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My body is so overheated that I feel a drop of sweat crawling down my back, even though my nipples are so stiff under my shirt that you’d think I was in a walk-in freezer.
“We … can’t,” I manage to say.
“Why not?”
“Because we hate each other.”
His grin grows even more devious. “That makes it sound even better.”
Maybe I’m still drunk, because I find myself actually counting off some of the positives of taking Hunter up on his offer.
He probably could make me come. Hard. I know he’s experienced.
There would be no possibility of catching feelings and making this whole thing more complicated and messy than it needs to be. We’d be able to keep our distance emotionally and keep things purely physical. Purely no-strings-attached.
I’d feel safe with him. If I can trust him to look out for me when I’ve had too much to drink at a party even though we’re not friends, carry me home, take care of me when I’m a drunken mess, and to let me have his own bed all to myself, I could trust him intimately.
But … he’s stillHunter Landry.
“Say yes.” His voice is low, rumbly, smoldering like the red-hot embers of a fire.
“Hunter …”
I can feel a word on the tip of my tongue, a word I know I shouldn’t say, but a word that struggles to leap from my throat …
Luckily, the waitress arrives with our food at just the right time. Hunter pulls back to give her space to set his many, many plates in front of him.
With the increased distance between us, it feels like I’ve snapped out of a trance. Without his woodsy, masculine scent in my nose, without his gaze burning on me, without his low voice so close that I can feel the vibration, I regain some of my senses.
Enough of my senses to know that there’s only one answer I can give him as long as I’m still sane.
No.
Once the waitress leaves, Hunter just winks at me as he picks up his fork and knife. “Think it over, Pheebs. Think it over.”
The answerhasto beno… right?
16
HUNTER
It’s hard to concentrate on the game I’m getting suited up for when I’m still waiting to hear if Phoebe’s going to let me be the first man to make her come.
Every time I think of Phoebe being in a relationship with a guy for years and him not even being able to bring her to a climax, I shake my head in disbelieve. How the fuck is that even possible?
Every time I’m just hooking up with a girl, when I know it’s something that’s not going to last even an hour past the time we wake up in the same bed the next morning, I want to make sure she comes. As many times as possible.
I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself if I didn’t know the woman I’m with is enjoying herself, too.
I can’t stop thinking what Phoebe would look like when she comes.
She’s normally so put-together, so collected, so poised—to watch her utterly unravel, to watch her lose control, to watch her moan and pant and squirm with ecstasy as her most base instincts overpower that powerful brain of hers …
Fuck, my cock is rock hard in the locker room.
I need to get these thoughts out of my head. We have a game to win. Something we haven’t done yet this season.
I wish I were more optimistic than I am that we’re about to finally make it happen.
