I’ve had just about as much Rex Gunderson as a girl can take.
I ring Rhett’s doorbell, stuff my hands in the pockets of my khaki green jacket. Paste a smile on my face when the door cracks open and Eric Johnson’s mug peers down at me through the screen.
“Sup Fire Crotch.”
My eyes narrow. “Fire Crotch? Really? You’re taking it there, huh? Right to my face?”
He shrugs, pushing the door open, letting me enter. “Why not?”
“Most people wait a few weeks—you know, until they get to know me better.”
“Guess I have bigger balls than most people.”
I doubt that. “Guess so.” Glance around. “Rhett’s home, right?”
He closes the door behind us, pointing. “Bedroom.”
“Thanks.”
“Make good choices,” he says at my back when I hit the hallway. “Or don’t.”
Rhett’s door is ajar, and I give two soft taps to the frame. “Knock, knock.”
He’s at his desk, shoulders hunched. Head bent. Looks up, startled. “Hey! Shit.” Stands, shoveling a stack of papers before pushing back from the table. “I must have lost track of time.”
“Grading papers?”
“Oui.”
I practically purr, already excited to be in his bedroom. Drop my purse and meet him halfway so he can drop a kiss on my lips. Scan the bedroom, eyes hitting the bed first, of course.
He’s tidied up.
Rearranged the room, bed pushed against the far wall. Dresser opposite, television perched on top. Moved the desk next to the closet.
My jacket comes off and I hang it on his desk chair, plopping down to remove my shoes. Without them, I’m an entire three inches shorter.
“Did you eat?” he asks. “Don’t say pizza.”
“Haha. Yes, I had some chicken bake Donovan threw in a crock pot this morning before class with white rice and canned veggies.” I pull a face. “Did you eat?”
“Shit tons of water.” He laughs. “Bagel, peanut butter, fruit. I’ll probably get up to pee a lot and should eat again before bed.”
I crawl on the bed, flopping down on his pillows. Lean over and take a whiff, wanting to bury myself in the smell of him.
My shirt drifts up when I roll to my back, baring my flat stomach; his brown eyes fall onto my pale, smooth skin. I smile. Cross my arms behind my head, letting him look.
I’m nice like that.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” I wriggle my toes, elongating my body on the bed, raising my arms into a stretch. “Let’s watch a movie. Come lie down by me, your pacing is making me nervous.”
It’s not; I just want him to lie down so I can touch him. Get this whole pretense of watching television over with so we can fool around.
He moves to the door, turning the lock. Removes his ball cap before sitting on the right side of the bed, shaking out his hair and presenting me with his back. Grabs the remote.
Scoots back until his rear hits me, lying on his side facing the TV.
His broad back blocks my view, but I don’t even care. I didn’t come here to watch a movie; I came here to spend time with him, get to know him better.
Weasel my way into his heart.
“What do you want to watch?” he rumbles, already flipping through Netflix.
“How about New Girl. Have you ever seen that?”
He clicks it. Hits enter so we’re starting season one, episode one. Tosses the remote to the foot of the bed. “I don’t watch a lot of TV to tell you the truth. Mostly just have it on as background noise.”
When he flops onto his back, I seize the opportunity and roll toward him, snuggling up into his side. Lay my hand on his stomach, cheek on his chest. His abs constrict from the contact. Dick twitches beneath his mesh gym shorts.
I bite back a smile.
His arm comes down around me, pulling me close. On the television in front of us, Jess and the gang meet for the first time, and I giggle against Rhett’s chest at the on-screen antics.
Run my hand under the fabric of his shirt, sliding it north, over his rippled abdomen. Up his sternum, palm skimming his nipple.
For the next ten minutes, we lie together silently, motionlessly except for our breathing.
Then, “Do you ever lie in bed the night before a meet and think about it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know who your match is against tomorrow?”
“Sure do—name is Eli Nelson. Five ten. One hundred ninety-eight pounds. Seventeen percent body fat. Record is thirty and four, from Spokane, Washington.”
“Anything else?”
“His girlfriend’s name is Candace, and she’s a Scorpio.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Yeah, I made that up.” He laughs.
“Nervous?”
“No. I’ve wrestled him before.”
“Did you win or lose?”
His brow quirks. “Do you even have to ask?”
I blush. “Want me to rub your back?”
Rhett hesitates, glancing down at me. “Sure.”
“Want to take off your shirt?”
“Is removing my shirt part of the standard massage package?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Guess I’m taking off my shirt, then.”
I fight the urge to rub my hands together, the anticipation of his incredible physique palpitating my heart. He uses his rock-hard core to rise, raises his arms above his head, drags off his shirt. Lies down on the bed, on his side, presenting me with his powerful back.
The muscles are taut, firm. Skin is surprisingly smooth. I explore first, palm grazing his warm flesh, running it along his deltoid. Down his dorsi. Up his spine and across his shoulders.
Marvel at the strength in these shoulders, the power in his obliques. Explore the tops of his glutes, wanting to pull back the waistband of his shorts and dip my hand inside.
He shivers. Skin prickles with goose bumps.
“Is this massage supposed to tickle?” he mutters.
“Shh, relax,” I croon into his neck. “It’s the new butterfly technique. They only teach this in French massage parlors.”
“Ah, well, that makes sense I guess.”
I lean in. “I promise it comes with a happy ending.”
I simply cannot stop my hands from wandering; he feels too, too good under my insatiable hands.
My fingers play with the ends of his hair, trail down his thick bicep, down his forearm. Over his hip, over his ass. Both palms run parallel up his spine, thumbs kneading on their climb up.
I knead his neck, squeeze his shoulders, thumbs doing all the work. The sound of his contented sigh is agony.
So much so, I can’t stand having clothes on anymore. Pull away to remove my own shirt. Unclasp my bra. Brush my long hair out of the way so there’s no barrier between us when my hard nipples brush the flesh of his back.
God, the skin-on-skin contact is intoxicating.
He groans when I kiss between his shoulder blades, breasts brushing his back. Delicate kisses on the back of his neck. Warm, wet kisses. Soft. Gentle.
Sexy.
I scoot closer so I can kiss the spot behind his ear. Lick his lobe. Slide my hand around his middle, covering his pec with my palm. Caress it.
His huge bear paw finds my hip, pulling at me from behind, hauling me closer, stroking my thigh as I pepper his body with my mouth in a most unmassagelike way.
“Shit, Laurel. Move back, let me roll over.”
I roll back. He shifts toward me.
Our mouths fuse together, tongues mate. Those large, capable hands rake up my ribcage. Cup my breasts and stay there, kneading.
“Your hands feel so good.” I encourage him with a breathy moan into his mouth, my fingers finding the curls at the base of his neck. Playing with them. Kissing him senseless.
He breaks away. “My hands aren’t too rough?”
“No. No, they’re amazing. Put them back.”
The truth is, I can feel every coarse callus on the pads of each finger, each and every one a souvenir of the sacrifices he makes to win. For his team. To be the best. Reminding me how damn resilient he is. How fit and virile and masculine.
Those magic hands splay over my collarbone, sliding down my shoulders and arms like liquid. Lose themselves in the waterfall of my wavy hair. Play with the ends, brushing it to the side.
My chest is heaving from my beating heart when Rhett pulls back, studying my pale torso wordlessly, several torturous seconds, reluctance written clearly in his questioning gaze.
Hesitantly, his hand reaches out, fingertip finding my dusky areola. Silently, his brown eyes linger on my breasts, fixated. Remain there, tracking the movements of his own thumb when it brushes over my puckered nipple.
Then the other.
Raging hormones cause my breasts to swell. Heavy. Begging for relief.
Still, he slowly learns my curves, the cool air of his bedroom hardening the already stiff peaks. God, it’s so terrible.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper, arching my back into his cupped hand.
“I’m thinkin’ ’bout everything.” Finger goes lazily round and round my nipple. Plucks at it lightly.
It’s begging for attention.
Mmm. My teeth rake across my lip. “Wrestling?”
He licks his lips. “Definitely not wrestlin’.”
“What then?” I exhale the words, almost out of breath.
“I’m thinkin’ that these are the prettiest breasts I’ve ever seen.” Fingertip skims the tender flesh of my side boob. “I can’t believe I’m touching these.”
He can do more than touch them—and I want him to put his mouth on me so desperately I’m practically panting.