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“That’s my girl,” I’d groan.
I wouldn’t give her a second to be scared before I landed my hand on her ass again, slightly weaker than before. And not a moment later, I would have my tongue running back and forth over the raw and delicate skin.
I pump myself harder, already feeling pressure building deep in my groin. Switching hands, I feel my orgasm nearing more and more by the second. I’m not going to last much longer.
Kissing, sucking, licking, I’d devour the bare skin of her round ass. Without warning, I’d kiss her panties that covered her soaking wet center.
Faster and faster, I massage my balls as images of Nikki flash through my mind.
I’d run my tongue up the red thong, inhaling her scent. And I’d be fucking done for.
The pressure explodes, and I groan as those blue eyes fucking ruin me. I come into the towel and wipe myself off when I’m done.
My muscles relax into the bed as I come down from my high. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself, what she’s doing to me. Before I met her, my life was very simple—hockey and one-night stands. But I turned down three potential hookups tonight because I can’t get this girl out of my fucking head. Simple is easy and predictable, and nothing about Nikki is simple.
My phone vibrates on my nightstand, and I pick it up, expecting it to be Kos or Brett. But it’s not. It’s my Little Dove.
My heart fucking flutters, and I want to slap myself. But I can’t help the giddiness when I read her message.
Little Dove: Hi, Cameron.
11
Nikki
The last week has been equal parts amazing and terrifying. Cam and I might have said good-bye to each other after our date, but that lasted as long as it took for me to walk to the door of my shop.
He texted me with a picture of me walking away from him.
Cam: Who knew watching you walk away would be so hard?
At first, I thought it was solely sweet and innocent—until he sent a follow-up.
Cam: Extra hard.
By the time I had the courage to turn around and smile, he was gone. As was the sudden urge to respond. It was for the best—to refrain from responding to his messages and advances. Which would prove to be much harder than expected.
Every morning, I receive a selfie of him in bed with sexy, messy hair.
I was even gifted with a video one morning of him saying, “Good morning, beautiful,” in a raspy, sleepy voice.
That alone was a struggle to ignore.
Not to mention, the good night messages and selfies of him in an empty bed. And photos before and after games and practices.
I had been doing so well until last night.
But when he sent that text last night, it made me cry. Because I was so horrendously terrified to let anyone in, to talk to anyone for more than five seconds.
I typed out and deleted a text over and over for an hour before just messaging him.
Me: Hi, Cameron.
I chose that over ones that felt more honest and true, like: You should stay as far away from me as you can. It would be better if you forgot about me. I like you, Cameron, but I can’t keep talking to you. My ex would kill me if he found out I was alive and had been hiding from him all this time, and I don’t want you to die too.
So, instead of using logic and reasoning to keep distance between him and me, I started a damn conversation.
And we haven’t stopped texting since.
