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I still don’t regret what we did. There’ll never be a moment in time where I’d ever take this back.
Yet, I knew better than to allow myself this because of the aftermath of how I would probably feel if we ever tried to have a relationship.
Reid Pierce isn’t just a random guy that I let between my legs.
He’s the one that will forever haunt my memories and become the stable element that I’ll compare everyone to.
I may have just made things worse for myself.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
Reid gets out of the pool first to grab our clothes and a towel for me.
He leads me to the bedroom and lays me down on the warm bed. His fingers graze over my body- almost lovingly.
Don’t.
Don’t make me fall in love with you.
I roll over, exposing my naked ass to him and he lets out a sigh and smacks it. I turn around to look at him in surprise. He is standing now, grinning down at me. His cock is still hard, and he is ready for more. I bite my lip and make good on my promise from before. I begin stroking him and he lets out a groan. I put my mouth around his shaft and show him how much of a giver I actually am. His strong leg muscles and six pack make me want to eat him alive, and I know he can tell just how turned on I am, too.
“Fuck, Shorty,” he moans.
I speed up, bringing him to the edge.
“I’m gonna come,” he says as he tries to pull out of my mouth. I grab his rock-hard ass, and don’t let him move away and he explodes in my mouth.
After I swallow, he laughs. “You really didn’t need to do that.”
“Oh, I wanted to,” I say as I wipe my mouth.
“You are something else, Shorty. You know that?”
He leans down to kiss me, and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
HOLLYN
I’m fuming.
I woke up this morning in the rental that I had fallen asleep in with Reid, and he was gone. Bags packed, no sign of him anywhere or that he was coming back, and, like an idiot, I waited.
Then I showed up at hockey practice today just for Weston—the last guy in the world that I want to see right now—to tell me that Reid quit.
Quit.
As in, left permanently.
According to my calculations—and they’re right—Reid had approximately two more days with us.
Two.
Forty-eight hours of still being bound and tied to the little hockey team that he’s been coaching alone for weeks now.
“It’s better this way,” Weston mutters when I don’t respond back. “He’s not worth shit.”
“He’s worth more than you,” I clip back, and it’s then that I realized how rude that was. And how I would never say that in a million years if I wasn’t angry.
Maybe in my head, sure.
