5. Teresa #2
What am I doing? I didn’t date athletes, much less cocky baseball players.
I’d been there, done that, and had the heartbreak and T-shirt to prove why it was a bad idea.
He’s not your ex, a little voice, the same one that jumped up with glee when he came around, whispered.
He wasn’t, but there was no doubt in my mind that Jeremy Fletcher was his own kind of trouble.
“Umm, okay, hold on.” I texted her, asking her to let me know she was home safe and sound before slipping it into my purse. “So, what did you want me here for?” I asked, turning my body to his. Heat pulsated off him in waves.
Heat I wanted to lavish in, skin to skin. My body heated at the thought. My eyes dropped to his chest. Would he be hairless or hairy? Did I care either way if it meant letting my hands roam up and down his body?
“To show you off.” His voice dropped an octave, and sweat started to form at the back of my neck
“What?” My voice cracked, his words snapping me out of my lust-filled haze.
“To show you off,” he repeated. I frowned.
“Look, Fletcher—“
“Jeremy,” he corrected with a wink. “Or baby if you’re feeling sweet,” he teased but moved in closer.
“I’m not sweet.”
“With me, you will be.”
“Fletcher—“
“Come on.” Before I could ask what he meant, his fingers tangled with mine and we were moving through the crowd.
The party was in full swing now. People drinking, flirting, chatting all around us. Some even making out. But his massive body shielded me as we made our way through the house and into the room where music was playing loudly. I looked around. Everyone was dancing. Dancing.
“What are you—“ I didn’t say another word.
I couldn’t when a soft Spanish song with a sultry tempo and bass felt like it reverberated off the walls. Jeremy’s strong arms pulled me into him gently, carefully, like I was made of delicate glass before his hand rested perfectly on my hip while the other pulled my arm up and over his shoulder.
Dios mio, is he… is he dancing? With me?
His hips moved to the sultry beat of the seductive bachata song.
His movements took my breath away as everything started to tingle.
Warmth pooled between my legs when one of his moved between mine.
The skirt of my dress hitched higher, not enough for anyone to see anything, not that I was worried, but enough to feel the roughness of his denim pants rub deliciously against my smooth skin.
Jeremy moved like an expert, as if he had been dancing his entire life.
It was as sexy hell. His confidence. The control he had not only on his body but mine.
I trusted him to lead and just held on to him while the music flowed through me.
My eyes fluttered shut, not because I was embarrassed or anything, but to soak it all in.
The sinfully sexy song, feeling his large and incredibly strong body against mine.
My laughter was soft when he spun me slowly, careful not to get me dizzy or bump any of what felt like too many bodies in the room dancing.
My back touched his front while my hips started to move back and forth against him on my own accord. There was no denying just how affected he was as I rested the back of my head against his pec. My hips ground against the hard ridge of what I was assuming was his cock.
His seriously impressive cock.
The song melted into another and another.
Lust and need simmered to almost a boiling point, melding with something else.
Something heavier, headier, almost intimate.
Sexy Spanish bachata love songs that talked about deep, heavy yearning and needing someone so badly they couldn’t think straight blared through the DJ’s speakers.
I knew it would be stupid to think he had anything to do with the music that played.
But in that moment, everything felt heightened.
My skin felt hot and pulled too tightly across my body.
“Love how you move with me, mi cielo,” he rasped against the shell of my ear.
“How—" My natural instinct to give attitude perked up.
“Shh,” he tenderly shushed. “Just dance with me.”
“Hmm,” I sighed under my breath a little too dreamily. Sweat glistened at my hairline and the back of my neck, but I didn’t care. Not when Jeremy’s body felt so damn good. A guy bumped into me, and the carefree, sweet, gentle man I had been dancing with disappeared.
“Hey! Watch it!” Jeremy growled, pushing me behind him.
“Jer—“ I called his name, wrapping my own arm around his middle. He was strong, there was no denying that, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have strength of my own.
“What the fuck is your problem, Fletch?” a drunk frat guy slurred.
“Apologize for bumping into what’s mine,” Jeremy seethed. The guy was too drunk and too stupid to read the serious tone in Jeremy’s voice.
“Apologize?” The guy started to chuckle and sway, “Bro, it’s packed in here.”
“I said—” Jer’s hand whipped out and he grabbed the guy.
By.
The.
Throat.
My head spun and wetness coated my inner thighs. Why was him going all caveman hot?
“Jeremy,” I called again, pulling on his waist. His hand covered mine, not to pull it away but to keep it in place.
“I said apologize.”
“So-sor-sorry,” the guy roughly stuttered. “Come on, man,” he gasped, and I didn’t miss the way Jeremy’s hand tightened.
“Like you mean it,” my guy growled menacingly.
“Sorry!” The drunk guy repeated. Jeremy pushed him back; the less drunk guys and now sobering-up friends caught him.
“Be more careful next time,” Jeremy said, the warning crystal clear.
“Fucking psycho.” The drunk guy coughed and shook his head before he stumbled out of the room.
Jeremy turned, and my heart galloped in my chest. He’d just done the absolute most red-flag thing possible, yet the moment his eyes touched mine, I knew I was in love.