7. Chapter 7 #3
When I hear him stand, I don’t try to stop him, but I do pull the pillow away just in time to see him adjust his clothing. Most notably his gray sweatpants.
How he’s managed to get me off three times now and I’ve not touched him is beyond me, but then again, maybe he really does think this is all for luck.
He checks his watch. “You’ve got two hours, Coach. I’ll see you on the first tee.”
“See you later,” I say, closing my legs, unable to do or think about much more.
He gives me a salute as he backs out of the room and when I hear the door of my suite close, I lie on top of my hotel bed in my disheveled silk cami and stare at the ceiling, trying to construct a single coherent thought.
Five minutes. That was supposed to get him out of my system.
That five minutes did nothing but make me want more.
Fuck's sake.
“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter to myself, shaking out my hands as I work through my pre-stretches.
Why on earth did I think letting JB touch me—eat me, no less—would make me stop thinking about him?
If anything, it’s made it worse. He’s everywhere, and it doesn’t help that he’s right in front of me laughing with Max, completely unaware of my spiraling thoughts.
The worst part?
I skipped the post-hookup shower because I wasn’t sure if showering would invalidate JB’s luck.
JB is standing to the side, doing his own stretches.
He’s matching me in a simple blue golf shirt with a small catfish logo on one side of his chest. His very broad, muscular chest. Thoughts of pulling his shirt off come to mind.
Actually, now that I think about it, I haven't seen his nipples.
He's always been fully dressed through everything we've done. It's always been about me.
Why is that kind of hot?
JB mimes a swing, which is completely wrong, and Max steps up and taps JB’s hips with his seven iron. JB immediately takes his advice, and I find myself smiling unwittingly. It’s obvious they’re close friends, and I like that for him.
JB sets up a practice swing, and I find myself watching him. His back is square, but the only thing I can focus on is his incredible ass. I swear I can see the muscles moving from here.
How many squats does a man have to do to look like that? It's screaming years of deliberate, disciplined, deeply effective—
“How quickly do you think those cheeks could crack a walnut?”
I jump when Jess appears next to me, enjoying the same view as I am.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you’re doing more than just admiring JB’s swing.”
She takes a sip of her coffee to hide the smirk on her face.
“I’m assessing his setup,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
“It’s better than yesterday, don’t you think?”
“Yup.” Reluctantly, I pull my gaze away from my golf partner and walk around Jess to get to my clubs.
She turns, following me. “His ass is great too.”
“Is it? I haven’t been looking.”
She snorts. “Liar.”
I study my four iron, dusting off invisible dirt, not wanting to meet my friend’s gaze. She already knows she’s right. There’s no need for me to confirm it.
“Makes you wonder what it’s like when all that muscle is actually applied to a task. Imagine the force of that when he’s—”
“Stop.”
“Thrusting into you.”
I shiver.
I’ve already imagined it... Dreamed about it... Felt the force of his fingers...
How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on this game when all I can think about is him?
“You remember that time you got drunk after winning your first championship?”
“No?”
“Really? I remember it well. You said the only thing that would make the win better was finding someone at the bar for a throw down.”
My jaw drops, and I glare at her. Unfortunately, she’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her reaction. “I did not!”
“Oh, babe, you did. You even went into precise detail about what a throw down would involve.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She gestures to JB, who finally takes his swing. “I’m just saying, I think you’ve finally found the man who can give you the ‘throw down’ you’ve been waiting for.”
JB steps back and gives me a subtle wink when he sees me watching.
My heart skips a beat.
No. No, it doesn’t. I am not interested in this man beyond winning this competition. That’s it.
Jess takes an audible sniff.
Then another before she steps closer to me.
Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.
I lean away from her and glare. “What are you doing?”
“You smell different this morning.”
I knew this would come back to haunt me.
“What do you mean?” I play it off.
She lifts her glasses up and rests them on the top of her head. “You aren’t wearing your usual perf—”
She stops herself, audibly gasping.
“What?”
Jess takes a step back and looks me up and down with a wide smile. “You smell of sex, Whit.”
“No, I don’t—”
“You already know how he throws down, don’t you?” She grabs my arm and starts shaking me. “You’ve had sex with him.”
“Jess—”
She holds me still for a split second. Her face is so close that our noses nearly touch. “When? Where?”
“Calm down. I didn't have sex with him.” I hold her gaze as I say it, because it is, in fact, entirely true, and I can deliver it with total conviction because I have the moral high ground of a very specific technicality.
She drops her hand and slumps. “Oh, yeah. Is this where you’re going to lie and tell me you didn’t have an epic make-out session with him in the golf cart yesterday?”
I wish it were just a make-out session. Maybe then I wouldn’t be standing here having mildly unhinged thoughts about my golf partner for the weekend.
“Nothing happened.”
“Then why was your lipstick all over his mouth when he came back?”
“Uh—”
“And why was JB suddenly birdying everything?”
“Because—”
“And you were smiling. You never smile when a camera’s not in front of you.”
“Wait, what?”
“Oh, babe, I love you with all my heart, but you’ve got resting bitch face. I thought you knew?”
Too many questions are being volleyed my way at once. I can’t think.
“Calm down. I didn’t have sex with him.”
Jess narrows her eyes.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You didn’t deny a make-out session. You just got very specific with sex.”
My stomach drops.
“That's not—”
“Oh my God.” She grabs my shoulders. “You did something with him.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me in so she can direct my view back to the man who made me come so hard this morning that I saw stars.
“Tell me everything. Start with the kiss on the cart and end with the throw down of the—”
“We aren't together,” JB says, cutting Jess's rant off. I don't know if I'm thankful he did it, or concerned that he heard any of our conversation.
Either way, my cheeks are heating. Flaming, really.
Max is standing next to him, looking bored out of his damn mind.
“What do you mean?” Jess asks with a teasing lilt in her voice. One I don't think either of the guys picks up on. “I'd say you and Whit are very much together after yesterday.” She fans herself, not even hiding the innuendo. Brat.
“Oh, don't you worry.” JB shrugs her off and heads over to me. His arm slinks around my waist and his hand rests on my hip. His fingers graze the sliver of exposed skin at my side, and I shiver, the pulse heading straight to my core.
Why can’t this man do something to give me the ick so I can move on from this tournament without thinking about him?
“Whit and I are very much together.” He pulls me closer.
I shrug him off with a curled lip. Jess might know our dirty little secret, but that doesn’t mean Max needs to know too.
“We’re forever teammates now.” That only makes me feel marginally better.
“But I was referring to our little foursome. That one-point lead means we’re playing against Austin Adams, one of the guys from the Minnows, our triple-A team. ”
“Great. Looking forward to beating another Fish. Where is he?”
Max points over to the golf carts where Millie Sutton is going through her golf bag. There’s a guy next to her whose thighs are wider than my waist.
“How old is he?”
Max leans in. “Eighteen, but don't let the age fool you. Kid's got a real swing.”
“And thighs,” Jess adds, giving me a visual in case I couldn't see it for myself. The man is nearly busting out of his golf pants. “He plants like a tree.”
“It's what makes him one of our best future bats,” JB adds. “Just need to get his defense up and we've got ourselves a new third basemen.”
I narrow my eyes, sizing him up. “His partner's Millie Sutton,” I say. “She's solid from the fairway. Struggles a little with distance off the tee, but she's consistent.” I pause. “Which means we’ve got to stay consistent. Anything else will hand them this victory.”
“We won't. We're going to win this.” JB knocks his shoulder against mine, and when I glance over at him, the tension there immediately disappears.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I was born ready,” he replies, raising his hand between us and letting his fingers dance. To Jess and Max, who I assume are watching, this will probably seem weird, but not for me.
Fuck, why do I like it?
I just smile, push him a little, and turn on my heel. Then I make my way toward the golf cart, more optimistic than ever.