Not the best, but not the worst.
Sterling isn’t back yet, but he will be soon, so I stand and hobble to the bathroom.
When I pee, it burns, and I cringe, wiping away a little blood. Stare at the toilet paper in my hands—at the blood and what those red spots mean: I am no longer a virgin.
My heart gives a thrilling pound as I remove my toothbrush from the travel case and stand idly at the sink, brushing my teeth. Wash my mouth out with spearmint.
Brush the knots out of my hair until it’s shiny and straight.
No sooner am I climbing back into bed—naked—than I hear the keycard being swiped over the security pad, the lock clicking open.
The door eases open bit by bit, Rowdy steps inside, dropping his bag by our tiny couch. Kicks off his shoes and pulls off his socks.
I watch from the bed as he lifts his shirt, balls it up, and tosses it next to the bed. Shucks his shorts, sliding them down his tapered waist.
Rowdy’s muscles are dense and taut, veins rushing with liquid oxygen. He braces his arms behind his head and stretches, rotating his waist to the left, then the right, pulling on his forearms.
His abs contract.
My body gets hot.
When he’s done stretching, he turns his back on the bed, walking to the bathroom, every muscle in his body contracting.
I hear the sink running when he steps inside then the tapping of his toothbrush against the porcelain. The toilet flushes.
I’m on my back when he comes out, sheet up over my torso, hands folded behind my head. Content and lazy, like a cat waiting to be petted.
Worshiped and adored.
“You’re up.” He smiles in the semi-darkness.
“Mmm,” is my reply. “I’m up.”
“What a coincidence.” He chuckles. “I’m up, too.”
There is a noticeable bulge in his boxers that he adjusts when he moves closer, squatting a few inches to lift and shift his dick from one side of his shorts to the other. It’s a total jock thing to do.
Now he’s next to the bed, leaning over to kiss me, his minty fresh mouth opening to taste me, tongue sliding in. I let my hands slide into the waistband of his underwear, edging them off his hips.
He tugs them off completely, stepping out, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
Slides the sheet off my body and crawls into bed, arm already reaching for the condoms in the bedside table.
One of those big, rough hands skims tenderly down my hip. “Are you sore?”
“A little.”
He kisses me again. “Sorry.”
But his large body feels divine. Heavy and warm, brawny arm draped around my waist, hauling me in. Bodies lined up, perfect.
“It’s all right. I knew what to expect.”
“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
No. I want him to fill me like he did last night; insatiably curious, I want more. Everything, not just his tongue.
“Or do you want a quickie?”
“No.” I shake my head slowly. “I want it slow.”
I want him gentle. I want to take our time.
I want Sterling to feel how fast my heart beats when he touches me, big bear paws gently caressing the skin along my hip, lips warm. Tender.
I love everything about him; he is everything.
We kiss with our eyes open, mouths open, tongues lazily stroking so I can see everything he feels reflected in his eyes—the same way I did last night.
The self-control for my sake.
The adoration.
How he knows my body is still sensitive and treats me like a breakable piece of glass when really all he wants to do is pound into me. His self-control is like nothing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Remarkable.
Impressive.
Admirable, really.
Inch by glorious inch, he pushes in, inhaling the air at the crook of my neck. Murmuring. Checking to make sure I’m okay.
“Are you all right?”
I’m better than all right.
I reach up to brush back his hair, the words I love you, Sterling burning the back of my throat. The telltale signs of my nose tingling give my brain the signal to send water to my eyes.
These tears are my feelings for him, tangible proof that everything between us is right. Last night was everything a first time should be, and I couldn’t have chosen any better.
Sterling eyes widen when he spots the tear sliding down my cheek. “Why—are you okay? Scarlett…”
“I’m happy.” I love you.
He holds himself above me, buried inside. Leans down, those massive, strong forearms braced on either side of my face. Instead of brushing the tear away with his fingertip like I expect him to do, he licks it.
Flicks it with his tongue.
I grip his biceps. “Deeper.”
I never get tired of seeing his bottom teeth drag along his lower lips, and it arouses me more seeing them now. White, gleaming, perfect.
He pushes deeper. Rotates his pelvis.
“Yeah, like that…”
“Mmm…” My head turns to the side, cheek against the pillow.
“Scarlett, look at me,” he rasps, emotional.
I look at him.
I see him.
I love him.
TENTH FRIDAY
“The One Where I Stick it in Some Other Guy’s Ass (Metaphorically Speaking).”
Rowdy
Me: I miss your face so fucking hard.
Scarlett: I know, I miss you, too. So much.
Me: One more week is going to drive me nuts—how many days is it exactly?
Scarlett: I don’t do math, remember?
Me: Shit, that’s right. I’m going to have to carry this team when it comes to numbers.
Scarlett: Very funny, wise guy.
Me: But also, true.
Me: You know, there’s a party at the house tonight.
Scarlett: The baseball house? But I thought you weren’t supposed to have parties once the season started.
Me: I know, but a few of them have their heads up their ass—they want to have a welcome home party.
I adjust myself on the couch and shift the limp dick in my jeans. It misses Scarlett as much as I do, if not more. Making love to her is my new favorite sport.
Me: Will you come back? I want to see you.
Scarlett: When?
Me: Is NOW too soon? Please.
Scarlett: No, now isn’t too soon…but then I’m at school for a week with nothing to do before classes start. And I’d miss a week of work.
Me: You can do ME for a week before classes start. I’ll come stay at your place.
Scarlett: Really? You’d stay at my place?
Is she serious? I would kill to stay at her place. We can play house and practice making babies every night.
Me: Yeah, really. Pack your shit and come home.
Scarlett: Let me think about it.
Dammit, why is she so sensible sometimes?
I run a hand through my hair, staring hard at my phone, at the screen, waiting for those three little dots to disappear and a new message to pop up.
“What the hell are you smiling at?” Blake Sheffield, one of our outfielders, grabs a controller for the gaming system in the entertainment center and points it at the television. “You look like such an idiot.”
Shit. I forgot I’m not alone.
I popped into the baseball house this afternoon to meet with the other captain of the team and a few of the older players. Then I sat my ass down on the couch and have been on it since, top popped on a bottle of Gatorade.
I wipe my mouth. “You know Scarlett?”
“Uh, no.”
“Scarlett.” I sigh, taking another chug of the ice blue liquid, opening my throat so it slides down easy. “You heard the guys calling that girl Cock Blocker a few weekends ago?”
“Yeah—what about her?”
“That’s Scarlett. She’s my girlfriend.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold up, bro. You have a girlfriend? Since when? When the hell did you start seeing someone?” He rattles off questions rapid-fire.
“We started seeing each other the night I kicked her out of the house.” That is technically true. “Apparently, she liked it,” I joke, taking another swig, downing the bottle and throwing it onto the coffee table. It bounces off the wood and lands on the carpet.
Sheffield watches me, expectantly. “And?” He’s so goddamn nosey, prodding for more information.