The Coaching Hours(29)

Anabelle laughs, burying her face in my quilt. “No you goof, you put them under my shirt.”

Under her shirt. Sure. “Got it.”

Her tank top is threadbare, the hem sitting at the base of her spine, skin already playing peekaboo. Poising my fingers along the edge of the fabric, the pads press gently on her exposed flesh, tentatively.

Sheepishly.

“Don’t be shy—a little lotion on my tank won’t hurt anything,” my roommate whispers, eyes already closed, smile playing on her lips. “Just rub my back, don’t worry about the technique.”

Jeez, I suck at this.

“Okay.”

I have no choice but to hook the fabric with my forefinger, making room for my hands, giving them berth to glide their way up, under her top. They catch the cotton once, smearing. Twice, fighting their way up, awkwardly.

Anabelle chuckles. “Should I just take my shirt off?”

“What?” I can’t have heard that correctly.

“Maybe I should take my shirt off. It might be easier—your hands are so big.”

My hands are big.

Her skin so soft.

Smooth.

Warm flesh.

Perfect spine.

I marvel at it, under the incandescent lighting of my bedroom. Marvel at how intimate this moment is, how much faith and trust Anabelle is placing in me.

I haven’t had a girlfriend in a really long fucking time, but I don’t recall a single instance as intimate as this, not even the sex.

Transfixed, I watch when she turns away for privacy and peels away her shirt, tossing it aside. Settles, once again on her stomach, chin resting on her hands.

Sighs, content.

“Let me know if my hair is in the way.”

“It’s not.” It’s piled atop her head, a few loose wisps of the baby-fine hair escaping; I imagine it’s tickling her neck.

Her waist is narrow, ribcage peach perfection.

Her breasts are flattened, side-boob creating a glorious distraction as I finally lay my hands on her skin, firmly rubbing her back.

“That feels amazing.” She’s quiet a few seconds. “Can you do me lower, right here?” Her left hand reaches back to grip my wrist, dragging it down, right at the waistband of her sleep shorts.

I place both hands on her obliques. Her iliac crest, just above her ass.

“Here?”

“Yes. Oh God, that feels good.”

I can’t tell if she’s doing it on purpose—the moaning—but regardless, it’s turning me on. This whole massage is, from Anabelle’s bare flesh, to mine, to the little sounds she’s making as she lies motionless beneath me.

I have no idea how low to go or where I’m allowed to put my hands. So, I play it safe, staying above her waist. Gently caressing her teres major, her deltoids and trapezius, all the places I’m learning about in kinesiology, but this is different than practicing on another student or a prop.

This is a woman I’m growing desperately attracted to.

This is my bed.

My room.

Our house.

Her skin.

“Elliot?”

“Hmm?”

“Is everything okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You stopped.”

“Oh.” I move my hands to the base of her neck, kneading. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I can hear her smiling into the pillow. “Should we stop and watch a movie?”

“I can keep going if you want me to, it’s no big deal.”

She wiggles her ass. “You’re sweet, but I can tell you’re getting tired.”

I’m not tired; I’m turned on. Huge fucking difference.

“Sure, let’s watch a movie. I’m done with all my studying and you’re done with that ridiculous book you’re reading.”

Anabelle rolls to her side, taking my comforter along with her, covering her breasts. “It wouldn’t be ridiculous if it actually contained useful information.”

I’m on my side now, too. “Face facts, Donnelly, you don’t have the heart for revenge. You’re too kindhearted for that life.”

“That’s true enough.” Her hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair off my forehead, and I almost rear back in surprise.

I’ve noticed her doing that a lot lately—touching me. Taps, poking, teasing. Not wanting to read anything into it, I chalk it up to comfort in our growing friendship, evidence of her trust in me.

Christ, it sucks being the good guy all the fucking time.

“My dad texted me today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He wants me to come to a wrestling meet soon. They have a big one at home coming up.”

“Who are they wrestling?”

“I’m not sure, he didn’t say. I think either Penn State or UConn? Someone blue.” She laughs. “And I’d really rather not go alone.”

I swear she’s batting her fucking eyelashes at me. “What are you getting at, Donnelly?”

I haven’t been to a wrestling meet since Oz and Zeke graduated. Neither of them had their parents in the stands on Senior Night, so I went to represent, with bouquets of flowers for both miserable bastards, even though their girlfriends were in the audience.

“Want to come with me?”

“Yeah. I could probably do that.”

Anabelle’s blue eyes bore holes into my bare chest, pink lips parting. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I’m still not wearing a shirt.

She’s still not wearing a shirt.

We’re on my bed, in the middle of the evening, flirting like we have an interest in each other. A sexual attraction. Crazy chemistry.

“Would you be so kind as to turn your back so I can put my shirt back on?”

I swallow, too chicken-shit to make a move and kiss her.

“Sure. While you do that, want me to grab us ice waters?”

“Thanks, Elliot.” Her eyes sparkle. “You’re the best.”





Anabelle





Thanks, Elliot, you’re the best?

Ugh.

As I mentally face-palm myself for sounding like his little buddy, I grapple for my shirt, yanking it back down over my head, flushing. Remember his big, rough hands running over my skin. Over my naked flesh, not once touching me inappropriately. Not once skimming down to accidentally caress my side-boob or lower back. Not once trailing his fingers anywhere indecent.

Damn him.

I sigh, giving the rubber band in my hair a tug, loosening my top knot and letting the hair fall around my shoulders. Free, uninhibited, like I’ve resolved to be around him.

But he’s not getting the hints.

So, either I suck at flirting or he’s clueless, or we’re both just really scared to make the first move.

I’ve been touching him all week—little touches on the arm, bicep, chest. Teasing pokes, nudges. Laughing at all his dumb jokes. Following him around the soccer field, secretly admiring his masculine force. His speed, his skill. His calves and the back of his neck, wanting to lay my lips on the baby fine hairs there.

Last week at our soccer game when his friend Dev jogged up next to me and began peppering me with a million Elliot-related questions, I was taken aback by his direct approach. Was I attracted to Elliot? Did I want to be more than friends? Was it hard living in the same house with him and not having sex?

Yes, yes, and yes.

At an alarmingly increased pace.

I am attracted to Elliot.

I do want to be more than friends.

It’s hard living in the same house with him and not thinking about sex all day, every day. It’s impossible not to; Elliot is big and sexy and strong and sweet.

Polite.

Funny.

As a male specimen, Elliot is highly underrated by the female population of Iowa, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

God, moving in with him was the worst thing I could have done—the guy is too polite to put the moves on his roommate. Too polite to put his hands on me, even when I whip my shirt off during a massage.

I know it.

He knows it.

Devin freaking knows it, and he doesn’t know me at all!

Guh!

I climb under the covers of Elliot’s incredible queen-sized bed, the flannel sheets fresh from the laundry, a familiar warmth. Welcoming and cozy, we’re well acquainted, his bed and I.

His bed. The ultimate tease.

If having me tucked under his covers doesn’t make his mind wander, there really is no hope for him.

On the side closest to the wall, I give my shirt a tug, straightening it on my body, wishing I had the courage to remove it and bury myself in Elliot’s sheet with nothing on but my underwear.

God, I’m a hormonal teenage boy.

Worse, actually.

And now that my hormones are screaming at the rest of my body and brain, there is no stopping them now. They’re doing the thinking for me.

Skin against skin is what I crave.

Soft, gentle stroking is what I want.

Sucking is what makes me squirm.

Oblivious to my woolgathering, Elliot returns, still not wearing a shirt. His broad chest fills the doorway, wide shoulders and tan flesh making my girly parts tingle—his pecs are perfect. Nipples dark. Collarbone smooth enough to lick.

Maybe instead of staring, I should read a book. Climb out of this bed and back into mine and move on with my life. Find a guy who likes me back enough to pursue me, to put the moves on me.

“I was texting with Daniels yesterday and he was telling me about this show he and his girlfriend started watching, about four couples that get married at first sight, kind of like a blind date. The new season just started.”

I sit up, intrigued. “People get married without even seeing each other first?”