Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(301)

22





Bryce




Remember what I said about making up for lost time?

Yeah, we had a lot of time to catch up with.

We go again, and again, and more still, until we're both laughing and unable to move there on the floor. The rush of memories, the flood of the familiar coming back to my nerve endings and my brain is almost drug-like, but better. Remembering her is the best hit and the best high I've ever felt.

She's bent over on her knees in front of me, wiggling that ass of hers and daring me to yield, as if we're competing to see who drops or passes out first. And then I'm fucking her hard; the deep, rhythmic strokes that I know drive her wild. I'm pulling her hair, just hard enough to make her gasp, and just enough to have her reach back and claw at my chest, her fingers needy and grasping as she moans and writhes under me.

I'm groaning as she giggles and crawls between my legs, taking me in her mouth to revive me. And against every single aching muscle, and every single law of just human exhaustion, I'm hard again, and needing her.

She's riding me, her hands on my knees and her hair tossed back as she bounces that perfect ass up and down my length, milking me. My hands slide over her hips, one staying up to her breasts to tease and roll her nipples between my fingers, the other diving deep between her legs to the place we connect and pressing against her clit.

Lost time? Fuck it; in our minds, we're going to make up for a full year of this without taking a single damned break.

We do of course finally drop from exhaustion, and it's then that we take the time to right the wrongs of our past.

There are tears.

She's crying when she tells me about that Goddamn syringe in my bathroom that night; even more so when I tell her about Danny. And just like that, the sins of the past are brought bleeding and bloody to the surface, only to be shoved away; healed now.

It doesn't matter who was wrong, or what was said or wasn't anymore, because it's forgotten. It's pushed aside in favor of the now, because the now is the only real place we can be. We don't exist in the past, only here and what's to come.

But for now, it's just her and I under this big, big sky, and for now, that's all I need.

“So, what now?” The muffled, half-asleep voice against my chest mumbles.

I grin as I lean down to kiss the top of her head; “Well I think it's safe to say date three is off with Anderson after you slept with the guy that kicked his ass.” She giggles into my skin, the rumbling of her happiness making me grin; “I mean there's only so much a guy can take, Peyton, even a desperate douchebag like Anderson.”

She laughs and pokes me in the side; “I know that plan is off, dummy. I mean now what do we do?”

I shrug; “Now we should talk to Sasha again.”

I can feel her bristle beneath me; “Anyone ever tell you you've got a teeny bit of a jealous streak, Miss Rivers?”

“As long as that bitch keeps her hands and her eyes off of you, we'll be just fine.”

I laugh as she playfully nips at my skin; “Tonight we lie low and get some sleep, and tomorrow-” She looks up at me, and my jaw tightens; “Tomorrow we get Logan back.”





23





Peyton




“C’mon, wake up.”

I frown as I open my eyes and drag down the blanket I’ve pulled up over my face against the morning sun; “Hrmmr?” Some women, mostly characters in movies, wake up clear, alert, and ready for the world, with perfectly sexy tousled bed-head.

I am not those women, and I need fucking coffee, now.

I blink my eyes again and focus on a fully dressed, obnoxiously awake Bryce leaning over me. I grumble and start to pull the covers of the lighthouse keeper’s bed we’ve commandeered for the night back up, but he yanks them out of my hands and leans down to kiss my forehead; “Here, become human, oh bleary one.”

I frown in confusion until I look down and see the paper cup of black, strong-smelling Turkish coffee in his outstretched hand; “You’re…you’re a saint,” I mutter, smiling at him as I take the coffee from his hand and gratefully sip it; “Where did you even get this?”

“You sleep late; I went out to the market.”

I arch an eyebrow at him, glancing out the window at the sun low on the horizon; “Late? What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

I roll my eyes, grinning as I take another necessary sip of the drink in my hands; “Yeah, day’s-a-wastin’, huh soldier-boy?”

He grins and tosses me a pastry, followed by my clothes; “Here, eat up and let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I want to show you something.”

I raise my brows again; “Can’t we just stay here? Maybe sleep some more?” I add, hopefully.