Chapter 9
JAMIE
If you ever said I’ll do that when hell freezes over, I’ve got bad news for you . . . looks like it’s happening this weekend. Hope your words taste good, boys, because you’re about to eat them.
—Advice from Aiden to Jamie and Finn
Jacking off in my shower to the memory of being with Ashton has become part of my daily fucking routine.
Because apparently, that’s what happens once you’ve had your dream girl for one night and then let her go .
. . And then told her to move in with you, knowing you can’t fucking touch her.
You go from being an average adult male with a somewhat active, healthy sex life, to a man reduced to fantasizing about the woman you’ve fantasized about since you were seventeen years old.
Which, in my case, means you jack off. A. Lot.
Do I desperately want to fuck Ashton Carmichael again?
Undeniably, yes. Yes, I do.
Do I want to stuff that sweet cunt full of my fingers, suck her pretty little clit between my teeth, and watch as her tits bounce while she rides my cock, screaming my name until her voice is hoarse again?
Fuck yes.
Can I do anything about it yet?
Not a damn thing.
Not yet.
One goddamn day maybe . . . but until then, I refuse to fuck this up by pushing her.
Christ. At this rate, I might as well start waxing fucking poetic about flowers and stars and fucking feelings.
I’m going to screw this up. It’s inevitable.
I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been in a relationship.
I’ve never been with a woman for longer than a few nights.
And even then, there weren’t many. I’ve avoided relationships my entire adult life.
One fucking night.
One motherfucking snowstorm, and this woman changes the whole damn game.
Who am I kidding? She changed the game over ten years ago.
Her soft hair and creamy skin. Her beautiful smile. Those flawless fucking tits—perfect handfuls. Fuck. I groan and plant a hand on the tile in front of me, as the hot water pounds down, and stroke faster. Harder.
Until I’m remembering Ashton beneath me.
Her legs wrapped around my waist, tits bouncing with each hard thrust of my cock. Moaning and panting and dragging her nails over my skin.
While I taste her. Consume her.
Fuck . . .
I come under the hot spray, surrounded by the memory of Ashton.
Her face the only thing I see as I close my eyes.
Badass Book Club
Dillan
Who’s in for the next book club meeting?
Lexie
Me. Which means Lucky will be there too.
Lucky
Oh, does it really, dolcezza?
Lexie
Am I wrong?
Lucky
No.
Rome
Do you know what sound we all just heard?
Kaleigh
How about you enlighten us, Romeo.
Dillan
Romeo, I like it.
Rome
I don’t.
Kaleigh
What was the sound?
Rome
That was the sound of Lexie tucking Lucky’s balls away in her purse for safekeeping.
Ryker
Dude. That was cold.
Lucky
My wife can have my balls wherever and whenever she wants. Isn’t that right, baby?
Lexie
OMG. You guys are children.
Dillan
Focus. Book Club. Jamie’s house. Next week. Read the damn chapters.
Lexie
I’ll bring dessert.
Kaleigh
I’ll bring a couple of snacks.
Dillan
I’ve got the wine.
Lucky
Beer?
Ryker
Beer.
Rome
Done.
Jamie
Anyone going to ask if I want to have book club at my house?
Dillan
Nope. Ashton won’t come to book club at West End.
Lexie
Yeah, we spent brunch trying to convince her last week.
Kaleigh
Yup. It didn’t work. So we’re bringing book club to her.
Jamie
Glad to know I get a say in what happens in my own house.
Dillan
Glad to know you love us . . .
“Don’t act like you won’t let the girls do whatever they want,” Ryker challenges as his quarterback spikes the ball in the end zone, winning the epic game of Madden we’ve been battling out.
If anyone thought football players don’t want to think about the game in the offseason, they’d be wrong.
We eat it, breathe it, and live it. Relaxing by playing it on a big-screen video game, where half the players on the screen are guys we’ve played with—either in college or on one of the teams we’ve played for since—isn’t even weird.
“Fuck off, man. You’re not any better.” I toss the remote to the couch and check my phone to make sure Dillan hasn’t invited half the damn town too.
Her older sister, Lilah, is on bed rest until she pops her first baby out, making her and her husband, Killian, down for the count, but there’s a ton more people in our inner circle Dillan could add to the list. Though I don’t think she will. Not this time.
Ryker’s not wrong. I rarely tell the girls no if they want something, but it’s not like my cousins aren’t badass little beasts who’d rather do it all themselves anyway.
Dillan can joke all she wants, but she knows I appreciate the way she’s forcing her friendship on Ashton because that girl is as stubborn as they come, and the only friend she thinks she has in this town is my brother.
At least, the only one she’ll accept any help from.
Every time Ryker or I offer, she politely declines.
Well really, every time Ryker offers, she’s polite.
Polite isn’t in her vocabulary if it’s me.
I knew Dillan would force a friendship on her, though, and I was right.
Finn might be the genius brother, but I’m not as much of an idiot as people think I am.
Ryker looks at me, curious. Too damn observant.
“You told Dillan to make friends, didn’t you?” he accuses, but he doesn’t need an answer. He already knows. “Fuck, man. How bad do you have it for this girl?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I groan and take a pull of my beer.
“I know I’m not Maverick, Murph, but I don’t need to be your best friend to know you. You’ve been off your game from the minute Finn walked into the house with that girl and that baby.”
I crack my neck and stand. “Do you have a point, man?”
“You like being the easygoing guy, Murph. You always have. And with Lilah and Killer preoccupied, and Mav with his head so far up Emmie’s ass no one’s seen him in weeks, none of your people are here to call you out on your shit.
So I guess I’m going to have to do it. Consider this me calling you on your bullshit.
You’ve got feelings for that girl upstairs, and she wants to hate you real fucking bad, but I don’t think she does.
I think there’s more to hot ballerina than that,” he challenges, and I fucking cringe.
“Hot ballerina?” I snap. “Watch it, asshole.”
“Pretty sure you called Emmie hot nanny for months just to force Maverick’s hand.
” Fuck. I did do that. “I’m thinking it’s about time your hand gets forced.
” Ryker tosses the remote to the coffee table and grabs his beer.
“She’s walking through every day in a fog.
She’s taking care of Kyrie and trying to hold her shit together with tape and glue and sheer strength.
You care about her, so you might want to figure out how to be her friend.
Because I’m betting you’re the reason Dillan and Lexie are forcing their friendship on her.
If you think she needs one, I’d say it’s time you man the fuck up, brother. ”
“Has anybody ever told you you’re an observant motherfucker?” I bitch and hand him my empty beer.
He takes it with a laugh. “Am I your trash bitch too?”
“How about you throw that out for me while I go make a new friend?”
Pretty sure I hear a muttered dickhead as I walk out of the room.
Ashton
“Come on, sweet girl. It’s way past your bedtime,” I whisper softly against Kyrie’s forehead as we sway in front of the picture window in her room overlooking the massive lake behind the house.
Rain has started falling in the nearly iridescent sky.
“It’s so beautiful,” I whisper as I stare into the night.
“It really is,” comes from behind me, and my head spins as I turn to find Jamie leaning against the open door.
Speaking of beautiful . . .
“How long have you lived here, Murphy?” I ask in a serene voice for Kyrie’s sake, even though I feel anything but serene looking at him.
How can something as simple as black sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt look that good?
Oh, right. Because everything looks good on this man.
On those hips and those thighs and that chest. Damn.
That night has played on repeat in my mind for two long months.
Two months, two weeks, and three days, if I’m counting.
But really . . . who’s counting?
Absolutely not me.
“I bought the land when I signed my first contract right out of college. I guess that was almost eight years ago. But I didn’t build this house until about three years ago.
” He shoves his hands in his pockets, popping his triceps, and yup, I’m pretty sure I licked those muscles two months, two weeks, and three days ago.
And my mouth is still watering at the sight.
He moves gracefully across the room in that way only a man who has honed his body to within an inch of perfection can do and slides in behind me, pointing toward the lake. “I knew I wanted to build here the minute I saw this view.”
“And what, you decided to go big or go home?” I tease because this house is practically a fortress. “You know what they say about men with big houses, don’t you, Jamie?”
“That they like their privacy and security? Or maybe that they had enough people prying into their lives at a young age that they wanted to be as far away from the rest of the world when they’re home to not even have to think about them or see them if they don’t want to?
” He drags his eyes over Kyrie, who, I swear to God, fell asleep from the sound of his stupid voice.
How is that fair? “Or maybe . . .”—his voice drops deeper—“maybe they say men with big houses are overcompensating for other things, but come on now, Ace.” He reaches up slowly and tucks my hair behind my ear, and my breath catches in my damn throat.
“We both know I’m not lacking, now don’t we? ”