Chapter 13
Gray
I’m home. Which is to say, I’m standing in front of Ivy’s door. I’ve been standing here too long. The neighbors are going to start to wonder what the hell I’m doing. Fuck if I know. My balls are in danger of freezing, and I can’t make myself knock.
We had phone sex. I’m almost positive of it. And how messed up is it that I’m not sure? Had she realized I’d jacked off to her breathless voice? Had she hung up before or after I came? I’m not certain. And it’s doing a number on me.
I’m all twitchy and tense. It’s like a false start. Am I going to get called for stepping over the line before the snap? Or is the fact that she enjoyed it permission enough to let this transgression slide?
Because there is one thing I do know: she got off on our conversation too. I heard those little strangled whimpers she’d made. As if she’d tried so hard not to be heard but the orgasm was too strong to fully contain. Oh, sweet hell, just thinking about it has my cold dick heating up.
I know when she opens the door and I see her face, I won’t be able to stop myself from touching her. I don’t want to resist anymore. I want to sink myself into Ivy, surround myself in her warmth and breathe in her freshness. I want to hear her sounds again and discover new ones, make her lose control, shout my name.
My hand shakes as I lift it to knock. Knuckles rapping against the door, my heart pounds out a rhythm that sounds like Ivy, Ivy, Ivy in my head.
I hear her approaching. Mouth dry, I wait. My dick is so hard now, it’s pushing against my jeans with an eagerness that’s staggering. I have never wanted this badly. Never waited this long.
I almost whimper when the door swings open. But then I see her and promptly wilt.
“Mac,” I get out. “Honey, you look...”
“Awful,” she finishes for me with a voice that sounds like a dying frog’s. Pale and pasty, her eyes are swollen and red, her nose running. She makes a pitiful face and then sobs. “I feel like ass.”
I hate sickness. Being around ill people freaks me out now. I don’t hesitate. I step into the house and pull her close.
My face hurts, literally hurts, like someone has used it as a punching bag and stomped on it for good measure. Add the fact that my head feels like a bowling ball teetering on the top of my neck, and I’d wanted to weep when I’d trudged toward my door. I’d known who was banging on it, and I hadn’t felt like facing him while I looked like the walking dead. To be honest, I hadn’t felt like facing him at all. Not after the things we’d last said to each other.
Gray’s affable expression had faded the moment he’d seen me. But he hadn’t turned and run off to get an axe, so there was that to be thankful for.
Now that he is here, his big, strong body offering me support—literally, because I can only lean against him and pray that the pounding in my head will soon end—I sigh with relief. He is here. I don’t care about the phone sex. Or anything other than his presence making me feel better.
His chest rumbles when he speaks. “You really do look awful.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, too achy to put any emphasis behind it. “I feel bad.” Now, that came out like a pitiful pout.
“Yeah, I’d say that you do.” Looking fresh and way too healthy for my taste, he rests his cool hand on my forehead. “Jesus, baby, you’re burning up.”
“That’s because I have a fever. And I’ll try to ignore that you called me baby. Do I look like I need diapers?”
“I see we’re a grumpy patient as well.”
At the very least, sickness is an excellent defense against any post-phone-sex awkwardness.
Gray tries to take my hand and lead me toward my room, when the haze fully lifts from my brain. Instantly, I lurch back so he can’t touch me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, and wince at my aching head.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting you into bed.”
“Oh no, you aren’t.” My hands cover my mouth, which is probably ineffectual, but I don’t know what else to do. This also muffles my words when I continue to yell at him. “Get out, Gray. You cannot be here.”
He actually looks hurt, his open expression twisting into a wince, and I solider on, because he’s obviously being thick.
“Gray, you cannot get sick! You need to stay healthy to play, you big oaf. Now, go!” I wave one hand in the direction of the door, while still covering my mouth. “Out with you.”
Does he listen? No. He laughs as though I’m the oaf. “Oh, please, I never get sick. I’ve had my flu shot.”
I roll my eyes and snort, which really isn’t advisable with a stuffed nose.
“And have the immune system of a god,” he adds.
“Fuck! Don’t say that! Quick, knock on wood.” I flail my arms. “Knock on your big, block head.”
In my outrage, I start to cough and almost lose a lung.
His brows draw together in a frown. “Let it go, Mac. There is no way in hell I’m leaving you like this.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.”
A world of skepticism lives in his eyes. “Yeah, not buying that. Now, quit arguing. I’ll be careful with your germ-ridden ass, okay?”
“I so want to blow a raspberry at you right now. You’re just lucky I care about your football career too much to risk spraying germs.”
“I’m touched.” He purses his lips when I sway on my feet. “Hell, you shouldn’t even be walking around.”
His arm wraps around my waist, his other arm snakes under my thighs, and then I’m airborne, all six feet of me. As simple as that, as if I’m no heavier than his gym bag.
Arguing has left me weak and whiny. I rest my head against his shoulder and enjoy the novelty of being carried.
“Don’t scold,” I say as he puts me down in my bedroom. “I was getting the door.”
I give him a pointed look, which he ignores in favor of pulling back my sheets. The bed swims before my eyes, glimmering like an oasis in a sea of misery. But I’m so hot; the flannel PJs I’d thrown on to answer the door suffocate me. Hesitating, I glance at Gray. “I can take it from here.”
The floor tilts.
Gray’s arm slips around my shoulder. “Sure you can, Special Sauce.” Cool blue eyes study me for a moment, and then he starts to ease my pajama pants down my hips.
“Gray!” I make a furtive attempt to hold on to them.
He pauses, looking up at me with brows lifted in confusion. “What? You’re burning up. And you have underwear on, right?”
“Yeah. But—”
“It’s not any different than seeing you in a bathing suit.” He gives me another look, grinning now. “Unless you’re wearing naughty panties?”
“You sound way too hopeful there, bud.”
“I always hold out hope for sexy underwear. Step.”
I do as told, way too aware of my bare legs and the fact that I’m sweating like a farmer. But he’s right. I’m wearing basic boy briefs that cover me more than a bikini would, and frankly, I’m too sick to put up a fuss any longer.
Gray turns into Mr. Brisk Efficiency, neatly pulling off my shirt and not even looking at my bra as he handles me into bed and covers me with cool sheets. With a sigh, I sink into the bed, and Gray closes the curtains against the harsh daylight.
I drift in and out as he leaves the room then comes back to give me painkillers and a glass of orange juice. His care has my heart clenching within the walls of my aching chest.
“Thank you,” I rasp past the needles in my throat. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do. I would never leave you like this.”
Gray takes my glass, then rounds the bed to the other side. Without pause, he unbuttons his jeans, and I try not to gape as they slither down his long legs and expose thighs that are truly magnificent. No, I will not check out his package, nicely held by a pair of blue boxer briefs. Before I can utter a word, he’s sliding in and gathering me up.
I’m not prepared for it, or the feel of his hands against my bare back. The touch sends little shivers over my skin but I snuggle in closer, wrapping my arm around his torso and resting my head on his shoulder with a whimper.
The only man who’s ever given me comfort is my dad, and that was in the form of awkward pats and general fussing with thermometers and medicines. Nothing like this. This is Gray. Strong, solid Gray, who smells like happy dreams. It feels good. So good that tears threaten.
“I hate being sick,” I grump against his chest to hide my fit of emotion. “It sucks.”
His big body shifts, and he makes a sound that I know means he’s smiling. “Sucks big.” His long fingers trace idle patterns along my back. “Poor, non-baby Mac.”
Closing my eyes, I let my hand wander. Despite my fever, my fingers are cold. I find a swath of Gray’s warm skin, exposed where his shirt rides up on his side.
Gray lets out a small yelp, his flesh jumping away from my touch. “Hell, Mac. Your hand is ice!”
“I know.” It sounds like a whine. “It needs warmth. Gimme.”
His abdomen twitches as I rub it, seeking his heat.
“Stop that!”
“Ticklish?”
He twitches again. “Yes.”
Intrigued, I explore the bumps and ridges that define his torso. I’ve never touched a body like his—a gross injustice that needs to be remedied because I’ve clearly been missing out.
“Jesus, Gray, I can’t get over how cut you are. What do you do? Live at the gym?”
“Daily workouts and five hundred sit-ups a night might have something to do with it.” There’s a smile in his voice.
“Overachiever.”
“More like doing my job.” He ducks his chin to look down at me. “Are you complaining?”
Hell no. “Just feeling inadequately squishy.”
“I love your softness,” he says in a low voice.
Slowly, his hand eases along the dip in my side, up and down, stroking me as if I’m the best thing he’s ever touched. It’s so lovely that I shiver, and he stops as if he’s just realized what he’s doing.
I should put space between us, but I can’t. Not when his body feels so solid, his skin smoother than silk. God, I could run my hands over his rippled abs all night and not tire of it.
But Gray sets his hand over my roaming one. “Cut it out, Mac.” His voice is rough, almost pained. “You’re killing me here.”
I didn’t think I could possibly burn any hotter, but I do. Trying to ignore the rush of embarrassment flowing over me, I duck my chin and burrow into his side—because I couldn’t let him go right now, even if my life depended on it. “Sorry.”
His hand relaxes, and he gives me a little squeeze. “It’s just... You’re touching my stomach. I’m gonna react,” he adds with emphasis.
His meaning hits me full force and I freeze. Does he mean...? The supreme urge to let my hand drift down and investigate is so strong that my fingers curl into a fist against his skin.
It doesn’t matter if he’s hard as a post. The fact that he stopped me makes it clear that he doesn’t want to be.
I’m being so damn inappropriate, it isn’t funny. I’m like some creeper. Gah. It’s bad enough that I’d basically talked myself to orgasm on the phone with him. Oh, God, I can’t think of that now. I’ll curl up and die.
In vain, I search to say something other than Your body is irresistible to me, and I had to stroke it. I fall back on, “I’m sorry. I’m... I don’t know, twitchy. Did I mention how much I hate being sick?”
His laughter rolls over me. “Once or twice.” Almost absently his thumb draws a slow S over the back of my hand. “I get it. You want to move, but it hurts. You want to get up, but you’re too tired.”
A sigh escapes me. “Tell me a story.”
“Oh, God, like ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’ or something?” He sounds horrified.
“No. Ass.” Smiling, I poke his side, and get a nice yelp out of him. “About you. Something to take my mind off the fact that I hurt everywhere.”
“My poor little Special Sauce.” His big hand spreads over my hip, a comfort and a brand on my heated skin. “All right.” He’s silent for a moment. “When I was seventeen, I shit myself.”
A shocked laugh breaks free. “Gray! That’s disgusting.” I laugh again. “What kind of story is that?”
“The kind that will stop you from thinking about being sick, and me from thinking about you stroking my stomach?”
Well, that kills my laughter. Me and my damn roaming hands. “So, you were saying... About your lack of bowel control?”
He snorts, a good-natured sound. “I had the stomach flu. Something fierce. But, back then, I was also a starting offensive lineman—”
“Of course you were. Like I said, overachiever—”
“Hush.” He gives my butt a light smack. “Anyway, I had it in my mind that I’d suck it up and play, do it for the good of the team. Man, it was bad. I could barely stand. My guts were cramping up in pain. And then a big fucking defensive end smashed into me.” He pauses. “He literally knocked the shit out of me.”
I bite my lips. “Oh, Cupcake.” I lose the battle and laugh, hard. “Just...no...”
Gray’s body shakes as he presses his lips against my forehead, his breath coming out in gusts as he clearly tries to control his laughter, and then it hits me: he’s trying not to jostle me. Deep inside my chest, my heart makes a tiny flip.
“Want to know the worst part?” he asks after a moment.
“There’s something worse?”
“Our uniform pants were white.”
“God.” I clutch his lean waist. “Cupcake.”
“They called me Stain from then on.” He makes a sharp, quick snort. “Some of those fuckers still call me that when I go back home.”
“Fuckers,” I agree vehemently.
He glances down and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I would think you’d have been one of the first in line to call me that.”
I press my grin against his pecs. “Can I?”
“Not if you want to live,” he says darkly.
“With the way I’m feeling now, chances of living are touch-and-go.”
Instantly, his body stills, and his hold on me grows more secure. “Don’t say that, Mac. Not even as a joke.”
Then I remember his mother. Horror has my heart skipping a beat, and I cling to him. “You’re right, it was a thoughtless joke.”
His lips brush the top of my head. Not quite a kiss but as if he’s drawing in my scent. “It was a bad story. I should have said something else. Something nice to put you to sleep.”
Tenderness swamps my chest, and I swallow with difficulty. “It was perfect.”
He is perfect. And I am so grateful he’s here with me that I nestle down, wanting to sink into him and never let go. “I love you, Gray.”
It slips out without warning, the words hanging in an awkward silence. Gray’s chest lifts on a sharp breath, and my skin prickles with mortification. I force myself not to tense, not to make my gaffe any worse.
But he simply sighs and rests his chin on the crown of my head. “I love you too, Ivy.”
The lightness of his tone and the gentle way in which he says it makes it clear that we’re talking about the love of friends.
In silence, his hand glides down my thigh, a slow stroke designed to comfort.
Suddenly I am too tired to keep my eyes open. As I drift off to sleep, I count myself lucky that he didn’t take my words the wrong way. I ignore the small part of me that kind of wishes he had.