Can I follow through with this?
She needs someone forever. That’s not me. Not now.
If her brothers find out, I’m out my best friend and my job.
If her dad finds out, I’m a chalk outline.
Ifshewakes up tomorrow regretting this, I’m the guy who ruined the only good thing I’ve had in years. Not to mention my friendship with Greyson and my coaching position with the Armadillos.
I weigh all of it against one undeniable truth: being here with her feels right in a way that terrifies me. For the last couple of years, my rule has always beenno strings.No one that makes me want more than a fuck.
I swallow. “Butterfly…”
She’s watching me like I’m a cliff she’s decided to jump from. No flinching. Brave in a way that makes my chest hurt.
“Let’s find out what you like first,” I say, because that’s the only play that matters.
Her breath catches. “Okay.”
I brace a forearm by her head, roll my palm down her side, slow and deliberate—over ribs, to waist, back up in a lazy pattern that lets me listen. She’s on her back, hair messy against the pillow, pupils dark and wide. The room hums with the air conditioning and the sound of both our breathing.
“Talk to me,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. “If you want more, you pull me where you want me. You’re calling the plays.”
Her mouth tips up. “You’re really going to make this a sports metaphor?”
“It’s my love language.”
She laughs—soft, shaky—and I feel it where my hand rests at her waist. “I like that. I understand it.”
I sweep my thumb just under the curve of her rib cage. I feel the fine shiver that runs through her core, and I store that information away: right there. Good. Again, slower. She exhales like I found a live wire.
“Here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “There.”
I keep a gentle rhythm, then shift, tracing the line of her collarbone with my knuckles, down the slope of her shoulder, up the tender inside of her arm to her palm. I lace our fingers and bring the back of her hand to my mouth, pressing a kiss there. Her lashes flutter.
“You’re…gentle,” she whispers, like it’s a discovery.
“I can be,” I say. “I can be anything you need me to be.” Lord knows I want this more than once.
Color rises in her cheeks. She squeezes my hand and nods at the narrow band of fabric across her back.
“Can you—” She swallows. “I don’t know where my arms are supposed to go.”
“Wherever you want.” I sit her up enough to slide my palm along her spine. “May I?”
Her yes is a whisper that feels like a vow.
I find the clasp on her silky bra and work it with careful fingers. There’s a soft give, fabric easing. I don’t rush. I’m not here to tear anything away; I’m here to erase every bad play Brooks called and draft a new one.
“Still good?” I ask.
She nods, eyes on mine, all trust.
I shift my touch to safer borders—collarbone, sternum, the clean lines of her shoulders—mapping without taking. She arches a fraction, like her body’s answering something it didn’t know to ask.
Her breath hitches. She bites her bottom lip in concentration, as if she’s listening to herself.
