“It can be whatever we want it to be,” he tells me.
I lift my head, peering up at him. “And what exactly do we want it to be?”
“I know I don’t want to stop,” he says fervently. “I like this, Abby.” He bites his lip, looking suddenly shy. “I likeyou.”
I let his admission wash over me, making me feel all warm inside, even as the sensation terrifies me, because what happens when he realizes I’m just some boring, broke grad student who can’t possibly measure up to all that he is? But still. Until then—
“I like you too,” I admit.
I can feel his grin against my hair. “Yeah?”
“Against all odds,” I laugh.
“Probably my sparkling personality,” he says seriously.
“Sure,” I scoff. “That’s it.”
I feel another kiss at my temple. “I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“You should probably feed me before you get any ideas about sleepovers,” I tell him.
“Getting bossy, are we?”
“I guess you’re starting to spoil me.”
“You’re just trying to get more BFF nachos out of me.”
I feel my lips curl. “I could definitely go for some BFF nachos.”
He delivers a light tap on my ass, rolling us until he’s hovering over me, his eyes roving over the naked length of me as his lips press together.
“And then maybe I’ll make you come again, yeah?”
“Twice in one night? You really will spoil me.”
He leans in close, his lips hovering against mine, and I feel my breath catch at the softness in his tone when he says, “You deserve to be spoiled a little bit.”
A quick peck against my mouth, and then he’s rolling off of me like he didn’t just drop a gooey little bomb in his wake. I watch the muscles of his ass flex as he moves to his dresser to grab fresh underwear, admittedly already missing the view.
“BFF nachos,” he repeats, shooting me a pointed look. “Then more spoiling.”
I stretch in his bed as he wanders out of the room. I stare up at the ceiling as I revel a little in the feeling of being sated and spent and all-around content. Trying to remember the last time Ifelt this way at all. I honestly can’t remember when, which could be dangerous.
Because at this rate…Jack mightactuallyspoil me.
And I can’t even begin to know what it might do to me if he ever decided to stop.
Eighteen
Jack
After winning two more gamesagainst Dallas, I should be flying on cloud nine. We’re one win away from entering the second round of the playoffs, which means we’re one step closer to bringing home the Stanley Cup for the second year in a row. And Iwouldbe ecstatic, if not for the fact that I got a text from the coach this morning asking me if I could see him in his office today. Not even the mini make-out session I goaded Abby into before she left for work is enough to ease the nerves of that, turns out.
I don’t feel any better, even hours later after having talked to him. It was a lot of the same: asking how I’m feeling, asking about my plans for the future, asking if I’m sure I want to risk my arm to finish the season…Of course I told him that I did. I don’t know why that’s so hard for everyone to understand. Half the time, my arm feels fine lately, anyway. Admittedly, that could be because I’m only playing one or two periods a game now and Coach has noticeably been taking it easy on me in practice…but still.
Everything about the meeting has soured my mood, and I think it’s obvious to everyone when I walk into the apartment later that afternoon. Everyone being Abby, of course, since she’s the only one there after her shift at the coffee shop.
Seeing her should lift my mood, and normally it would. She looks so soft and comfortable, lounging on the couch in her fuzzy socks and her leggings with one of her textbooks perched on her lap. And though she looks up at me with a smile as I come through the door, it falters immediately when she catches the expression on my face.
