Jeez, why is my heart pounding so hard? I can hear it in my ears.
“Before, when you couldn’t understand what I was saying?”
“Yeah?”
“I said I missed you.”
My teeth bite my lower lip. Grin like a fool. “I missed you too.”
Rhett: What did you end up doing tonight?
Me: A paper—the one I was going to study group for on Saturday. Trying to make up for the lost time.
Rhett: I’m really okay if you skip it.
Me: Is it weird to admit that I might have been Googling you to watch your old matches?
Me: Once…or twice.
Rhett: Really? When?
Me: After I found out your last name. I watched your matches on the internet, then I looked up pictures of you.
Does that weird you out?
Rhett: That you took an interest in what I was doing? No, not at all. I’m flattered.
Me: You’re incredible. It’s no wonder they wanted you to come to Iowa. I imagine Louisiana was pissed when they lost you.
Rhett: Yeah, basically. It was rough. It was a shit show when I told everyone I was transferring.
Me: I’m sorry :( I know if must have been a hard choice.
Rhett: I still can’t believe I transferred.
Me: Are you happy you did?
Rhett: I am now.
Me: I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
Rhett: Me either. 6:00? Too early?
Me: No, perfect! I’m dying to see you. See you tomorrow <3
Laurel
I’ve been anticipating this moment all day—maybe longer. Nerves have me fiddling with the hem of my gray shirt, tugging it down over the waistband of my jeans though it’s cropped.
Half boots.
Cute.
Self-consciously, I wonder if I should have worn yoga pants. After all, we did say we were going to watch movies, and I don’t plan on doing that particular activity in the living room where his roommates can bother us.
I’ve had just about as much Rex Gunderson as a girl can take.
I ring Rhett’s doorbell, stuff my hands in the pockets of my khaki green jacket. Paste a smile on my face when the door cracks open and Eric Johnson’s mug peers down at me through the screen.
“Sup Fire Crotch.”
My eyes narrow. “Fire Crotch? Really? You’re taking it there, huh? Right to my face?”
He shrugs, pushing the door open, letting me enter. “Why not?”
“Most people wait a few weeks—you know, until they get to know me better.”
“Guess I have bigger balls than most people.”
I doubt that. “Guess so.” Glance around. “Rhett’s home, right?”
He closes the door behind us, pointing. “Bedroom.”
“Thanks.”
“Make good choices,” he says at my back when I hit the hallway. “Or don’t.”
Rhett’s door is ajar, and I give two soft taps to the frame. “Knock, knock.”
He’s at his desk, shoulders hunched. Head bent. Looks up, startled. “Hey! Shit.” Stands, shoveling a stack of papers before pushing back from the table. “I must have lost track of time.”
“Grading papers?”
“Oui.”
I practically purr, already excited to be in his bedroom. Drop my purse and meet him halfway so he can drop a kiss on my lips. Scan the bedroom, eyes hitting the bed first, of course.
He’s tidied up.
Rearranged the room, bed pushed against the far wall. Dresser opposite, television perched on top. Moved the desk next to the closet.
My jacket comes off and I hang it on his desk chair, plopping down to remove my shoes. Without them, I’m an entire three inches shorter.
“Did you eat?” he asks. “Don’t say pizza.”
“Haha. Yes, I had some chicken bake Donovan threw in a crock pot this morning before class with white rice and canned veggies.” I pull a face. “Did you eat?”
“Shit tons of water.” He laughs. “Bagel, peanut butter, fruit. I’ll probably get up to pee a lot and should eat again before bed.”
I crawl on the bed, flopping down on his pillows. Lean over and take a whiff, wanting to bury myself in the smell of him.
My shirt drifts up when I roll to my back, baring my flat stomach; his brown eyes fall onto my pale, smooth skin. I smile. Cross my arms behind my head, letting him look.
I’m nice like that.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” I wriggle my toes, elongating my body on the bed, raising my arms into a stretch. “Let’s watch a movie. Come lie down by me, your pacing is making me nervous.”
It’s not; I just want him to lie down so I can touch him. Get this whole pretense of watching television over with so we can fool around.
He moves to the door, turning the lock. Removes his ball cap before sitting on the right side of the bed, shaking out his hair and presenting me with his back. Grabs the remote.
Scoots back until his rear hits me, lying on his side facing the TV.
His broad back blocks my view, but I don’t even care. I didn’t come here to watch a movie; I came here to spend time with him, get to know him better.
Weasel my way into his heart.
“What do you want to watch?” he rumbles, already flipping through Netflix.
“How about New Girl. Have you ever seen that?”
He clicks it. Hits enter so we’re starting season one, episode one. Tosses the remote to the foot of the bed. “I don’t watch a lot of TV to tell you the truth. Mostly just have it on as background noise.”
When he flops onto his back, I seize the opportunity and roll toward him, snuggling up into his side. Lay my hand on his stomach, cheek on his chest. His abs constrict from the contact. Dick twitches beneath his mesh gym shorts.
I bite back a smile.
His arm comes down around me, pulling me close. On the television in front of us, Jess and the gang meet for the first time, and I giggle against Rhett’s chest at the on-screen antics.
Run my hand under the fabric of his shirt, sliding it north, over his rippled abdomen. Up his sternum, palm skimming his nipple.
For the next ten minutes, we lie together silently, motionlessly except for our breathing.
Then, “Do you ever lie in bed the night before a meet and think about it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know who your match is against tomorrow?”
“Sure do—name is Eli Nelson. Five ten. One hundred ninety-eight pounds. Seventeen percent body fat. Record is thirty and four, from Spokane, Washington.”
“Anything else?”
“His girlfriend’s name is Candace, and she’s a Scorpio.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Yeah, I made that up.” He laughs.
“Nervous?”
“No. I’ve wrestled him before.”
“Did you win or lose?”
His brow quirks. “Do you even have to ask?”
I blush. “Want me to rub your back?”
Rhett hesitates, glancing down at me. “Sure.”
“Want to take off your shirt?”
“Is removing my shirt part of the standard massage package?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Guess I’m taking off my shirt, then.”
I fight the urge to rub my hands together, the anticipation of his incredible physique palpitating my heart. He uses his rock-hard core to rise, raises his arms above his head, drags off his shirt. Lies down on the bed, on his side, presenting me with his powerful back.
The muscles are taut, firm. Skin is surprisingly smooth. I explore first, palm grazing his warm flesh, running it along his deltoid. Down his dorsi. Up his spine and across his shoulders.
Marvel at the strength in these shoulders, the power in his obliques. Explore the tops of his glutes, wanting to pull back the waistband of his shorts and dip my hand inside.
He shivers. Skin prickles with goose bumps.
“Is this massage supposed to tickle?” he mutters.
“Shh, relax,” I croon into his neck. “It’s the new butterfly technique. They only teach this in French massage parlors.”
“Ah, well, that makes sense I guess.”
I lean in. “I promise it comes with a happy ending.”
I simply cannot stop my hands from wandering; he feels too, too good under my insatiable hands.