We’ve only been alone for a few minutes, and I’m struggling to remember anything else that happened today. These minutes easily eclipse the rest of my day, just like his presence in Parisdiminished everything, even my nerves and fear, making me feel like I could conquer the world. Could become the athlete I had grown up admiring. Could win when it mattered most.
I fought tears the entire flight home from Paris, clutching the velvet case that contained my silver medal. Feeling like I didn’t deserve it, that I hadn’t earned it. Like I’d let everyone down, including Otto and hisGood luck, Bostontext.
Those feelings of sadness and failure are so tangled up with happy memories involving Otto that I’m not sure how to even approach unknotting them. I’ve never had to. I just tried to shove them away and move past it all.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. Hoarsely. Honestly.
I don’t know if I still care or if I’ve started to care all over again.
And that uncertainty is suddenly unacceptable. Intolerable, like an itch I can’t reach to scratch.
Otto frowns as my reply registers. Either because it’s not what he wanted to hear or because he’s remembering saying that phrase to me.
That’s not why I said it. But I do recall the heavy echo of how those words felt, the sinking realization of how deep inusI was while he was in the shallows.
We’ve gravitated closer over the course of this conversation. Near enough that all it takes are two steps and rising on my tiptoes.
It takes about a millisecond of contact for me to confirm what I suspected, but I continue kissing him anyway. His mouth is warm and firm and familiar, the soft press sending sparks of awareness skittering everywhere, too many and too widespread to keep track of. So I don’t bother. I relax into the sensation, well aware I’d rather regret doing this than let him leave with what-ifs echoing in his absence. Determined not to make the same mistake twice.
I allow my hands to wander into his hair, the strands just long enough for me to grip. Tug his lower lip between my teeth.
It takes Otto—Otto Berger, world-renowned for fast reflexes—about ten seconds to kiss me back.
Once he does, I lose control fast. He seizes it, scooping me up and walking us toward the couch.
He’s the only athlete I’ve ever hooked up with, and I forgot how arousing it was to be manhandled by someone who did it so effortlessly. I can feel the contours of his muscles as they flex against me, the strength obvious as I run my hands up his arms to his shoulders?—
His shoulder.
I yank my mouth away. “Your shoulder!” I say urgently, attempting to wiggle my way back to the ground.
Otto has the audacity to laugh. “Claire?”
“Yeah?” God, I soundbreathless.
“I do not give a fuck about my shoulder right now.”
He does. His injury, his recovery, his football career—they’re all essential to who Otto is.
I know that—know him. And his willingness to prioritize me affects me more than I allow to show.
We reach the couch. He sets me gently on the cushions. I fist the front of his T-shirt to roughly tug him on top of me, too eager for slow and sweet. He presses me against the soft cushions, holding some of his weight over me but letting me feel most of it. All I can hear, aside from our breathing, is the steady hum of the air conditioner. The world around me is still and quiet, and I feel as though I’m standing in the center of a tornado. I’m sure I look like I am, based on the havoc Otto’s hands are wreaking on my clothes and hair.
He’s kissing me urgently, desperately, like this is the first time and he’s only just discovering how good it can be.
I wrap my right leg around his waist, the nonexistent space between our bodies not close enough.
I want sex. Crave it with an intensity that’s essential and scary and that I’ve only ever experienced with him. It’s like I’ve already jumped and the outcome feels inevitable. No decision to be made.
I lift my hips as high as the weight of him will allow, trying to simulate the friction I need.
Otto chuckles against my mouth, like my impatience is amusing, the vibration only making the throbbing need more unbearable.
“How wet are you?” he asks, mouth ghosting along the column of my throat.
My head tilts back, offering him more access. My breasts feel heavy and hot, nipples rasping against the confines of my bra.
“You tell me,” I challenge.
