Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(119)
She moans into my mouth, the sound both soft and completely sexy at the same time, and I find myself growling as I push myself against her. Her hands are at my neck, pulling at my tie and unbuttoning my shirt, and my hand is sliding over her thigh. I’m pushing her dress higher, feeling her shiver and whimper into me as my hand trails up until I feel lace, and heat, and-
Protect them.
The words hit me like slap across the face. Fuck; I can’t do this. I want to do this with every single fiber of everything I am, but what the fuck am I doing?
I pull away from her; “Wait, hang on,” She’s leaning forward to kiss me again and I draw back further; “Reagan, hold on.”
“What?” She’s looking at me like she messed up; like it’s her that’s doing something wrong, and that look just kills me.
“I-” What, tell her I can’t do this? Tell her it is her? Yeah, no, fuck that; I’m not doing that to her. “I- I just need to go get something for a sec.”
She gives me a strange, nervous look as she bites her lip; “Oh-”
Ah, shit, she thinks-
“Ok, there might be one in my sister’s room, in the bedside table.” She looks so shy, so innocent, and so on the verge of breaking, and it’s giving me the fuel I need to walk away. I can’t let her get into me; can’t let her touch the wreck I am inside. Reset button? How fucking delusional am I? I’m broken, and in the way that can’t be fixed.
“I’ll uh, I’ll see you soon.”
And then I’m walking away; walking away from the one girl in the world I can’t get out of my head and regretting it and hating every step I take as I let the terrace and her and the memory of that one perfect moment in time slip away behind me.
P R E S E N T
There’s something dreamlike about being back in the Old Man’s house in Greenwich, and I feel like I’m half-asleep as I wander through it. The strongest thing is, I’ve only ever been here a handful of times, but every single one sticks out like a dog-eared bookmark along the pages of my past. The kitchen has the lingering memories of swapping stories of trauma and horror with William over mushroom pizza; like our own fucked up little PTSD support group. There’s the guest-room upstairs, where he and I sat by day and night with Bryce for seven fucking days in a row while he detoxed off the junk; screaming his demons out at the ceiling while we held him down and kept him hydrated. I can remember parking myself in the library and reading every damn book the Old Man had on power and management and business when he set me up within Archer.
And then of course, there’s the garden out back where I first met Reagan, and really, that’s the weirdest part. It’s not just that I haven’t been back here since William died, it’s that the last time I was here was when I kissed her.
“Remind me again why we picked this place for the media Q&A?” I grin as I hear her walk up behind me where I’m staring off across the back gardens like a weirdo. It’s basically the first time she’s spoken to me since our little stupid blow-up yesterday, and I can tell she’s just as weirded out by being back at her Father’s place as I am which gives me a strange comfort. We both have our own ghosts about this place, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about that last time we were both here too.
“One guess, but I’ll give you a hint; it starts with a ‘D’ and ends with ‘onald’.”
She snorts, and as I turn to her, I see her look up at me like she’s about to say something.
“Reagan! We’re live in two damn minutes!”
Goddamnit, Donald.
Reagan rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and with one last flickering look at me, she’s following her campaign manager back through the house to the front steps where they’re holding the press conference.
I’m anxious and restless; subtly shifting my weight from foot to foot, tensing my muscles, and generally feeling too warm under my dress-shirt. I start to roll the sleeves up too before Donald gives me the evil eye and mutters something about “not testing well with target demographics” as he scowls at my tattoos, so I leave them be with a scowl right back at him.
My nervousness of course has nothing to with Reagan talking to the media. No, fuck that, she’s flawless up there, looking every bit the political powerhouse behind the podium. Her answers are effortless, she’s direct and yet light, and she makes them laugh without even trying to play the comedian. No, what I’m fidgeting about is how I’m going to apologize to her about yesterday when we’re done here. There’s a nervous, rumbling energy inside of me that tumbles under the surface; the kind I usually only get when I’m strapping on my gloves for what I know is going to be a long, rough session with the bag, or when I think too long about the past. I want to tell her everything - all of it - and that quite honestly scares the shit out of me.