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“Did you…uh, sleep?” I don’t know what else to say. Tension is running inexplicably sky high between us and it’s making me nervous and curious as to what the heck happened while I was asleep. Did a flip get tripped in his head? And what tripped it because I was firmly in the friend zone a few hours ago.
That’s when he jumps out of the pool and faces me.
And he’s naked…naked. Gloriously naked.
I can’t even pretend that I’m not staring at his penis. I am incapable of speech let alone artifice of any kind so I go right on staring.
It’s beautiful, perfect. That’s not hyperbole. I’ve seen a couple, mostly on the Internet, and his is the best by far. Not too big. Not too small. Not too thin. I’m suddenly the Goldilocks of dick. It lies long and thick against his smooth, hairless sac. Sweet Jesus, he shaves.
While I’m staring appreciatively, it starts to grow, standing at attention while water slowly streaks down the rest of his tan, finely honed muscles. His body is unbelievable. At the risk of sounding clichéd as eff––a work of art. I want to spend days staring at it through the viewfinder of my camera, get lost between every curve and hard angle and never return.
He starts moving, coming for me like he means business. Meanwhile I’m frozen, incapable of doing anything other than watching him obliterate the distance between us in a few, long strides.
“No, I didn’t sleep,” he rasps. Eyelids heavy, chest heaving with deep breaths. “You expect me to sleep with your sweet round ass pressed up against my dick?”
Am I supposed to answer that?
Exhaling harshly, he tips his head back and gives the stars a passing glance before his focused attention returns to me. “No. No, I did not sleep,” he answers for me and he doesn’t sound too happy about it, either. His hot green gaze drops to my hard nipples, poking the cotton t-shirt, and his expression grows pained. “I thought I wasn’t your type?”
He’s serious? He actually believed me? I guess I’m a better actress than I thought I was.
“I-I uh…” stutters out of me.
Inching closer, he takes my face in his hands. The t-shirt I’m wearing, his t-shirt, gets soaked where my breasts touch his chest. His erection presses into my lower belly. And oh my God, if he just bends his knees a little I am going to go off like a rocket.
“You said I wasn’t your type. Did you mean it?”
That’s when things go from shocking and borderline amusing––to serious. There’s uncertainty in his quiet voice. The swagger is nowhere to be found. No arrogance in the way his lashes lower while he waits for me to answer. He’s baring himself to me. His beautiful naked body. The tender vulnerability in his open gaze. He’s placing himself at my mercy.
No. I don’t mean it. I’m sorry I ever said it. And I’ve never wanted anyone more. The words circle round my head, hang on my lips. And I do. I want him so much. I’ll take as much as he can give for as long as he wants me. Because I’d rather have a little bit of him than nothing at all.
“Heeyyy. Am I interrupting something?” a male voice queries from somewhere behind us.
Our heads jerk in unison to find Dallas standing a few feet away in the living room. His eyes––black and blue and swollen. His lip cut. His arm in a sling.
“What the fuck?” Reagan mutters. “Where have you been?”
“Jail.”
Chapter 23
Alice
“That’s pretty cool,” Simon says as he and Morgan watch the first cut of the video I’m going to submit for the James Cameron internship on my iPad, the deadline only three weeks away.
On screen, we watch the boys moving in slow motion. Dallas coming out of the water vertically to slam the ball into the back of the net, the water spray trailing the ball creating a perfect arc. All that raw emotion and unbridled energy working in synch. Factor in the animated faces of the players around him and it’s pretty awesome if I do say so myself.
The transitions between video and still shots aren’t as seamless as I want them to be yet. For that, I need to use a professional editing machine like the one Simon said he has access to.
“Three weeks, people. Do not wait till the last minute. I will not be taking any submissions past the stroke of midnight on the twenty-first. So don’t come to me with excuses of your grandmother losing a kidney in a freak motorcycle accident and you being the only matching donor in the world. True story––someone tried that one on me once,” professor Marshall barks.
The lecture hall breaks out in laughter.
“The transitions are a little choppy,” I whisper. “I’d really appreciate it if I could get some time on the Avid machine…if the offer still stands.”
