Chapter 32
There’s a crowd at his house when we pull in. Extra trucks and cars litter the driveway, half of them I don’t recognize.
“Shit,” Colter mutters as he angles the truck into the garage. “Forgot it’s game night.”
“Game night?” I echo. My brain flashes to Monopoly and Pictionary, which doesn’t exactly match the vibe of the ranch guys I’ve met so far. They don’t strike me as the roll-the-dice crowd.
“Soccer,” he says.
“Oh.” Awkward. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a soccer fan.” Not that I know what he is a fan of. We barely know each other. Strangers, really.
Strangers who happen to have really good sex.
“I’m more into MMA,” he admits, sliding out of the truck. “But a lot of the guys are into it.”
Before I can move, he’s circling around to my side, opening my door, and offering his hand like I might refuse. He grabs the overnight bag I packed from the floorboard before I can even reach for it.
Nerves prickle under my skin as I follow him toward the house.
God, I hope this isn’t anything like Jackson’s pool parties.
I can’t do the nudity and open sex thing again.
And if I’d known there would be an audience tonight, I might’ve worn something besides ratty leggings and a hoodie. Maybe even swiped on mascara.
The second we step inside, noise hits me.
The television blares commentary, bodies fill the space—some standing, others draped across couches, a few leaning in the doorways like permanent fixtures.
Laughter spills from the kitchen to our right.
It’s crowded enough to make me feel like I can blend in. Or at least sneak away if I need to.
“Colter!” A voice booms over the noise.
A man peels himself from the pack, tall and broad, grinning like he owns the air in the room. He carries a beer that sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Colter’s mouth twitches into something that looks like a smile, though I’ve learned with him that it’s more about the teeth than the warmth. “Jericho.”
The guy claps Colter’s shoulder, hard enough that I hear the smack of it. Colter doesn’t so much as flinch. Then those sharp green eyes cut to me, lingering, curious. Like I’m the punchline to a joke he hasn’t told yet.
“And who’s this?” Jericho asks, dragging it out like he already knows but wants Colter to say it out loud.
Colter doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds the small of my back, hot and firm through the hoodie, pinning me to him like an anchor. “Peyton.” Just my name, but the weight of it in his voice feels like more.
Jericho’s eyebrows climb, his grin spreading. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He tips his beer toward me in mock salute. “Didn’t think we’d ever see the day.”
I frown, not sure what the hell that means, but Colter ignores him and keeps steering me forward. People shift as we move, eyes flicking our way, curious but not cruel. A ripple of attention that trails after us like we’ve dragged something into the room that doesn’t belong.
My pulse jumps. I don’t know these people. Don’t know what they think they know. But I can feel their stares like fingerprints pressing into my skin.
Colter doesn’t explain, doesn’t slow. He cuts a clean path through the house, the crowd making room for him like it’s second nature.
The television dominates the living room, massive and bright, blasting the soccer match. A handful of guys shout at the screen, groaning with every bad pass, the air thick with beer and testosterone.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “So… this is game night?”
The corner of his mouth ticks, and he bends close enough that his breath grazes my ear. “You’ll survive.”
Easy for him to say. He belongs here. Me? I’m the outsider in yesterday’s clothes, trying not to look like I’ve been dragged into the spotlight.
But his hand doesn’t leave me. Possessive, steady. It keeps me tethered when my instincts whisper to find the nearest exit.
Jericho’s laugh cuts across the room again, sharp and knowing, and I can’t help but wonder what exactly everyone here thinks they know about Colter Shaw, and what it is they see when they look at me.
“Wings and shit in the kitchen, Colt!” someone yells as we pass the living room.
Colter doesn’t answer. He keeps moving, steering me up the stairs and down the hall like the crowd downstairs no longer exists.
“We’re not staying down there?” I ask as we step into his room. The words slip out before I can stop them. Does he not want anyone to see me?
“We’ll go back down,” he says. “But I want to change. Thought you might want to unpack your bag.”
“Unpack?” My head tilts.
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Yeah. Hang your clothes in my closet. Drawers on the right side are yours—I cleared them out earlier.”
Cleared them out for me? Why? I’m only staying the night. Maybe two. Why go to the trouble?
I swallow the questions back, shove down the lump in my throat, and do as he says. He disappears into the bathroom, door shut behind him. By the time I’ve put away the few things I brought, I sink onto his bed, curling myself around one of his pillows.
It smells like him.
“I love the sight of you in my bed,” he murmurs, standing at the edge of the bed. “Come here.”
Uncurling myself from his pillow, I shift onto my hands and knees and crawl to him until I am kneeling in front of him at the edge.
His gaze drops to my leggings and before I can process what he is doing, his hand slides into the waistband and cups me.
“No panties,” he groans while he gently massages my slit with his fingers. “Are you sore?”
“Not really,” I gasp as he drives two fingers inside of me. Maybe I am a little sore.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine as he continues to play with me. I whimper and brace myself by holding onto his forearms.
“I was thinking about licking it,” he tells me, dipping his head so that he is breathing in my ear. The warmth of his breath against my sensitive skin causes the flesh on my arms to raise. “But then I’d have to fuck it.”
“Then fuck me,” I moan, more than eager to strip naked and spread myself out for him like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
His chuckle is low, dark, vibrating straight through me. He curls his fingers once, hard enough to make my breath hitch, then slowly pulls them free. My body clenches at the loss, aching, begging.
“You think you’re ready for me again?” he murmurs, dragging the wetness he’s stolen across my inner thigh with deliberate slowness. “You’d break, little one. And I’m not about to waste you like that.”
I squirm, thighs pressing together, but his hand clamps down on my hip, stilling me. His mouth curves in that dangerous half-smile as he leans close, lips brushing my ear.
“You’ll have to wait and sit through game night knowing exactly how wet you are for me,” he tells me, his voice rough silk. “And I’ll know it too.”
The words land like a cruel promise, especially when he lifts his fingers and lets me see the shine of my own arousal glistening across his skin. He doesn’t look away as he brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that makes my core throb.
He pats my thigh once, like I’ve been dismissed, then steps away to the dresser and pulls a clean shirt from the drawer like he didn’t unravel me with two fingers.
I collapse back onto his bed, clutching the pillow to my chest, glaring at his broad back as he strips out of his shirt. “You’re evil,” I mutter.
He glances over his shoulder; smirk still etched on his face. “No, Peyton. I’m patient. You should try it sometime.”
My body aches in protest, but the heat in his eyes when they find mine tells me this game isn’t over.
“Let’s go.” He waves for me to go first before following me out, closing his bedroom door behind him.
Taking my hand, he leads me back downstairs and into the fray.
Once we’re back on the main floor, he makes a beeline for the living room.
The room doesn’t quiet, but all heads to turn toward us as we walk in.
One of the guys, who’d been intently watching the match on the television, jumps up from his spot on the sofa as if he’d been kicked and gestures for Colter to take it.
He takes the seat, pulling me down to sit on his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he owns me. Like everyone else in this room already knows it.
I stiffen, every nerve lighting up at once, but his arm bands around my waist, keeping me flush against him. His chest is a solid wall behind me, his breath warm against my temple as though daring me to move.
“Relax,” he murmurs low enough that only I can hear. “They’re not going to bite.”
Maybe not. But they are watching.
The man who gave up the seat drops into a chair on the far side, beer in hand, smirk carved into his face like he knows a joke I don’t.
Across the room, Jericho leans against the doorframe with that same wolfish grin, eyes cutting to me, then back to Colter like he’s cataloging the way Colter holds me.
The crowd roars at something on the screen—an almost-goal, the ball skimming wide of the net. It makes me jump. Colter chuckles, low and rough in my ear, and I want to elbow him for sounding so damn amused.
“Not much of a sports fan?” one of the guys calls over, catching the way I tense. His tone isn’t cruel, but it’s probing. Testing.
I plaster on something that might pass for a smile. “Depends on the sport.”
“Ah, she’s cagey,” Jericho says, voice booming over the noise. “Perfect match for you, Colt.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I try not to squirm in his lap, but Colter’s hand slides from my waist to my thigh, squeezing once like he knows I’m one second from bolting.
“Eat,” he says, nodding toward the coffee table where wings, nachos, and an entire graveyard of pizza boxes are spread out. “Before Jericho starts running his mouth even more.”
“I’m not hungry.”