Why did I even bother asking him that?He’ll never budge. He told me his reasoning when I was starting to date, and he never changed his mind. It would be awkward coaching someone who is your daughter’s boyfriend. I get it. There would be an authority shift, and the power imbalance would lead to my father treating him differently.
“So, you wouldn’t mind me dating a football player who’s not on your team?” Yet, here I am insisting.
His forehead creases, the line as clear as his disapproval. “You were never interested before.”
I wave him off, trying to act cool while I think my cheeks turn a hundred shades of tomato.
“You’re awfully curious today.”
That I am.
It doesn’t go past me that he doesn’t answer.
After lunch, I hug him outside the restaurant, promising him I’ll bring him some juice shots tomorrow, then I walk away, doing my best to keep my thoughts Ian-free, but my brain spins back to him as if he’s a master weaver.
Stop thinking about Ian, damn it.Subject closed. My heart doesn’t care at all, and latches onto him with greedy little fingers. That’s genuinely terrifying.
I wake up thinking of him; I fall asleep thinking of him. I cannot cope with this unbearable yearning. It’s like my soul is Ian imbued, spilling over my insides and getting me inebriated on him. Submit or go mad. Those are my options. Madness, here I come.
EIGHT
IAN
I am fucked.There is no point in lying to myself or denying the truth. I want Lilly—badly.
Being just her friend is like teetering on the brink of starvation. But not having her at all is infinitely worse. Like the idiot that I am, I can’t stay away—no self-preservation left in my body. Her friendship feeds me crumbs when I hunger for more of her. It edges on torture, but even a piece of her is preferable to life without her. The pendulum swings from one extreme to the other, driving me mad.
The hot water sprays down on my shoulders, doing nothing to soothe my stiff muscles. Squeezing my eyes shut, I flatten my palms on the shower stall, trying to ignore my raging hard on.
Thoughts of her swirl in my head, wreaking havoc while blinding need and incessant desire drum under my skin. Incapable of restraining myself, I grip my cock, trying to alleviate the ache. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I give in, needing a release before I implode.
Imagining my cock sliding in her hot core, I give in to my weakness. In the privacy of my home, I ignore why I shouldn’t even entertain these thoughts.
Pumping my length up and down, her name rumbles out of my throat—it’s a broken sound filled with want. A need my hand can’t fulfill. But it has to do. There’s no other way.Friends, even though what I feel for her is anything but friendly.
In my fantasy, her body undulates against mine as I grip her waist and bury myself so deep I lose myself in the heaven of her. Again and again. Harder. Faster. Until my balls get heavy with my impending release.
Her soft moans do me in and I groan as I fuck my hand with jerky moves, chasing my climax. Spasming, cum spurts on my hand, painting a visual of my lust, but not taming the desire to fill her up.
The water washes away the evidence, carrying away my secret as if it had never happened. My heart twists, reminding me that even the thought of her does it better for me than the reality of someone else.
I towel dry my hair, my eyes finding my reflection. I look disheveled.
Gripping the sink, I should stay away from temptation, but I was never good at following reason when I desired something with all of me. Just like football. Despite my talent, discipline, and hard work, there was a chance I wouldn’t make it to play in the NFL. But I pushed through the nagging doubts, discarding all the well-intentioned advice to have a plan B in place. I didn’t want it then. Pretty ironic, considering now I can’t do a thing but accept that there is something out of my hands.
As long as I play under Coach, I can’t do anything. He could bench me, make my time on the team harder. I am the captain, for fuck’s sake. I must be a role model. Responsibility should trump my selfish desire, but she makes it so damn hard. It was one thingthinking about her, but she not only maintains that sublime image I held on to, but the reality of her transcends appeal.
Exhausted, I go to bed, picking up my phone from my nightstand. Temptation wins this round, and I text her.
Good night, flower girl.
I keep telling myself that one day, I will be strong enough not to give in. But today is not that day.
I don’t wait for a reply. I place my phone back on the nightstand, hoping for sweet oblivion.
With my arms locked behind my neck, I stare at the ceiling. I wanted to kiss her so badly when she jumped into my arms. That bright and grateful expression undid me, making me want to give her everything and not care about the damn consequences.
Going to bed with her on my mind and waking up with her as my first thought has become my new routine.
