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, heleads 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.”
