TackledP: A Sports Romance(43)

I gulp deep breaths of air, too hopped up on adrenaline to give a fuck about reason. I want to beat his ass, and I want to do it right this second, but people are pulling Dillon back into the house.

"It's over," one of the guys yells.

"It's over," Tank repeats to me. "Go, cool off... Somewhere that's not here."

"Fuck," I yell. I'm amped up and I want to go hit something. Normally that would be the weight room.

Except I don’t go to the weight room. I go to Cassie’s.





22





Cassie





I snuggle up on the sofa, not working on my thesis like I should be. Instead, I give myself a manicure and pedicure and slap Sable's mud mask all over my face. I eat ice cream out of the carton and watch bad reality television. It's cookie dough, my favorite, and it's nice and quiet here. Here there's no loud music, no obnoxious football players, and no topless girls throwing themselves at said obnoxious football players.

I'm not bitter about the non-invite.

Colton is right. What happened was no big deal. Sure, he's hot, but that's it. I hooked up with him and nothing more. In fact, I should hook up with him like crazy. Get him to do the deed, take my virginity. It’s time I got it over with. It'll be like ripping off a bandage, right? No messy feelings and no messy relationship necessary.

Yep, that's a plan.

Totally.

I take another bite of cookie dough.

When I hear the knock on the door, I sigh and get up, ice cream in hand. "Why are you back so early? Bored with Tank already?"

But it's not Sable.

It's Colton.

And I'm standing here in my shitty pajamas. With mud all over my face.

"You," I say, pushing the door halfheartedly closed in his face before heading to the kitchen to get rid of the ice cream. When I turn around, Colton is standing there.

With a purple-blue bruise under his eye.

My eyes fall to his hands, clenched into fists at his side, and I momentarily forget why I'm annoyed with him, taking his hands into mine and turning them around. His knuckles are bloody, his skin torn.

"Did you get in a fight? Or is this from dragging your knuckles on the ground?" I'm only half-joking about the knuckle-dragging caveman quip.

He doesn't answer.

He pulls me against him, his hand on the small of my back, and presses his lips roughly against mine. My body does what it always does when he touches me. Arousal rushes through me and I don’t think. When his tongue finds mine, I surrender to his kiss, forgetting about everything else.

He grips my ass, pulling me firmly against him, and I’m only half-aware of him picking me up and sitting me on top of the kitchen counter. His hands are all over me, his calloused palms rough against my skin as he cups my breasts. I slide my hands underneath his shirt, my hands roaming his chest as he kisses his way down my neck.

Every cell in my body is screaming for more. More of his hands on me. More of his lips on me. More of him.

When he pulls away from me, his voice is rough. Ragged. “It wasn’t not a big deal,” he insists. “What happened. I mean, it was a big deal.”

“You’re a dick,” I say, matter-of-fact.

“Say that again. But only the last word.”

“Dick,” I whisper.

He covers my mouth with his and I melt into him. “I’d listen to dirty words come out of that pretty little mouth all day,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Say cock.”

“How about cocksucker?” I suggest.

He growls. “That’ll do.”

His lips graze the side of my neck underneath my ear. I hear myself whimper, but not in pain, and he pulls back, looking at me for a minute.

“I just…" he begins. "I’ve… never hung around a girl after hooking up with her. I came here to – oh fuck, I don't know why I came here. I needed to cool off and I – I just thought of you. I didn't come here to do this, but then you were standing there in the doorway, looking like that… and I couldn't keep my hands off you.”

Looking like…Oh, God. My hand goes to the facemask, the mud crackled all over my skin. “Why are you making out with me?? I look like a train wreck right now.”

“Maybe I like train wrecks.”

I slide off the counter, ignoring what he just said. “You need something for your hands,” I urge him, scooting away. “I’ll get you peroxide.”

I don’t wait for him to answer. I run down the hallway to my bathroom and close the door behind me, groaning when I look in the mirror. I'm worse than a train wreck. I look like a swamp creature, between the mud mask and my unruly hair, not to mention the stained shirt and ratty flannel pajama pants.

I scrub the mask off my face and do a quick cleanup before rummaging around the cabinet underneath the sink for some peroxide. When I return, Colton is sitting at the kitchen table, his elbow propped up and his forehead in his hand. He looks up at me with an expression I can't quite place.