Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(50)

My stomach sours when I think about what I'm ignoring and what I promised myself just the other day. That I wouldn't let Rhett get between me and my quest to find my birth mother.



       
         
       
        

I won't. I just won't. I can juggle multiple things. I'm a grown woman, and I can handle this. I can.

My first stunt with Rhett doesn't even make it all the way up. My sloppy knees betray me and I end up coming down, but he's there to catch me.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he says after he sets me down.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say through gritted teeth. "Again." I'm not going to let sex with Rhett affect cheer. That is not fucking happening. Cheer before amazing sex.

It takes me two more tries before I get the hang of things and then I'm fine. We even add more to the sequence, which now includes a tick tock, where Rhett tosses me just high enough so I can switch my standing leg, to heel stretch that I flip to a scorpion and then a kick twist dismount at the end. It's the most difficult stunt I've done in a while, and it feels good to hit it.

When I come down after nailing it, Rhett immediately grabs me up and swings me around.

"That was fucking awesome!" he sets me down and we share a high five. I have flashbacks from last night. From the look on his face, he does too.

"Yeah, it was," I say and I'm not just talking about the stunt. He grins at me and then winks and I nearly swoon to the floor.

He's so good at that. So charming and confident, but he's sweet and vulnerable too. It's a heady combination and I can't seem to get enough of it.

"You coming over for a cooking lesson tonight?" he says in my ear. I'm not sure if he really means cooking if he's just using it as a euphemism for sex. I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to us doing both? Probably the sex before the cooking. And sex after the cooking.

"Maybe," I say. "What are you making?" I know I'm being flirty, but whatever. I'm in a flirty mood.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he says, that boyish grin on his face. How he can go from fuck-hot to boy next door is beyond me, but I don't want him to stop.

"I guess I'll have to come over and find out," I say in a low voice, looking around to make sure no one is watching us. There's only one. Tobi. She's just grinning and shaking her head at me.

I subtly give her the finger without Rhett noticing.

"I have to go home and shower and then I'll be over. I'll bring dessert." I mean that literally. I got some ice cream the other day that's hanging out in my freezer waiting to be eaten. I also figure I'll eat less if I'm sharing it with someone else.

"Can't wait," he says, flashing me a dimpled smile before heading out the door.

"You are in trouble," Tobi sings as we walk out together. 

"Just shut up."

* * *

Somehow the hanging and banging becomes part of my regular routine. Not every night, obviously, because Rhett and I need sleep, but on the weekends and at least once or twice during the week. I come over after practice and we fuck, sometimes not even making it to the bedroom. We recover and then head to the kitchen, usually just wearing our underwear and Rhett takes me through the basics of cooking. My skills have always been utilitarian. I can make just enough stuff to stay alive. When I was growing up, my parents would often go out to dinner and leave me to fend for myself. On the nights I didn't go over to Mia's, I made my own food. A lot of grilled cheese. A lot of canned soup.

It's no wonder Rhett is good with kids, because the man has patience to spare. I feel like an idiot for burning something or measuring wrong, but he just laughs and tells me to try again. We make all kinds of things from chicken and dumplings to curried rice to pizza. I learn, we both eat and then we head back to the bedroom, usually with our dessert. The night with the ice cream was . . . interesting.

After sex we talk for a little while then I get dressed and drive myself home. He never asks me to stay, but the look on his face when I walk out of his bedroom is so sad that I want to run and dive back into bed with him.

I would love to stay the night with him and be his little spoon, but I need to draw a line somewhere. I have to have some differentiation between hanging and banging and dating. Sure, I know things are a little blurry looking from the outside, but it works for us. Sort of.

Two weeks into our arrangement, he asks if maybe we could fuck at my place. Well, he doesn't put it like that, but that's the implication.

"Uh, I don't know. I just assumed you liked staying here." I don't want him to come over. I don't want him invading my space. I like coming to this separate place so when I leave it, I don't have the echoes of orgasms pounding in my brain constantly.