“I know that, Claire.”
I nod. “You don’tneedfootball, Otto. It’s just…lucky to have you.” I sniff, then laugh. “Sorry. I’m killing the mood.”
His fingers trace a line across my collarbone and curve up my throat. He tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What did I say about apologizing to me?”
“Not to.” I basically breathe the words—because his thumb is ghosting across my lower lip and I can barely focus on anything else.
His expression turns serious. Severe, the planes and angles sharpening. “Take what you want, Claire.”
“I will. I mean, I’m going to. I’m planning—I’m going to play next season. I’m not done.”
I already decided. But I sort of want to make the decision all over again, just so I can say it another time and watch the pride break across his face. Otto undoubtedly realized that counseling me to continue playing would tie me tighter to Boston. Would make even visiting him next to impossible.
He told me to play anyway, and I love him even more for it.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I state, my hands already under the hem of his shirt, exploring all that hot, taut skin.
This feels different and the same. Familiar yet new.
“Probably not.”
I graze my fingers lower, tracing the waistband of his shorts. He’s changed, too, since the game earlier.
“Glad we agree,” I say. Then rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him.
It’s supremely satisfying. Toppling the first domino. A cleat colliding with a ball in a perfect kick.
His shirt falls first, joining the terry-cloth towel, followed by my bathing suit a few seconds later. The zipper of his shorts snags, and I release an impatient growl as I tug at it.
“Patience, Caldwell,” Otto tells me in his Coach Bergervoice.
I scowl, tugging on the metal teeth again. “You told me to take what I want.”
He laughs. “Fuck yeah, I did.”
His zipper finally cooperates, and he’s gloriously naked a few seconds later. I’ve only glimpsed him in parts, until now. Shirtless in LA. Pantless in his living room.
Otto partially naked is distracting. Otto fully naked is one of those sights you stare at, blinking, not believing it’s real.
Even more unbelievably, he’s looking at me with the same awed disbelief.
“Do you think aboutthiswhen you think of me?” I ask. Half teasing, half really wanting to know.
“All the time,” he replies seriously. “You?”
“All the time,” I whisper.
Air-conditioning hums in the background.
I kiss his shoulder before tracing my tongue along the ridge of his collarbone. My mouth lands on the base of his neck. I suck, long enough to leave a mark. It’s a childish instinct, a base urge to preserve this moment with something tangible. I kiss the scars on his shoulder next, my breasts brushing against his firm chest.
Otto groans; I moan.
We’re moving closer to the bed. I’m relaxed, not paying close attention to anything except staying close to him, letting him lead. Not thinking or worrying about what’s about to happen. It’s a sensation of safety. A unique sort of anticipation. Knowing what will happen, but also not.
I straddle him, setting my left knee outside of his right thigh, then my right knee outside of his left leg.
His hands flex, curl, fighting the urge to touch me.
