Playing for Keeps(3)

 

A bulky, masculine leather chair sits in the corner, and the floor lamp beside it glows softly, lighting my way to the bathroom door at the far end of the room. When I reach the bathroom, I flip on the light switch, and then turn off the lamp. Wasting electricity is a strange pet peeve of mine, and burning lamps in an unoccupied room are at the top of that list.

 

I enter and do my business, not daring—but so wanting—to linger over the bottles of men’s products on the counter. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. A brand of deodorant I’ve never heard of.

 

A sound from behind the door catches my attention. I quickly wash my hands and exit, hoping I haven’t interrupted Justin bringing a girl to his bed. Talk about a dagger through the fucking heart.

 

When I open the door, instead of finding him with a woman like I expect, he’s alone. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands. I’m not sure what I’ve interrupted, but it’s clear he wants to be alone. Which means I need to make my presence known and exit stage right like as soon as humanly possible.

 

“I’m sorry. I just needed to use the bathroom. I’ll go,” I say, crossing the room in my quest for the exit.

 

But as I try to pass, one strong hand reaches out for me, gripping my legging-covered thigh. I stop in front of him, my breath caught in my throat.

 

“Stay,” he says, still not looking up at me.

 

I wait for him to make a joking remark, maybe call me by one of the old nicknames he hasn’t used in a while. E-Class. Easy E. But he doesn’t.

 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” My heart pounds out an uneven rhythm as I wait for him to respond.

 

And then he does…just not with words.

 

His hand slides up my thigh, and stops when it meets my hip. His grip on my hip holds me in place, but he doesn’t move any further. My entire body is tingling—because this is Justin, my brother’s best friend and roommate, and despite my many dreams and fantasies about this exact moment, he has never, not once, touched me like this. All I can think about, besides where his hands will travel to next, is the fact that he’s as buzzed as I am, if not more, and liquid courage is never a good gauge for true feelings, only bad decisions.

 

My lungs burn with exertion. I feel like I’ve just run a mile and I have no idea why.

 

I take a deep breath, but before I can say anything else, he’s rising to his feet, and standing at his full height, towering over me at six foot two inches and two hundred plus pounds of pure muscle. His shoulders are so broad that I feel tiny by comparison, and even more unsure about what I’m doing here.

 

But then his hands move to my face, cupping my jawline with his big, calloused palms and I forget how to breathe all over again.

 

“Stay,” he whispers again.

 

Suddenly I wish I’d left on the lamp, wish I could see the expression on his face right now. His voice sounds more anguished than I’ve ever heard, and there’s barely enough moonlight to make out his eyes.

 

His thumbs move over my skin, skittering along slowly as he sweeps one over the swell of my bottom lip.

 

“What is it?” I whisper.

 

Justin shakes his head, eyes closed. He drops his head until his forehead is pressed against mine. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this vulnerable. This exposed. He’s normally all masculine energy, so relaxed and in control of every situation. Tonight I feel like he could fall apart at any moment and it’s unnerving me and causing my nurturing tendencies to go into overdrive.

 

“Tell me what you need,” I whisper, placing my hands on his waist. He feels so solid beneath my palms.

 

“You,” he croaks out, voice raw. “On the bed.”

 

I don’t even consider denying his request, which makes zero sense because we’ve most certainly never had an encounter like this before. I sit down on the side of his bed, and Justin sinks down next to me. But rather than let me stay where I’ve parked myself, on the edge of the mattress, he lifts me and moves me to the center and toward the headboard where he stretches out beside me, lying on his side.

 

He’s big and muscular, and it feels so surreal to be here next to him. I’ve never even let myself imagine how this moment might feel, despite all my many fantasies about this exact moment. His brown hair is messy and his deep blue eyes are currently closed. But God, he’s gorgeous with his bulky shoulders and arms, a chest that was made for nestling close against, and eight perfectly carved abs.

 

“You’re so soft,” he says, voice filled with wonder as his palm works under my shirt and lands on my stomach.

 

My lungs stop working as his palm slides upward, over my breastbone until his fingertips touch my throat. Then his hand moves back down, down past my belly button until he stops over my pubic bone. My pussy feels so hot and tender, and oh-my-God, I want his hand to move lower so badly. But he doesn’t move any lower. His hand rests on my belly and I turn my face toward his.

 

“Justin?” His name leaves my lips only a second before his mouth presses against mine.

 

His kiss is so soft at first, then his fingers thread into the hair at the back of my neck as he turns my face toward his and deepens our connection.

 

My lips part for his, and Justin takes full advantage, sliding his tongue against mine. His kisses are everything I imagined they would be—hungry, hot, hard. A flicker of lust curls inside me.

 

His mouth moves over mine and when my tongue eagerly tangles with his, a low rumbling sound vibrates in his chest. All of my muscles clench at once. He tastes like lemons, and vodka, and every sinful pleasure imaginable, and dear God, I don’t ever want to stop kissing him.

 

 

 

 

 

3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Morning After

 

 

Elise

 

 

 

My entire body feels like I’ve been in a car accident—from my pounding head to the unexplainably sore muscles below my waist. My mouth is bone dry, and as I blink open my eyes, I have to focus on my breathing to calm the queasiness in my stomach.

 

Whose bed did I fall asleep in?

 

I shift to my side and it takes me several long seconds to realize where the hell I am.

 

Panic hits me the moment my eyes focus.

 

I look over my shoulder and see that a very naked Justin Brady is still asleep beside me.

 

His broad back with its lightly tanned skin slopes down to the most mouth-watering naked ass I’ve ever seen on a man. Firm. Muscled. Delectable.

 

A thousand vivid mental images crash into my brain at once. My hands on that firm, rounded ass as he thrust into me. Those trim hips snapping between my parted thighs.

 

I whimper, and scramble over the side of the bed in a hunt for my clothes. And my sanity, because what the hell did I do last night? What did we do last night?

 

I remember coming in here to use the bathroom. Remember finding Justin sitting on his bed, looking somber. Then I remember kissing him. Oh my God, the kissing. I feel weak at the memory of his hot, wet tongue sliding against mine.

 

I find my underwear first, and pull those on—inside out, but who cares about that right now. I toss on my bra and jersey next. The jersey with my brother’s number on the back. Oh my God, Owen. He’s going to kill me if he sees me leaving Justin’s room. Actually, he’ll kill Justin first. And it will be bloody. I can’t witness Justin’s murder this morning. Because I will definitely vomit on the floor if that happens.

 

My leggings are nowhere to be found. I can’t exactly sneak out of here pantless. Fuck me. What had I been thinking? I’d always lusted after Justin, but secretly lusting after him and sleeping with him are two very, very different things.

 

Yet I distinctly remember being the one to push things further. We’d been kissing on his bed, and I’d been the one to take off my shirt and then his hands traveled along my waist, my ribs, my shoulders. His touch had been my undoing —I’d been the first one to stick my hand down his pants. It was like throwing accelerant onto the fire quietly burning between us.

 

How drunk had he been? Way drunker than me, I know that much. Had I taken advantage of him?

 

Just as I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack, I spot my leggings. They’re tangled in the sheets at the end of the bed. The memory of Justin kneeling before me as he slowly peeled them off jumps into my head. I’d been so hot, so ready for him. I remember practically attacking his belt-buckle with gusto in my efforts to free his erection.

 

Oh my God. His dick.

 

Now that I’ve pictured it, I can’t unsee it. The memory of his steely shaft and heavy balls are not details I’m supposed to be in possession of. The helpless plea he’d made when my fist curled around him for the first time, testing the weight of him against my palm… I’d dragged my hand up slowly as he released a shuddering exhale, his whole body shivering.

 

My heartrate triples with the memory. I squeeze my eyes shut and pull a deep, shaky breath into my lungs. Focus, Elise. You cannot think about his dick right now. You certainly can’t think about the way it tasted, or how it felt …

 

Tiptoeing to the end of the bed, I reach for my leggings, and give them a swift tug. Justin shifts at the movement, rolling up on his elbow to see who’s woken him. His dark hair is messy from sleep, but his blue eyes are bright and alert. A five o’clock shadow dusts his strong jaw and his chest muscles are immaculate.