She hasn't even texted to tell me she's running late.
I stare at the door, willing it to open, and for her to walk through it so I can—I don't know—grovel?Explain?Convince her that what happened wasn't a mistake.That it was inevitable, and also can we please do it again but this time without the tape so I can actually use my tongue properly?
Fuck, just thinking about it again is making me hard.I can still smell her.Can still feel her thighs around my head.The weight of her body trembling above me, taking exactly what she needed while I gave her everything I could.
It was the hottest fucking moment of my life, and now, she's ghosting me like I'm Derek Strokes.Which is insane, considering I had her coming apart with my mouth taped shut, while he probably thought getting her wet meant pushing her in the pool.
Fuck.
This was a mistake.
Her voice echoes in my head, and I hate it.
Hate that she looked at me like I was something to be ashamed of.Hate that she
ran out of that room like I'd done something wrong when she was the one who literally sat on my face and rode it like I was her personal playground.
She came so hard she forgot to be professional.
That wasn't a mistake.That was the most real thing that's happened to me in years, and I'm not going to let her pretend otherwise.
I want her.She clearly wants me, but unlike last time, I'm not going to let her leave without telling her how I feel.
The door swings open.
My heart jumps.
Only to crash when I see Mark Porter, our team trainer, walk through the door.He's in his mid-forties and is built like a linebacker who decided to get a medical degree.He's a great guy who's excellent at his job, but he's absolutely not the athletic therapy grad student with green eyes who haunts my dreams.
“Cross.”He sets his kit down on the counter with a heavy thud.“Ready to get taped up?”
I stare at him.“Where's Hart?”
“Hart?”He's already pulling out supplies, not looking at me.“She's not on your case anymore.”
The words hit me like a slap shot to the chest.“What?”
“She requested a transfer.You're with me now.”He glances up, reading my expression with the clinical detachment of someone who's seen every flavor of athlete meltdown.“Problem?”
Yeah.Huge fucking problem.
“Did she say why?”
“Yup.”Mark snaps on gloves.“Said your thigh was in need of more experienced hands.”He gestures at my legs.“Feet apart.Let's see what we're working with.”
I comply automatically, but my brain is stuck three sentences back.
More experienced, my ass.
She's running.I should've known this was coming.She did warn me as she ran out, but I didn't think she'd actually do it.
“Cross.”Mark's voice is sharper now.“You with me?”
“Yeah.Sorry.”I force myself to focus as he sprays the adhesive across my thigh.It's colder than when Ally does it.Or maybe it just feels colder because it's not her hands.Mark works efficiently, wrapping the tape in tight, competent bands.He's good at this.Really good.But it's not the same.The angle is different.The pressure is different.Everything about it feels wrong in a way I can't articulate without sounding like a complete psycho.
“How's the pain level today?”Mark asks.
“Fine.”
