Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(290)

He steps into the shower with me, his voice dark and low; “But if even one of those things isn’t true,” He steps even closer, his body practically touching mine as his hand reaches out to cup my chin and lift it towards his face. And it’s everything I have not to whimper or moan right then at the feeling of his touch; at the feeling of that spark that lights the fire; “If even one of those things isn’t true, Peyton,” He whispers deeply, leaning closer; “Then there’s no fucking way I’m letting another Goddamn second pass by without kissing you.”

And then, I break, like the snapping of a dam or the crack across the frozen lake; “Will you just shut up and kiss me?”

I gasp at the ferocity in his mouth, the raw heat that surges through him as he crushes his lips against mine. I’m moaning into him, shattering and tumbling apart as his powerful arms wrap around me and draw me into him. He growls as my mouth parts for him, his tongue sliding against mine, and I can feel the pulsing of his cock throbbing hard against my thigh.

My hands trail over his back; delicate, hesitant, and exploratory at first, as if relearning the way across a map. But as he groans into our kiss, my fingers remember the path and feel of his skin, and I’m clutching him like I might fly away without him.

We break our kiss, gasping for air as his lips travel down my jaw, down over the delicate skin of my neck to my collarbone, to the place he knows turns me into a puddle.

I love that he knows that place.

I melt into him, whimpering as he sucks my skin there, and when his hand drops low on my back, over the soft curve of my ass, and around my hip towards my sex, I don’t stop him. Fingers part my lips and brush over the hard nub of my clit, and I’m gasping as he rubs me there. The hot water cascades over us as he slips a thick finger easily inside of me, curling it against that wonderful spot as his thumb rubs circles around my clit. I’m rocking my hips against him, moaning out loud as as his mouth starts to drop down the slope of my breasts, until his lips close over the rock hard pebble of a nipple. It’s like a live wire right to my core as his fingers plunge in and out of me while his tongue dances across my nipple. And then he’s moving lower; dropping to his knees as his lips trail kisses across my belly, across my navel, and then lower, across my mons.

I cry out when I feel his tongue there against my clit, drawing it between his lips and teasing me as his fingers curl again and again against that spot just inside. I can feel my legs start to buckle, my knees giving out, but his strong hand is there, grabbing my ass and steadying me as he slowly brings me higher and higher.

“Come for me,” he growls, looking up into my eyes as I slowly start to fade over the edge of my orgasm; “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

Oh, fuck.

And when his tongue slides back against my clit, I explode against him. I’m crying out his name, my hands clutching hard at his dark hair as I ride out the wave of my climax against his tongue. I’m collapsing then, dropping into his arms, melting against his skin as the water teases over us both and the steam swirls around us; our own little cocoon from the craziness of the world around us.





14





Bryce




P A S T



Cold sweat stings my eyes and chokes my nostrils. I’m writhing on the bed, watching the walls melt like fire and the ceiling run like blood. My pulse feels like ice inside my veins, choking me, ripping through me as if killing me now that the poison is leaving my system.

My own skin feels like it’s boiling, like it might drop from my aching, brittle bones at any second. And the roaring inside my head is so loud I want the clean release of a bullet to silence it; anything to bring me peace.

I’m on day three of heroin withdrawal, and I want to die.

Demons from the past come crawling into my waking-dream-like vision; clawing at me, screaming at me, cursing my name and laughing at me as I slowly die in front of them. Cold, lifeless hands grasp for me from the shattered windshield of my parents car crash. And there’s me, screaming in the backseat tied to my carseat with the grim reaper’s hand stroking my forehead.

And then I’m roaring through the Nevada desert like a bat out of hell on my bike with the rest of the Club thundering around me. I’m seventeen, done with school, done with the world, and ready to die young. There’s a police siren drawing nearer on a cold night in Seattle later, and Jacob’s pressing the last of the take into my hands and telling me to run. I’m in the desert, scared out of my fucking mind with a rifle in my hand and a flag on my chest and no Goddamn idea in the world what I’m doing here.

“Stay with me, son; stay with me.”