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I’m on a roll, and she’s panting, her tits rising and falling to brush against me because she’s stepping closer, leaning into what I’m promising her. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, but I don’t call attention to it. Not yet.
“Even then, after you’re messy with juices from your clit to your asshole, I’ll lick up every drop with my tongue. Happily, greedily, thirstily. So I don’t give a rat’s ass about a little sweat, baby.”
I kiss her forehead once again.
This time, she leaves it. On my lips, on her skin.
She’s breathy and weak, but still, she argues. My little spitfire. “Bruce. Science project. Cooper.” I love that I’ve made her unable to string words together to form sentences. I actually feel damn proud and want to strut around like a peacock a bit. But I’ll save that for when she’s truly speechless.
“I know. Go take care of Cooper. Mom gig first and foremost, always.” I get that and would never begrudge her need to spend time with him and help him. “But if you get a little time alone after he goes to bed and want to call me or send me some dirty pics, I’ll be sleeping with my phone in my hand, praying to God that he’ll bless me with some spank bank material.”
It’s irreverent and silly on purpose. I need her to leave feeling good about this. It’s a long game, not just a quick ambush to get in her pants. Though I definitely want in there, it’s a directed step toward more.
She giggles, slapping lightly at my chest. “I think that’s blasphemy. It’s definitely not how prayer works.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to. Agree to disagree. But you need to get home. Do some science or something.” I tilt my voice, letting her know that I’m not nearly as invested in Cooper’s project as I am in what she’ll be doing after his bedtime.
Her smile is easy, which feels like a win, especially considering how ready to run she was a few minutes ago. This new plan is a fucking brilliant one, I decide. I’m making progress, a little bit at a time.
“I’ll talk to you on Thursday,” she says emphatically.
I hold my phone up, waving it back and forth. “If I don’t hear from you sooner.”
By Thursday, I’m desperate to see her. She never called, never texted, and I’m afraid I overplayed. Direct scared her off. Indirect might’ve scared her off too.
Shit.
I’m not a player by any stretch of the word’s definition, but I should have better game than this. Especially with her. She’s the one person I know almost as well as I know myself. Or at least I used to. Maybe that’s how I should go at this? Not with promises, not with sexy talk, but with . . . a date to get to know each other again?
Or maybe everything at once? If I come at varying angles, she’s got to see reason. See that this is happening, that we’re meant to be. We would’ve been together all along if not for the stupid shit kids pull and our being too immature to use our words. I curse the silly little fucker I was, but I’m not that kid anymore.
Which is what I keep telling Bobby. He’s been a bitch all week, saying ‘remember when’ and ‘what about . . .’ as he asks me questions to make me ‘see the light’, as he calls it. That’s even after I explained what happened all those years ago.
He means well, I know that, but I’d rather have him on my side, helping me figure out how to get Allyson back, because talking it all through with him, even with his being pissy, has actually solidified things in my mind.
I want her, should’ve had her all along, but damned if she’s not going to make me work for it, fight for her smiles, and earn her heart. But I’m man enough for the job, and she’s worth it, no matter the obstacles she throws in my path.
Practice is a bubble where we focus on the kids. Drills, coaching, throw the ball, catch the ball, run for TDs.
But there’s also tension. I can feel Allyson shyly watching me when she thinks I’m not looking, can feel her arousal like it’s a palpable thing in the air between us. By the time we do the team cheer, I’ve decided on my move.
“So, what’s for dinner? I’m starving,” I say, throwing my arm over Cooper’s shoulders. Yep, I’m using the kid as an in. But I like Cooper, so I don’t think I’m too damned by it.
He grins excitedly. “Mom made lasagna. It’s in the oven at home already.”
I pat my belly and groan. “Sounds delicious. I can’t wait.”
His brows climb up his little forehead. “Are you coming to dinner?”
