Playing for Keeps(12)

 

 

 

 

 

10

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Admissions of Guilt

 

 

Elise

 

 

 

He kissed me. Justin Brady was kissing me.

 

On my couch.

 

I’m trying to remember how we arrived at this exact moment. One minute we were eating tacos and talking casually, and then the next his mouth was devouring mine.

 

My lips tingle with the hint of spice and the last thing I wanted to do was tell him to stop, even though I know with certainty it was the right call.

 

“E-Class,” he murmurs, voice a little strained.

 

While my confused brain is still trying to work out if maybe he’s actually interested in me, my lips start moving.

 

“What are we doing?” I hear myself ask him.

 

I want to slap a hand over my mouth, but then I see Justin thoughtfully weighing my question, and now I want nothing more than to hear his response. I practically hold my breath while I wait for it.

 

“I don’t know. But I’m attracted to you, and I think you’re attracted to me.”

 

Oh. Well then. He’s not wrong about that last part, but this isn’t a conversation I ever imagined having with him.

 

Why did he kiss me? Had he thought about kissing me since that night? Did he want to make me smile? So many conflicting theories run through my brain.

 

Still, I remain speechless, waiting.

 

“I guess I just wanted to cheer you up.” His smirk is so deliciously sexy that I have to physically stop myself from pouncing on him. I can think of about a dozen ways he could cheer me up. I could probably even invent a few more.

 

But then my libido takes a backseat, and my brain kicks back on. I’ve been replaying in my head how this conversation would go for the past three months, and I won’t miss my opportunity. Not now. I can’t. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t address the elephant in the room. I take a deep breath and meet his eyes. “You really don’t remember what happened between us do you? The night you guys beat Detroit in game seven last season ...”

 

He looks down at the ground between our feet. “Yeah,” his voice comes out strained. “I remember.”

 

Wait. What?

 

Hold up. That morning he acted like nothing had happened… I felt so used and alone. Like I was just a meaningless hookup he invited to his bed. Another woman to add to his list of conquests. It was awful. Beyond awful. I’d been in agony since that night. So angry and filled with such regret.

 

“You … remember?”

 

“Fuck.” When he looks up at me, his eyes are filled with his own regrets. A freaking mountain of them. “I’ve felt like shit for that for three months, two weeks and …” He takes a second to think, eyes searching mine. “Four days.”

 

A little pang of emotion hits me straight in the chest. He needs to start making sense. Right the fuck now.

 

“But I didn’t know what else to do,” he continues. “God, the look on your face the morning after. It was obvious you regretted it. I didn’t want to put you in a weird position with your brother. I thought I was doing the right thing. I was trying to protect you, Elise.”

 

I make a small noise of annoyed disagreement, wanting to point out that I’m an adult and I don’t need protecting. Instead, I inhale and rub one hand over my face. I’m honestly speechless. He’d pretended not to know we had sex. Is that worse than actually forgetting?

 

I shake my head, still processing. “I… You… What?” I inhale, and am searching for something to say when Justin continues.

 

“I remember, okay? All of it. Every whimper, every moan, every pant. How perfectly we moved together. How you taste, how your body felt around mine, how soft you felt beneath me. Shit, I remember every-fucking-thing. And I can’t seem to get you out of my head.” His voice is so desperate and gravelly, it pierces straight through my heart.

 

That makes two of us.

 

But I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

 

I want to be mad at him. I want to yell and scream and curse at him. But instead I just feel sad. Empty. Like we wasted the last three months tiptoeing around this. Avoiding each other. I’ve wasted months feeling awful about that night. We used to be friends, almost like family and now I feel so strange in his presence, like there’s this huge messy thing stretching out between us.

 

Justin shoves one hand in his pocket and gives me a sorrow filled look. “I figured I had messed up so bad, it was better if we both moved on and forgot it ever happened. It was a mistake, right? Us hooking up?”

 

“This isn’t like when we were kids. You don’t have to treat me like I’m about to break.”

 

My brain is working overdrive when Justin suddenly stands up to leave. “I’m sorry, I should go.”

 

He can’t go. I stand and do the only thing I can think of. I grab him by the front of his shirt, holding him close. I’m not sure whether to slap him, or kiss him, and the indecision has me paralyzed. What happens next, no matter which outcome, will change the course of our friendship completely.

 

It’s then I realize that I’m shaking. My entire body is trembling, and I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because three months of feeling like a miserable piece of shit is a long time and between the break up and the alcohol and the kissing, I feel emotionally exhausted and confused.

 

“Hey, it’s okay. Breathe for me.”

 

I draw a slow, shuddering inhale.

 

Justin continues gazing at me with that curious, watchful stare I can’t decipher. ”Let’s sit down.”

 

He lowers us to the couch and his fingers gently touch the back of my neck, caress along my jawline, and raw emotion riots inside me.

 

I don’t want him saying sweet things to me or kissing me like he can’t bear the thought of his lips not touching mine.

 

I need him to keep pretending that night never happened—that I mean nothing to him. Less than nothing. My heart won’t be able to take him being sweet to me. I know we don’t have a future, I’ve accepted that. And broken, manwhore Justin Brady looking at me with heat in his eyes will only lead to trouble. Won’t it?

 

I try to conjure Becca’s voice, her dire warnings but I come up blank, because I remember that she invited Owen to the bar, knowing that Owen always has his shadow with him. The shadow that’s now sitting beside me in my apartment and all I can think about is having sex with him again. I’m going to kill Becca the next time I see her.

 

I search for reasons why we can’t continue that kiss, and nothing else exists but the hungry way he’s looking at me, the worried emotion in his dark gaze.

 

Pressing closer, I crash my mouth against his again. He makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat, but it only takes a moment before he brings both hands to my jaw, kissing me deeply, his tongue reaching out to stroke mine.

 

Then his lips still, and he pulls back just a fraction. “E, you’re drunk.”

 

I shake my head. “Not that drunk.”

 

He kisses me again, his tongue eagerly tangling with mine. His kisses are sooo good. I’ve never been kissed like this. So deep and demanding and hard. He kisses like he plays hockey—with complete confidence and laser focus.

 

“Are you pissed at me?” he asks between kisses.

 

“Yes.” I pull his lips back to mine with one hand around the back of his neck. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to stop kissing him. God, there’s just something about this man.

 

“No one can ever know.” His voice is husky and a little desperate, and damn if that doesn’t light me up like the fourth of July, my nipples hardening in my bra and my stomach squeezing with lust.

 

I nod, closing my fist in the front of his sweatshirt. “Agreed. Especially not my brother.” I pull back suddenly, needing space between us. Needing to see his eyes. He looks down at me in wonder, his lips damp and swollen from my kisses. “But don’t ghost on me again. We’re friends right?”

 

He touches my cheek with his thumb. “Yeah. And I really am sorry about that. I won’t ghost on you ever again. It’s been the longest few months of my life watching you and not knowing how to repair this. I can’t go through that again.”

 

Using my grip on his shirt, I tug him closer and we fall back onto the couch together, me on my back with him on top of me. He balances his weight on his forearms as he hovers over me, caging me in with his massive biceps and firm hips. There is nowhere I’d rather be in this moment. Which is crazy right? I should be mad at him. And maybe I am a little, but I’ve spent months agonizing over that night. Now the only thing that makes sense is erasing that memory with a better one.

 

“This isn’t smart,” I say to myself as much as to him.

 

“Turns out I get kind of stupid around you,” he says, voice brimming with emotion.

 

His mouth is on my throat, his tongue tracing circles along my racing pulse, and I frantically push my hips closer to his, my body clenching down wildly when I feel the firm ridge in his jeans. I press myself closer, grinding myself right up against it.