Chapter 14 #10
Then warm oil touched the back of my thigh.
I sucked in a breath.
Drew’s hand paused instantly. “Too much?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His palm returned, broad and warm, moving slowly over the back of my thigh just above the knee. Not too high. Not too intimate. Just firm enough to make muscle loosen under his hand.
The first stroke made my eyes close.
The second made me forget my own name.
By the third, I was gripping the pillow like it had personally wronged me.
“Where did you learn this?” I asked, voice muffled.
“I’ve been playing football a long time.”
“That is your answer for everything.”
“It covers a lot.”
His thumb found a tight line along the outside of my hamstring, and I hissed.
He stopped.
“Pain?”
“Good pain.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
The words slipped out before I heard them.
Drew went still for half a beat.
Then his hands moved again.
Slower now.
More careful.
“Relax, baby,” he said, voice low.
The word baby moved through me differently this time. Not public. Not performative. Not for anyone watching.
Just his voice in his clean, quiet house while his hands worked heat through my injured leg and my body melted beneath him one inch at a time.
I tried to hold on to my irritation.
It dissolved under his palms.
He worked like he did everything else when he stopped joking—focused, methodical, more competent than I wanted him to be. His fingers pressed, eased, circled. He avoided the worst of the injury, never pushing into sharp pain, always waiting for my breathing to change before moving higher.
And he did move higher.
Not at first.
At first, I could tell myself this was care.
Sports medicine.
Fake boyfriend excellence.
Then his hands slid another inch up my thigh.
Then another.
Still slow.
Still careful.
But past where my hamstring ached.
Past where he needed to be.
My breath caught.
Drew noticed.
Of course he did.
His thumbs stilled against my skin.
“You want me to stop?”
The question was quiet.
No teasing.
No pressure.
Just there.
I turned my face against my folded arms, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I should have said yes.
I should have remembered the rules.
No falling in love.
New Year’s Eve.
Clean break.
Instead, I whispered, “No.”
Drew exhaled.
I felt it more than heard it.
His hands moved again, sliding higher beneath the edge of the jersey, thumbs pressing into the sensitive place where thigh met hip. My whole body tightened.
“Isa,” he said.
Not Texas.
My name.
I was in serious trouble.
His mouth touched the back of my neck.
Soft at first.
So soft it almost made me angry.
I had braced for Drew the menace, Drew the bonfire kiss, Drew the man who could turn public performance into a full-body event.
I had not braced for this. For the careful brush of his lips at my nape.
For the warmth of his breath. For the way one hand stayed on my hip, grounding me, while the other slid slowly up my side beneath the oversized jersey.
My eyes closed.
His mouth moved down the top of my spine, kissing over the fabric first, then finding the bare skin where the collar had slipped wide. My breath came out unsteady.
“Drew.”
He hummed against me. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
His fingers brushed the back clasp of my bra.
I went still.
He paused. Waiting.
I lifted my head just enough to look back at him over my shoulder. His eyes were dark, locked on mine, body held so carefully above me I could see the restraint in every line.
I whispered, “Don’t you dare stop.”
Something flashed across his face. He leaned down and kissed me between my shoulder blades. The clasp snapped open with one practiced flick.
“Of course you’re good at that,” I muttered into the pillow.
“Athletic hands,” he said against my skin, and I could hear the smile.
His hand slid beneath the loose jersey, over my ribs, then higher. At the same time he shifted his weight, pressing the thick, hard ridge of his cock directly against my ass through his sweats and my thin shorts. The heat of him burned. I groaned—low, helpless, involuntary.
He made a rough sound in return.
Then his rough, football-calloused palm found my bare breast, cupping it fully from underneath, fingers closing around sensitive flesh.
His thumb and forefinger pinched my nipple, then rolled it slowly, deliberately.
The dual sensation—his thick cock grinding lightly against my ass while those calloused fingers tormented my nipple—had me hot and slick in seconds.
I was dripping, clenching, the thin barrier of my shorts doing nothing to hide how wet I was getting.
I pushed back against him without thinking, another broken sound tearing out of me.
“Fuck, Isa,” he rasped against my neck, voice strained.
His hand left my breast to grip my hip, holding me still like he was one second from losing control.
Then he carefully, carefully turned me onto my back, sliding pillows under my injured leg, protecting it the whole time.
The second I was facing him I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down.
His mouth met mine open and hot.
No pretending now. No audience. No strategic kiss to prove a point.
This was messy. Hungry. Real enough to hurt.
He kissed like he argued—full force, no half measures, all mouth and heat and a low sound in his throat that made me clutch at his shoulders.
I tasted peppermint again, softer now under the heat of him.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead against mine, eyes dark and searching.
“Bedroom?” he asked, voice rough.
“Drew.”
His thumb brushed my bottom lip. Then the other. Gentle. Grounding. The touch said everything we weren’t saying out loud.
We were crossing the line tonight.
No one spoke it. We didn’t need to.
He stood, slid one arm behind my back and the other beneath my knees, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him carry me down the hall.
His bedroom was exactly like the rest of the house—clean, ordered, expensive—but I barely saw it. He set me down on the edge of the bed and stepped back just far enough to pull that ridiculous cutoff shirt over his head.
Golden skin. Broad, defined chest. Completely hairless, smooth and warm under the low light. My mouth went dry.
I reached for him. He let me. I shoved his sweats down. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking pre-cum at the flushed head. I wrapped my hand around him, stroked once, slow. More pre-cum beaded and slid over my fingers.
“I want you,” I whispered.
He groaned like the words physically hurt.
Then he was on me, kissing me everywhere—mouth, jaw, throat, collarbone, the curve of my breast through the jersey before he yanked it over my head and tossed it somewhere.
His mouth followed, hot and open, tongue flicking over one nipple while his hand cupped the other, calloused thumb brushing the peak until I arched.
He stripped the rest of me with the same focused hunger—shorts and underwear gone in one smooth motion—kissing down my stomach, the inside of my thigh, everywhere except where I was aching the most. Golden skin and hard muscle moved over me, between my legs, careful of my hamstring the whole time.
I reached for him again, tried to pull him up, tried to line him up where I needed him. He caught my wrists gently, pinned them above my head with one big hand, and looked down at me.
“No, baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I want you for real. I can’t do this. I’m breaking all the rules with you. And now I’m not going to be the one heartbroken on the beach. There’s no one to pick up the pieces when you break my heart.”
I stared up at him, breathing hard, body burning. “I’m so hot. I want you. You’re right here. And now you’re saying no. You’ve wanted this whole time and now you’re saying no?”
His eyes darkened with something that looked almost like pain. “You need to come, baby? I’ll take care of you. But I can’t. I can’t blend our bodies and hearts like that unless I know you’re in it for real.”
Then he kissed me—deep, slow, devastating—and slid one thick finger through my slick folds.
I was soaked. He groaned against my mouth at the feel of it.
One finger became two, curling just right, his thumb circling my clit with the same focused competence he brought to everything else.
His mouth moved to my neck, my breast, sucking one nipple while his fingers worked me higher, faster, perfectly.
I was already close from everything that came before—the massage, his cock against my ass, his hands on my tits, the stripping, the taste of him. Now the pressure built fast and brutal. My hips rolled against his hand. My injured leg stayed safe on the pillows. Everything else shattered.
“Drew—” I gasped.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my skin. “Let go, Texas. I’ve got you.”
I came hard—back arching, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing out of me as pleasure ripped through my body in long, pulsing waves.
I saw stars. Actual stars behind my eyelids.
My vision whited out for a second. He didn’t stop until I was trembling and oversensitive, until I was whimpering his name and pushing weakly at his wrist.
Only then did he slow, ease his fingers out, and gather me against his chest. He kissed my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth, soft and careful while my heartbeat tried to find its way back to normal.
I could still feel him hard against my hip. Still feel how much he wanted me. But he didn’t push. Didn’t take.
He just held me while I came down, one hand stroking my hair, the other resting warm and steady over my racing heart.