Chapter 22
Reece
Icheck the time, then check it again.
Twenty-eight minutes. Not that I’m counting. Or that I’ve been planted at the kitchen bench this entire time with the same can of Pepsi slowly going flat in my hand. Not that I’ve opened the fridge, stared into it, shut it, then opened it again just to pass the time.
She’s late.
Not Sam getting distracted late with the sorry-I-got-caught-up-grabbing-a-pen late. This is different.
It’s the kind of late that makes my mind chatter.
Every worst-case scenario lines up, one after another, loud as hell.
Did she change her mind because it’s not worth it, or did someone say something to her?
Or did something happen on the way here?
Did the fear finally win?
I hate how quickly my thoughts turn to shit when she’s not where I expect her to be.
I run a hand through my hair and tell myself to calm the fuck down. She’s fine. She’ll walk through the door any second.
I check the time again.
Yeah, she’ll be here. She always shows up.
We haven’t put much effort into the assessment at all. Grades are important to her. Her future matters. She doesn’t half-ass anything.
She’ll bring her books, her highlighters, that determined little frown—but it’s always her mouth I keep tasting. Her moan in my ear and her thighs around my waist. Her nails dragging down my back while I fuck her across every surface in this place.
I exhale sharply and try to push the nerves away.
I wonder what she’ll say when I tell her there’s a scout coming. That Mayfair might actually see me. Might actually want me.
I wonder if she’ll want me there with her. If she sees me in her future, just like I’m starting to see her in mine.
Shit, listen to me. Acting like I already have the offer, as if the scout already has my name on the damn scholarship.
The doorbell rings.
I don’t walk. I launch forward like I’m running a drill. My heart fucking jumps, nearly knocking the can out of my hand.
My hand hits the doorknob too fast. I yank the door open.
There she is.
Damn, she is beautiful.
Sunlight hits her red hair, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. That perfect shade of red that makes you think of fire, cinnamon, and sex. Eyes dancing as if she doesn’t realize she already owns me.
“Hey,” she says.
One word—that’s all it takes—and I’m out. Cooked. Melted right into the damn floorboards. Heart doing backflips. Cock already half-hard.
“Hey,” I manage.
She walks past me, her bag swinging low off her shoulder, hips swaying just enough to affect me. Her perfume reaches me next, sweet and alluring, before she smiles at me.
When I fumble while shutting the door because I’m too busy staring at her mouth, she laughs. That breathy, hit-me-in-the-gut kind of sound that makes my skin buzz.
We walk down the hall side by side, not touching. Still, my fingers twitch uncontrollably. Useless urges, always wanting more—wanting to curl around her wrist, her waist, and her throat.
But I don’t touch her because she asked me to hold back until the shitstorm settles. And I want to be that guy. The one who respects her boundaries. Even when my body’s burning to do the opposite.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence as we reach my room. “What did you want to tell me?”
She moves over to the bed and drops her bag, as casual as anything on the floor.
I exhale a breath, grateful for the shift before I lose my damn mind.
“Do you remember what you said the other night?” I ask, as I drop onto the edge of the bed.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific.” She sits down next to me.
“The part where you said I could still try,” I say. “For the team. For everything I thought I’d already fucked up.”
Her expression softens. “Yeah, I remember.”
My heart pounds again. Loud. Stupid. Honest.
“Coach pulled me aside after practice and said there’s a scout coming from Mayfair.” The words feel heavy in my mouth. “He’s coming next weekend to watch West. But Coach said he’ll be watching everyone.”
Her eyes widen, then that smile appears. The one that gets to me every time. The one I crave more than air now.
“Reece,” she says, leaning in closer. “That’s huge.”
“It is.” I nod.
She studies my face. “But is it what you want?”
I don’t hold back. Don’t downplay it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I want it. I want it bad.”
“So we’d be there together?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “If you want it.”
The hesitation, the hope, the weight of everything we haven’t said is all in the weight of her gaze.
“But fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair, “I haven’t even been accepted yet. I don’t wanna get ahead of myself.”
“You’ll get there,” she says without missing a beat. “You were the best player on the field last game, Reece.”
I gaze at her. Red hair catching the light, eyes sharp and steady. The girl I never should have touched. The girl I can’t stop needing.
“You really think that?” I ask, my voice already cracking at the edges.
She lifts her hand and touches my face, brushing her fingers against my jaw as if she’s been dying to do it but hadn’t let herself until now.
“Yeah,” she says, steady as hell. “I do.”
And that’s it.
The world comes to a halt. My thoughts fall silent. I pull her close until there’s no space left to breathe, until only the scent of her skin and the gentle rush of her breath against my mouth remain.
Her lips are soft when I press mine to hers. She makes a quiet little sound in the back of her throat, surprised, and for half a second I think she might pull away.
She doesn’t. Instead, she melts into me.
My hand slides to her waist, gripping tightly, fingers digging in. My other hand cups her face, thumb brushing her cheek, and damn, the smell of her floods my mind until she’s all I can think about.
Her body presses against mine, heat soaking straight through my clothes, and my cock reacts instantly. I move my mouth to her neck, tasting her skin, breathing her in. She arches without thinking, giving me exactly the space I need, as if her body already knows how this goes.
Her hand fists in my shirt, tugging me closer, desperate and needy in a way that destroys me. She wants more. I feel it in the way she clings, the way her breath catches, how her hips tilt toward me.
Every kiss ignites. Every touch burns hotter. I’m trembling with it—longing for her, needing her.
“Please,” I murmur against her skin. I pull back enough to look at her, my eyes dark, chest heaving. “Please let me fuck you.”
I’m begging. I’ve never begged before. Never had to. But for her, I would. I’d beg. I’d lose my mind. I’d give her everything because she already has me—every broken, desperate, messed-up piece.
She pulls back, her eyes locked on mine, burning and fearless. Her hands reach for the hem of her shirt, and she yanks it over her head in one smooth, fierce motion.
Fuck.
She’s sitting there in a red lace bra, confidence radiating from her. Every guy’s fantasy doesn’t even come close to capturing it. This is so much more than that.
Her fingers reach behind her back and unclip the clasp. Her bra slips off her shoulders and falls away, forgotten. My gaze follows it down, then snaps right back to her tits. Fuck, they’re perfect. My mouth goes dry. I tongue comes out to wet my bottom lip.
I drop to my knees before her.
My hands reach for her boots as I take my time, sliding them off while savoring every second. She watches me, her breath shallow, chest rising and falling, fully aware of what she’s doing to me.
When I’m finished, my hands are on her again. I guide her back until she’s stretched out on the bed, hair fanned over the pillow, tits bare, eyes dark and waiting.
My cock is hard as hell, aching, but I don’t rush.
I hover over her, palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips, and look down at her—the girl who wrecked me without even trying.
My fingers find the button on her jeans, executing that practiced flick to snap it open quickly.
The zipper comes next, my knuckles brushing her skin as I pull it down.
Then I grip the waistband, slowly tugging her jeans and panties down in one deliberate, punishing pull.
My eyes remain fixed on every inch I uncover.
She shivers when the air hits her, but she keeps her legs open.
Good girl.
I toss the denim somewhere behind me. Not even sure where. My focus is fixed on the bare fucking heaven between her thighs. Smooth. Wet. So fucking perfect it makes my cock ache.
My tongue slides over my bottom lip, slow and hungry. I want to taste her and make her forget every damn name but mine.
“Goddamn, Red,” I mutter, voice low and strained with hunger. “Are you always this eager for me? Or just when you know I’m gonna ruin that pretty, perfect pussy?”
My hands grip her knees and push them apart, wide enough to make her blush. I don’t look away. My eyes devour every inch of her spread out for me.
Three days.
Three damn days without touching her, without tasting her, and it’s been pure agony. I’ve been crawling out of my skin, twitching for the hit, desperate for the fix only she can give me.
“You’re fucking perfect,” I growl, voice full of need. My fingers dig into her thighs, rough enough to make her gasp, to leave marks I’ll make her see later.
“And I’m not rushing a single fucking second of this,” I mutter, lowering myself between her legs, breath hitting her skin. “You’re gonna feel it all. Every second. Every inch. Every time I make you beg.”
And shit, I haven’t needed anything more.
My fingers slide through her slick folds, teasing, slow and cruel. She arches off the bed with a hiss, hips chasing every touch of my fingers. I growl, the strain crawling down my throat because I know I should take this slow… but fuck, I’m barely hanging on by a thread.
“Shit,” I rasp, voice like gravel. My eyes meet hers and lock, dark and hungry. My fingers go deeper, spreading her open, dragging her wetness across my skin. I smirk, all teeth and filth.