Beads of sweat gathered along her cleavage where her chest heaved in agitation. Her nipples pressed against the tight spandex, little points begging for my attention.
“You feel this.” I pointed between us. “It’s basic. Call it hormones, call it chemistry, whatever. There’s something there when I look at you. When I touch you. Your body reacts, just like mine does.” I didn’t even try to hide my erection at that point.
“It’s just because I’m the only girl you’re around during the day. It’s natural that —”
I laughed harshly, cutting her off. “You think this is some proximity thing? Reese, I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but getting laid is not a problem for me.”
She flushed, the telltale redness spreading from her chest upwards. “I can’t do this with you, Laird.” My name again. I wanted to hear her yell it, scream it over and over as she came from my fingers, my tongue, my cock. “I can’t have the rest of the guys thinking I earned my spot on the field by spreading my legs for the captain.” She looked up at me from beneath those long, sexy lashes of hers. “I deserve better than that. I am better than that.”
I didn’t have an immediate answer to her challenge. She was right. Everything she said was true. But that didn’t negate my desire for her, my all-consuming need to claim her for myself.
“We can’t do this.”
Fuck that. I carved my hand through my hair and gripped the back of my neck. “We’ll be careful,” I countered.
“What we?” she cried. “There is no we. You barely know me.”
She was wrong. I didn’t know her details. Her specifics. But she’d already shown me the broad outline of who she was. Strong. Tough. Stubborn. Funny. Sarcastic. Quick. Smart. A flash of her with Eli popped into my head, that single interaction with him telling me so much about her, and I added more words to the list. Compassionate. Giving. A fighter. A survivor.
I rubbed my chest, the spot where the small Gaelic G was inked on my right pec. I knew enough to know I wanted to know more.
I wanted to know her everything.
I wanted to fucking be her everything.
“Try me.” I tipped my chin at her in challenge. “You’re right. I don’t know the little stuff. But the big stuff? I think you’ve shown your hand more than you realize.”
Reese
“Are you serious right now?” I stared at him in utter disbelief, my eyebrows practically touching they were pinched so hard together. I picked up the bag of peas again and pressed it back against my side. They were starting to thaw, the bag slippery with condensation, and tiny rivulets of water ran down my hip before falling on the floor, where Oscar happily licked up the small puddles. “How do you think this works? You pass some test on What Makes Reese Holland Tick and we’re suddenly a thing on the down low?”
His jaw worked side to side, and he stared at me mutinously. Okaaay, maybe he did think that’s exactly how this was going to happen. I huffed out a laugh. This was crazy talk. His eyes shone at me like gemstones, his fingers clenching and unclenching by his muscular thighs. Like I was some weird fucking prize he’d set his eye on, and now I was denying him.
“Laird,” I started, but his eyes closed and his whole body relaxed. “I—”
“Say it again,” he interrupted.
“Say what again?”
“My name,” he growled. “Say my fucking name.”
I licked my lips. They were somehow dry despite the pervasive Alabama humidity that had followed us inside and the heat emanating between us.
Us.
I swallowed hard and took advantage of his closed eyes to appreciate all the masculine beauty in front of me. The tattoos on his pecs begged to be traced by my fingers, my tongue, and his abs would’ve made any Hollywood heartthrob jealous. I followed the narrowing of his hips, the thin line of hair at his navel that led beneath his shorts, where a substantial bulge tented the black fabric.
He was gorgeous. And he wanted me to say his fucking name.
“Laird,” I repeated, my voice huskier this time.
Goose bumps rose along his arms, tightened his flat nipples, and a shudder worked its way down his body. Irish green eyes flew open and met my wide chocolate gaze.
“Yes.” Two strides brought him to my side, and from his position above me, he wrapped my ponytail around his fist, tipping my head back and arching my throat. He leaned down and ran his nose along its curve, nuzzled behind my ear, and inhaled deeply.
I forgot how to breathe.
He spoke against my sensitive skin, his lips brushing the shell of my ear with every word. “Ask me your questions. Then I’m going to make you say my name over and over again until I know every version of it coming from your lips by memory.”
If he hadn’t been fisting my hair and holding me captive with his words, I would’ve melted to the floor along with my makeshift ice-pack.
I turned my head instinctively, lips parted, seeking him, but he released my hair suddenly and took a step back. I wobbled and almost fell off the bench, catching myself just in time. Every nerve ending from every hair on my head still tingled from his touch.
“Your questions.” He watched me hungrily, like I was all the desserts he’d ever denied himself to get a body that looked like his.
“I—” Disoriented, I blindly patted the table behind me for my phone, trying to rein in my scattered thoughts. Questions. I needed to ask him questions. “Okay. One second.”
I pulled up my search screen, because I couldn’t think clearly and Google knew everything. HOW WELL DOES HE KNOW YOU, I typed in the box.
The first result was a Cosmo quiz. I clicked on it.
Right. Here goes.
“Question one,” I read aloud. “Her idea of a perfect date is A. Getting dressed up and going to a party. B. An afternoon hike with a picnic. C. Netflix and chill. D. Volunteering at an animal shelter.”
He stared at me intently, as if he was trying to read my mind. “B.”
“Nope.” C, if I was being honest. I didn’t need a guy in my life to do the other items on that list. “Question two. She hates it when her man A. Orders dinner for her. B. Won’t get off his phone. C. Goes out with the guys on Friday instead of her. D. Skips foreplay.”
“D.” His answer was instant, confident.
But still wrong. I couldn’t help but think—with the right guy—there were times when foreplay would be completely unnecessary. Like right now. “Wrong.” Creases formed between his eyes as his brow furrowed. It was B. When I was with a guy, I wanted to know that I was enough to keep his attention, that nothing on social media was more important than me.
“Number three. When it comes to your friends, she prefers A. To always be there when you’re hanging with them. B. You have the exact same circle of friends. C. You each hang out with your respective crowds solo, but still make time for each other. D. Friends, what friends? You can’t stand to spend a minute apart.”
He closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “This is ridiculous. B. We’d have the same friends.”
Ugh, that was so smothering, C was a much better choice. I shook my head and dodged his glare. Oscar followed him as he started pacing from the front door to the stairs. “What’s next?”
“Four. You want to go to the big party on Saturday but she isn’t feeling well. You A. Skip the party to take care of her. B. Go. You don’t want to both be sick. C. Make an appearance at the party, but leave early to drop some soup off at her place. D. Facetime with her the whole event, so she can still be there with you.”
“A. Easy decision.” He nodded once sharply and narrowed his eyes at me, like he dared me to disagree.
I smiled. “You got that one right. You’re one for four.”
But his streak ended there and he missed the next trio of questions about my preferences for living together, my ideal anniversary gift, and when to meet the parents.
A string of curse words flew from him and he stopped right in front of me, pointing at my phone. “This doesn’t mean anything. The fact that I’m getting these wrong.”
I lifted my shoulders insouciantly. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. This was your idea.”