She nods toward my erection that is very obviously trying to make itself known.
I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. This was never about me. This was always about making you feel better.”
She lifts herself up on her elbows, her eyes searching mine as her breathing slows to a more even pace. “Well, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“I’m not worried about what’s fair. Plus, when you return the favor I want it to be because you want to, not because it’s something you feel is owed.”
It’s her turn to lift a brow as her face lights up with an amused grin. “And who says I’ll ever want to?”
“Oh, you’ll want to. Every time your mind replays through what just happened you’ll be thinking about me, and I don’t imagine it will be too much longer until you’re begging for more.”
She doesn’t look entirely convinced as she sits up, reaching for her sash before securing her robe closed with a slow, deliberate pull.
“Well,” she says, a teasing lilt edging into her voice, “hopefully when it doesn’t happen you don’t end up too disappointed.”
“Oh, believe me, I don’t expect to be.”
I finally stand, giving her some space, before taking a few steps back.
“Wait, you’re leaving?” Her brows crease, and this time the disappointment on her face looks genuine.
“I only came over to help with your hangover, and since we both know how good of a job I did, I’d say I did exactly that, unless…” I trail, my words hanging in the air.
“Oh God,” she says, rolling her eyes, despite smiling. “I think you're right, I’d say you’re good to head out now.”
“Just remember,” I say, taking a few more steps backward. “If you ever need more of that, I’m available for repeat performances.”
“Goodbye, Fletch,” she says, shaking her head.
“Goodbye, Holls,” I echo with a wave.
She might not be mine yet, but that’s fine. What just happened between us was real. I felt the spark, and I know she did too. So yeah, I’ll wait for as long as it fucking takes.
Though something tells me that after today I won’t be waiting for too much longer.
19
Hollis
My cheeks are on fire as I walk onto the field, but not because of the Houston heat.
Sure, it’s a warm, and humid day as the air seems to stick to my skin like syrup, and while that’s a problem, the real predicament is the players deciding that shirts are optional today. Their bodies glisten under the sun as they work with the league choreographer to nail down their dance routines for the next game.
And damn. They look so fucking good.
And I get it. I really do. My own Honky Tonk tank is sticking to my skin in a not-so-flattering way. But couldn’t they have picked a better day? And not the one directly after I just got eaten out on my kitchen counter by the star shortstop. I’m flustered enough as it is.
Like a magnet, my eyes find Fletcher as they land on his bare chest.
He looks, well, perfect.
Being a professional athlete, it’s obvious he works out. I’ve seen his toned arms plenty of times as they poke out of jersey, but the rest of him? Fuck me.
I’m mesmerized by the strong lines of his chest, but even more so by the defined ridges in his abs as they catch the sunlight in just the right way. I need to look away, but I can’t, seemingly transfixed by the beads of sweat as they drip down his body, tracing every last, perfect inch.
And then, of course, as if we’re somehow wired on the same frequency, he looks up. Despite being in the middle of what looks like complicated choreography, he spots me.
A familiar smirk spreads across his face, one that lets me know he saw what I’d just been up to.
