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My heart squeezes from the lovely, affectionate way he talks about the women in his life. He’s the opposite of my ex. Hollis is the kind of guy who seems to deeply understand what makes a woman tick.
“That’s what matters most of the time, I think,” I say slowly, thoughtfully. “That someone is there.”
He nods, meeting my gaze with fondness in his eyes. “Definitely.”
“But you find people don’t really understand what makes you tick?”
He sighs, resigned. “Yeah. I do. Most women, for whatever reason, don’t want the real guy behind the jersey. They don’t want to hear about how I feel when we lose. When everything in my body aches after a game. When the media rips us apart.” He offers a what can you do shrug. “So I became the guy who’s happy all the time.”
A new realization clangs loudly, like a gong. Hollis is the easygoing athlete, but he’s also carrying a heavy weight of responsibility. I’m the calm and confident yoga teacher, but I’m wary of people. We both wear masks. “You know something about faking it too,” I say gently, bumping his shoulder in solidarity, I suppose.
“I do. Sometimes it’s easier to be that happy guy than show what stresses me out. So I get it. I’ve wound up with the wrong people as well.” We turn down the block, Donut sniffing trim hedges in front of a bungalow with a red mailbox. “I guess…I see a little of myself in you.”
It’s a little scary, this connection between us. But what’s even scarier is the possibility of showing him how I want to be touched.
And yet, I desperately want to be touched. I draw a deep breath, and even as dread fills me, I say the hard thing anyway. “I want to feel good in bed. I want to say what I like. To open up. I just don’t know if I can.” I swallow past my nerves and my fears. “But I’d like to try.”
His smile is like the morning sun—bright and unstoppable. He leans into me and sweeps a few strands of hair over my ear, his fingers gliding across my skin. “I’m very, very patient,” he whispers, in a husky voice that thrums through my bones.
Then settles between my thighs like a pulse.
“Me too,” I say, and it feels like a promise we’ve both made—to be real.
“And, you know, I’m pretty sure a good boyfriend would listen in bed,” he adds, making it crystal clear he’s RSVPing to the contest too.
It’s not just sex he’s offering.
It’s sex and patience.
Sex and vulnerability.
Sex and listening.
“I think he would too,” I say, but before my hormones take my brain hostage—and they’re marching up there to lay siege to my head pretty damn fast—I add, “So, just for the week, right? Then we go back to…friends?”
That just makes sense given what he’s shared about trust and his job. Neither one of us is in the market for romance. But we’re both interested in the business of orgasms.
His full lips curve up in a grin. “We can stay friends, too, even as you teach me what you like.”
Teach me what you like.
His words vibrate through my body, making my heart rate speed up. “Let’s start tonight.”
We turn around, walking faster toward the cottage, my girl leading the way. As we reach the yard, I say, “So that toy you got…I’m intrigued. I don’t have that one.”
“Do you have a lot of toys?”
“I’m something of a collector,” I say as we step onto the porch.
Hollis’s eyes light up, even against the inky blue starlit sky. “I’m going to need to hear all about this collection of sex toys. Every single detail.”
Blood rushes hot and fast in my body. Talking about toys feels a little like foreplay. “I have so many toys I might as well buy stock in batteries,” I say as we reach the back deck where Rhys is lounging in an Adirondack chair, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, and a curious expression on his magazine model face.
“I’d love to hear about these toys too,” he says, making my breath catch.
25
WANT COMPANY?
