30. Amelia
THIRTY
AMELIA
The clinic with Emmy runs smoothly on Saturday morning, and watching the All-Star Game from the stands instead of being in the middle of the action is a nice change of pace.
I’m exhausted by the time I rattle off my name to the guy out front of a sleek-looking building that night, but I rally with a smile when he welcomes me inside.
The club is warm. The lights are low, the music is loud, and I stop to drop my outer layer at coat check. I spot Emmy sitting at a table in the corner, flanked by Maverick and Grant, and I head their way.
“Hey,” I say when I get close. Grant’s grip slips on the beer bottle he’s holding when he stares at my skirt. “Mind if I join you all?”
“Hi!” Emmy gives me a hug. “Do you want a drink?”
“Maybe a gin and tonic?” I say, and Maverick stands.
“I’ll grab it for you. I need a refresh. G-Money? Another beer?”
“Whiskey,” he croaks. “A double, please. Neat. If they’ll do a triple, I’ll take that.”
“He’s here to party.” Maverick grins. “Emmy girl. Want to join me?”
“To carry the drinks five feet from the bar to our table? Are you that dependent on me?” she jokes. “Don’t answer that. I know you are.”
“Guilty as hell,” he says, holding out his hand. “I really just want to make out with you.”
When they disappear, Grant swallows a sip of his beer then pats the spot next to him on the leather bench.
“Want to sit?” he asks.
“Please. I love my heels, but I’ve been standing all day. My feet need a break.” I drop in the empty seat and give him a grateful smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” His throat bobs. There’s a flash of heat behind his gaze when he moves his attention from my feet up to my thighs. “I love your heels too, by the way. I like how tall they make you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Pure honesty. A hand scrubbing over his jaw. “Tall women are my kryptonite.”
“Careful, Everett.” I lean closer. “You’re not supposed to tell me your weaknesses.”
“The drinking has my tongue loose, I guess.” He taps my knee, and my skin ignites under the warmth of his palm. “How was your clinic with Emmy?”
“Amazing. The girls were eager to learn and ask questions. Emmy and I have a platform, but sometimes I forget about my influence until I see it in real time. Does that make sense?”
“It does. You’re not always around young girls to give them advice. When you are, you see firsthand how important your position is.”
“That’s exactly right. I’m glad you get it.”
“I totally do. What about the rest of the weekend? Are you having fun?”
“Between the clinic and watching the game tonight as a fan, I’d give it a solid eight out of ten.”
“An eight?” Grant frowns. “What do we have to do to get the night to a ten?”
“I don’t know.” I reach for his beer, finishing what’s left of the drink. He tracks my movements, his mouth parting with a rough exhale when I lick a rogue drop from my upper lip. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“I’m going to do my best.” His eyes rake over my outfit, from my short skirt to the jewelry I left on after we talked yesterday. “Am I allowed to tell you that you look beautiful?”
He’s leaving the decision up to me, and I glance at the people in the club.
No one is paying attention to what’s going on around them.
No phones, no cameras. Everyone a little less guarded with a drink or two in their hands.
It’s like the league collectively agreed tonight is an excuse for debauchery, and that means I’m allowed to indulge too.
For an hour or so, I’m allowed to be called nice names.
“I won’t argue with you if I do,” I say.
“Better take advantage of it,” Grant says. He rests his hand on the cushion between us. He fans his fingers out, pinky grazing along the hem of my skirt. I blink, and the touch is gone far too soon. “You’re stunning, Amelia.”
It’s not the first nice thing he’s said to me.
There’s been comments in the past that have been edged with an extra layer of softness, but tonight he’s earnest about it.
Unabashed with the slow look at my hair that tumbles past my shoulders in loose waves.
Appreciative in the top of my thigh highs he sees when I shift on the leather.
The guard I put up lowers half a degree. I allow myself to acknowledge the increasingly obvious fact that Grant is hot as hell, and out of everyone in the room, he’s looking at me.
Reckless.
Sitting with him like this is reckless, but he’s a magnet I can’t pull away from.
“Thank you.” I take a second to admire his jeans and the plain black T-shirt stretching over his chest. “So do you, but I would’ve preferred a crop top.”
His laugh is rich and smooth, a sound I hold close when Maverick and Emmy bring our drinks back to the table. Grant takes his whiskey then scoots the gin and tonic my way.
“Cheers, everyone,” he says. “To a good break and a successful last part of the season.”
The four of us trade stories, and our first round turns into a second. People come by our table to say hello, and introductions are tossed around. An hour into our night, Maverick and Emmy disappear, leaving the two of us alone again.
“Are you a dancer?” Grant asks.
“God no.” I throw back the last of my drink. “I have coordination on the ice, but on a dance floor? Absolutely not.”
“Okay.” He finishes his whiskey and stands, offering me his hand. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Dance.”
“What?” I burst out laughing. “I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“You think anyone’s going to be able to tell you have two left feet? It’s dark as shit in here.”
“I will dance for one song, but that’s it.”
“Great, because they just put on ‘Twist and Shout,’ and this is an easy one.”
Our fingers intertwine as I follow him through the crowd. There’s a moment of panic that someone will call us out for standing so close, but everyone we pass seems to be bordering on severely inebriated. My own inhibitions are lowered, and I put a hand on his arm when we find a spot in the corner.
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask over the song.
“I’m not picky.” Grant sways back and forth. “But I don’t like country.”
“Heavy metal?”
“Obviously. I love screaming my way through a minor inconvenience.”
“You’re funny,” I say with a smile. “And I don’t find many people funny.”
“A badge I’ll wear with honor.” He keeps hold of my hand, lifting my arm above my head so I can spin around. “When do you fly home?”
“In the morning. We see each other in March, right?”
“In Denver, yeah. Only five weeks away.”
“Are you going to wear your crop top?”
“Will you wear your jewelry?” Grant reaches out, playing with the links of my silver necklace. The brush of his knuckles against my skin, featherlight. The promise that it could be more. I’m hot all over. “Please?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, inching closer to him. He smells so nice and feels so warm. “But only because I like when people ask for things nicely.”
“I’ve always had very good manners. My momma raised me right,” he rasps, voice cloaked with a drink too many.
Desire rips through me. I want to kiss him, to touch him.
It’s the first time I’ve ever had these thoughts, the only time I’ve ever let my mind wander so dangerously.
Pressed against a wall. His hand under my skirt, and I blame it on the alcohol.
My thoughts are too muddled to know right from wrong.
The last rational part of my brain is telling me I need to leave before I do something I’m going to regret.
“I should head back,” I say, reluctant.
“Do you want me to walk with you? We could split a cab.”
Hopefulness tinges his tone, and it’s the sign that lets me know it’s time. I don’t want to—can’t—give him the wrong idea, and asking him to walk me back to my room will only lead to trouble.
How fun would it be to stay longer? To go somewhere quieter?
I’ll never know.
“No.” I smile and put my hand over his. One more lingering touch before the night ends and this spell breaks. “But I’ll let you know when I’m back in my room.”
“Okay.” Grant nods, not pushing back on my decision. Respectful, even in the face of rejection. What a man. “Be safe, please.”
“I will. Thanks for a fun night.”
“Thanks for coming. I’ll see you soon.”
“Can’t wait.” I turn toward the stairs that will lead me to the exit. “I’m counting down the minutes.”
Back in my hotel room, I rinse off and wash my face. I change into my favorite pair of pajamas and climb into bed. Grant is still in the forefront of my thoughts even after my shower, and I relax against the pillows. My hand rests on my stomach, toying with the drawstring of my shorts.
I’m worked up. Practically buzzing, and I slip my hand lower, past the waistband of my underwear.
Fuck.
When was the last time I touched myself?
It has to be weeks, and I wiggle my shorts and underwear down my thighs. I pull my shirt over my head, stretching out on the mattress. I close my eyes, my imagination wandering. I never have anyone specific in mind when I get off, relying on hazy fantasies to guide me toward an orgasm.
Tonight, the image is clear: sharp jaw. Dark hair. Please.
What else would he beg for?
I give in to temptation, parting my thighs and closing my eyes as I circle my clit with my finger. I tease myself, my other hand dancing across my chest and pinching my nipple tight, just the way I like.
Bigger hands would be better.
His hands would be better, thicker fingers that would get deeper inside me. I bend my knees and draw my feet closer. I take a breath, easing a finger inside myself while a moan rattles out of me.
I squirm at the stretch and the deliciously pleasant sensation that builds in my stomach.
I think about Grant’s palm on my neck, his mouth leaving a mark on my thigh.
I drop my hand from my chest, circling my clit.
I bite my bottom lip when I add a second finger, not wanting my groan to wake up the whole floor.
My back arches. I open my knees wider, so close to the high I so desperately want.
I imagine him sitting in the chair across from me. Watching me, telling me what he wants.
Would you try three fingers for me? he’d ask. Please?
Are you wet? Can I taste?
The thought of Grant seeing me like this—vulnerable, intimate and forbidden—sends a shockwave through my body. Pleasure grips me. Ecstasy rings in my ears when I gasp as the orgasm hits.
I cry out, unable to hold back the elation of my release, and a smaller, second wave sweeps me away. I drift higher and higher before crashing down.
It’s the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had, a full-body experience that takes me minutes to come down from. When I do, my limbs are heavy. Exhaustion hits me like a freight train, and I smile, thoroughly pleased.
Sex is better, but this’ll take the edge off for a little while.
On the bedside table, my phone lights up. I grab it, squinting at the screen.
GE
Did you get back okay?
I roll onto my side, the delicious ache between my legs subsiding. I answer him with one hand, the other still resting on my breast as my breathing evens out.
Me
I’m all tucked in.
GE
Good night?
Me
10/10.
GE
Glad I could be a part of it.
I might be guilty as sin because of what I just did, but no one has to know he is my muse. Secrets are that for a reason, and using Grant Everett as my inspiration for an orgasm is one I’m never going to share with anyone.
Especially him.