but I only saw the soft hair that felt incredible, tickling my skin.
Right now, however, all cleaned up, he’s even more of a vision than usual.
His dark amber eyes finish his scan of the room and land on me. I like when they land on me.
“You did it,” I let out, needing an outlet for my anxious energy.
A smirk ticks up the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Yeah.”
It’s funny the things you realize at the most random moments.
I’ve so rarely seen him smile. If I was giddy at the mere sight of him a moment ago, I’m not sure what to call the feeling that the joy in his expression gives me.
He has two moods—serious and turned on, and both turn me on, so I’ve never felt deprived by not seeing him smile more.
“How…how were the draft and camp?” I babble, knowing it’s a rare opportunity for us to talk. I can cool my jets. The physical will come later.
Blowing out a breath, he runs his hand down the back of his head over his close-cropped hair. My fingers itch to touch the way it spikes up a little on top, and yet it’s so soft against my fingers.
“It’s been wild. Negotiating the contract, meeting so many other players at camp, orientation—the whole thing. It still feels surreal to have been practicing on an NFL field.”
The way his face lights up slices a pain through my chest. Every word puts more distance between us that I can’t lessen.
Many people would probably be satisfied with the fact that a handsome NFL player was standing in their bedroom doorway for a night of illicit desires, but those people haven’t seen his nose buried in a book in the library countless times.
They haven’t seen him show up with broken knuckles and cracked ribs or placed kisses on them and then watched him go out and play again only days later.
They haven’t heard the special register his voice takes on when he whispers his most unfiltered thoughts into my ear.
They don’t know how beautiful his face looks after he comes.
And after tonight…I won’t know it anymore either.
“I’m so happy for you,” I whisper against the thickness in my throat. “You’ve worked really hard.”
Straightening up from the doorframe, he takes a step back into my darkened room. Gaze never leaving me, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and peels it slowly over his head. He tosses it to the floor and then brings his hands to the button of his jeans, a coy smile playing on his lips.
“How about a graduation present?”
And like that, Chris Mightener manages to steal all the air out of my house. I swallow, moving with shaky steps around the couch to reunite with that view again. Stepping into my room, I blink at the change in lighting. He kicks off his shoes, glancing at my mattress on the floor.
“My bed frame is packed up in the U-Haul,” I digress absently, drinking in his profile.
I missed all that skin. That thick waist. The meaty globes of his ass. Even his stance—how he looks like a hurricane couldn’t knock him over. I’m only about three inches shorter and have some muscle tone from running at the track, but around him I always feel small…less, until he looks at me.
As his hungry gaze travels down my body, I’m no longer less. I’m everything he wants right now, making me somehow larger than the life force he is to me. His wanting gaze returns to mine, silently saying that my excess of clothing is offensive at the moment.
This is the part I’ve never mastered—feeling sexy. I don’t know how he can look at me like I am, but I’ve lived off that look for two years. Drawing my shirt over my head, my nerves ring like tiny bells throughout my body, exposing my slighter frame.
“Last night,” I let out breathlessly, flashing him a smile to lighten the words.
There’s nothing light about them. They’ve already settled in the pit of my stomach, a lead weight as I anxiously finger my shirt in my hands.
He stares at me, his lips parted. I wait with bated breath, wondering what he thinks about the subject. If he’ll say something to set me free of this anguish that I don’t want and know I shouldn’t have.
“Yeah,” he concurs.
That one honest word signifies what I already suspected. I can’t decide whether he looks somber or uncomfortable. I decide to go with somber, that he has respect for our time together. It’s enough for me. I promise myself it’s enough. He never promised me the moon after all.
Stepping forward, he moves into my space, angling his body between me and the door.
The heat from his skin warms mine. It’s the welcome comfort of a favorite old, worn coat, wrapping around me.
His chest touches mine. Then our stomachs.
Our pelvises. He moves forward, pressed against me, gaze hungry with intention.
I move with him, snared by the heat in his amber eyes.
It’s like being hunted, but in the best way possible, our favorite practiced dance.
With each step he takes, I take one back, living off the same breath and obeying his silent commands.
My ankle connects with my mattress, making me lose my balance.
I latch onto his arms, but they move around me, and then we fall.
I land with an oof from his weight covering me, which is immediately swallowed.
There’s no preamble to the kiss that owns my mouth, as I let out a moan.
No hesitation in his hands as they roam and grip me.
Breaking away, he moves to my ear. “I needed this,” he rasps, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “Fucking thought about it for weeks.”
He’s always carnal and unrelenting, but, God, this is another level.
He’s never been big on kissing. Whenever I try, I get a wary look like he’s wondering if I’m getting too attached and trying to break our rule.
It’s for the best, I know, but if he’d always kissed me like he did a second ago, I’d probably be hanging onto his ankle while he tries to flee out the door, begging him not to go.
I try to keep up, raking my hands over the cords of muscles in his back and tasting the skin at his shoulder. The rough fabric of his jeans, accentuated by his erection, is pressing into the juncture at my hip through my thin shorts. I grind against it, hoping for more delightful confessions.
“Me too,” I admit, and because you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, I add, “Going to miss this.”
Maybe if he knows I won’t be clingy, he’ll give me another kiss like that. What I really mean, though, is you. I’m going to miss you, Chris Mightener.