HOLY SHIT. Holy shit. Holy shit.
The phrase reverberates in my head, a three-beat litany of stunned disbelief, an echo of shock that shivers through my entire body.
Last night, I had phone sex with West. The sentence still sounds absurd when I say it in my head, too surreal to be true. The raw intimacy of it all, the whispered words that slipped so easily over the line and broke down barriers we’d carefully kept in place.
We got each other off, lost in a tangle of sighs and gasps that soaked through the air between us. And then . . . I just hung up.
God, what was I even supposed to say after something like that? A weak “Thank you?” that would somehow trivialize it all? Or maybe I should have tried for calm, cool, and collected, brushed it off with an airy “Oh, oops, I guess we just got carried away!”
But the memory of his voice, husky and raw with desire, floods back into my mind. I mean, why did he have to sound so fucking hot on the phone? That voice. Those words. Just thinking about it now is making me wet, a steady thrum of desire that I can’t ignore.
This is bad. This is really fucking bad.
I’d already made up my mind about him before this happened. I thought I had wrestled my crush into submission, had trampled it down until it was nothing more than a distant echo of feelings. But then he had to go and say all that shit at the library.
The memory of it still burns, a sharp-edged reminder of how easily he can unravel me. Oh God. He offered to be my fuck buddy, and I declined, the words coming out automatically, serving as a defensive shield.
After fight night, I’d allowed myself to believe that he didn’t want me. The rejection was a bitter pill to swallow but also a comforting lie that I let myself believe. Now, in the stark light of day, I know he wants me. He’s made that very clear, his words echoing through my mind, hot and insistent. But it’s the way he wants me that’s the problem.
West just wants to “get up my skirt,” which is exactly what he accused Miller of.
A bitter taste lingers in my mouth as I think about the truth of it all. I mean, he flirts with Shan, his words casual and easy as if they mean nothing at all. Then he flirts with me, his gaze burning into me as if I’m the only person in the world.
And then he probably flirts with any other girl with a pulse, spreading his attention around like it’s free for the taking.
God, it’s like some silly little game to him, and I’m just one of the players. Yeah. Nothing real is going to happen between us. I have to keep reminding myself of that, have to keep that reality firmly in front of me.
I have a crush on him, and God help me, I want to sleep with him.
But that’s not what I need right now. I was supposed to find someone else to cure my sexual boredom, to spark some excitement into the monotony of my life. But instead, I went and made things ten times worse.
I want to write this off as a onetime lapse in judgment, a moment of lost control that I can brush off and move past. But instead, it’s become a gnawing reminder of the attraction between us.
And now, I’m stuck in a vortex of conflicting feelings, caught between what I want and what I know is best for me.
 |
I’M STILL IN BED, the sheets twisted around my body, when a cautious knock breaks through the early morning quiet. I have a sneaking suspicion that West is the culprit, especially since my phone’s been turned off since our call ended last night.
Internally, I’m in chaos. Panic swells in my chest, making my heart pound and my thoughts scramble. But externally, I strive for composure, raking my fingers through my sleep-tousled hair and hastily scrubbing at the mascara smudges under my eyes.
When I finally muster up the courage to open the door, my suspicion morphs into an undeniable reality. West is here. And God, he looks just as deliciously sinful as he sounded over the phone.
His broad shoulders fill the doorframe, stretching the fabric of his long- sleeved Henley T-shirt to its limit. His dark hair, unstyled today, falls around his face in a sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of way. His face is perfect, from his strong, angular jawline to his tanned complexion.
But as usual, it’s those eyes that reel me in—they’re the color of warm honey swirled with molten caramel, and they’re looking at me with an intensity that racks through me.
“Jade,” he greets in a voice that’s all gravel and raw emotion. His gaze sweeps across my face, as though he’s trying to memorize each tiny detail. “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I manage to breathe out, my voice barely audible. I step aside, gesturing for him to enter.
“You look good.” His gaze flicks across my body, a swift, head-to-toe examination that somehow feels more intimate than the events of last night. “Really good.”
“Um,” I stutter, taken aback by the compliment. I shift on my feet, awkwardly rocking back on my heels. “Thank you,” I say, but the words come out sounding more like a question than a confident response.
He raises one dark brow, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Look, about last night—”
“We don’t need to talk about it.” “I think we do,” he says firmly.
I glance back down the hallway, eyes flitting nervously toward Shannon’s closed bedroom door. “Okay, but let’s talk in my room,” I say. “Shan’s home.”
Without giving myself the time to second-guess, I grab hold of his hand. The warmth of his skin startles me as I tug him behind me. But as soon as my door shuts, the energy in the room changes. The air grows heavy, thick with unspoken words that crackle between us like static electricity, charged and unpredictable.
“Jade,” he rasps, voice low.
He steps forward, his fingertips lightly grazing the side of my arm. The sensation startles me, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact. He
moves another small step forward, and instinctively, I retreat a timid step back.
It’s a dance of sorts—forward, back, forward, back—until my back is flush against the cool wall, my breath hitching in my throat.
“Wait,” I murmur, a plea or a protest, I’m not sure. His strong hand cups my cheek gently, his other settling on my hip, grounding me. As he leans in, my resolve weakens. “We shouldn’t do this,” I murmur, even though every fiber of my being is crying out otherwise.
“Why not?” His breath ghosts over my lips, the scent of mint mixed with something distinctly him.
“I know we both got carried away on the phone last night,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not just looking for a fun time, West.”
His grip on me loosens, his brows furrowing as he steps back, creating a much-needed space between us. “It’s Theo,” he mutters, the soft rumble of his voice betraying a hint of frustration. “And who the fuck said that’s what I’m looking for?”
His words hang in the air between us, an unexpected challenge. He’s so close yet so far—close enough to touch, to feel his breath on my skin, but far enough that I can’t decipher the thoughts swirling behind those captivating eyes.
“Nobody needed to spell it out for me,” I insist, my voice wobbling with vulnerability. “And I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression.”
“Jade—”
“No, let me say this,” I interrupt, lifting a hand to halt his words. “I think—no, I know I like you. And I can’t just . . . I can’t have casual sex with someone I have feelings for.”
His brows knit together. “I don’t want casual sex,” he says, voice laden with confusion.
I gulp down the knot in my throat. “You . . . you don’t?”
“No,” he says firmly. “That’s not what keeps me up at night—the thought of fucking you.”
Suspicion flickers in my eyes, and I cross my arms defensively. His choice of words sounds like a red flag, but he’s quick to clarify.
“Sure, I think about that a lot,” he confesses, a faint blush heating his cheeks. “Probably more than I should. But there’s more to it. I think about your sense of humor, how fucking funny you are.” He closes the distance
between us, invading my space again, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. His hand lingers, fingers softly tracing the curve of my jawline. “I think about your wit, your sharp comebacks, the way your eyes light up when you smile or laugh. I think about how being around you makes me feel, like I’m not just some aimless jock, adrift in a sea of expectations.”
His words send a warm wave of butterflies straight to my stomach. I lean into his touch, his large hand cradling my face. He draws a shaky breath before continuing. “You make me feel like I matter, like I’m more than just a football player.”
“I do?”
“Fuck yeah, you do.” He grins, a genuine, heart-stopping smile. “I like you, Jade. I don’t want to be just a fuck buddy to you. I want more with you.”
My heart leaps in my chest, a smile spreading across my face. “I want that, too.”
He perks up at my response, a spark igniting in his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I confirm, my voice steady and confident. “Spending time with you makes me happy, too. You make me feel good.”
“Good,” he murmurs, nodding slowly. “Does that mean I can kiss you now?”
At my eager “yes,” he’s leaning in again. Our lips meet in a tender kiss that hits me like a bolt of electricity. The initial touch is soft, exploratory, but the spark it ignites is anything but gentle.
Then my lips part, and the kiss deepens. His mouth claims mine with a raw intensity that leaves me breathless, our lips crushing, bruising together. He teases my bottom lip between his teeth, his tongue slipping past to taste me.
The cool wall presses against my back, acting as a stark contrast to the solid warmth of his body. Moving from my jaw, his hand traces a searing path down to my waist, his strong fingers pulling our bodies closer.
A low, involuntary moan escapes me as my hips move against his. He pulls back a fraction, his gaze sweeping over my face, my lips, my body in a hungry appraisal.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he groans.
Heat floods through me. The feeling of his hardness pressing against me makes me clench my thighs together, desire coursing in my veins. So, I
reach down to fumble with the button on his jeans.
“Hold on,” he rasps, catching my hands in his. “I don’t—fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . we shouldn’t rush this.”
His words send my mind reeling. “Sorry, what?” I pant, confused and off-balance.
“I want to show you that I really want this. You,” he says, running his thumb gently across my bottom lip. “Us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jade,” he says, voice rough with emotion, gaze locked onto mine. “Let me take you out on a proper date first.”
I let his words settle, pausing for a few moments, my heart thudding erratically in my chest. “Theo Westman-Cooke,” I tease, the corners of my lips tugging up into a knowing smirk. “Are you trying to woo me right now?”
“Hell yeah, I am.”
“Wow,” I finally manage, my mind reeling. “Okay . . . so, no sex until we go on a real date?”
“That’s the deal.”
My eyes flit down to the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Hmm,” I drawl, pretending to consider the proposal. “Can I at least blow you first?”
His gasp is almost comical, and his voice comes out husky and choked with surprise. “Fuck, seriously?”
“Seriously.” I pull my lower lip between my teeth, an attempt at seduction. “I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since last night.”
“Oh, sweet Christ,” he groans, his head falling back as he tries to rein in his desire.
I bite back a triumphant smile, playing coy. “Is that a yes?”
His eyes snap open, and he almost stutters as he says, “Uh . . . I mean, no. A deal’s a deal.” His eyes flicker with regret. “No sex, period. Including oral.”
Shaking my head, I break into laughter. “You’re such a prude.”
“And you’re such a little tease,” he counters, his voice rich with affection.
Clearing my throat, I busy myself with straightening my disheveled clothing, turning the conversation to safer waters. “So, you want to just . . . hang out, then?”
“We could watch a movie?”
“Sure,” I readily agree, pointing a thumb over my shoulder to the bed behind him. “Hop on, and I’ll set it up.”
I rummage through my backpack for my laptop. As I turn back to him, I find he’s already sprawled out on my bed, his hands clasped behind his head in a picture of casual ease.
“So,” he starts, drawing out the word with a teasing lilt. He gestures vaguely around the room. “The Bobcats, huh?”
Caught off guard, I falter. “Oh . . . yeah.” I shrug, attempting to sound casual. “They’re a great team.”
His brow quirks. “Did you grow up around here?” “Nope, Washington.”
“Hmm, okay,” he says, skepticism etched in his voice. “So, you just have a thing for Mica Jennings, then? That’s your dream man?”
I suppress a gag at his assumption. “Ew, definitely not.”
“Oh, really?” He arches a brow, a challenging gleam in his eyes. His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in my odd choice of decor. “You say ‘ew,’ yet you have his posters plastered all over your room.”
“He’s one of the best cornerbacks in the NFL,” I defend, my tone light. “Right,” he says, cocking a brow, voice brimming with humor. “And
you totally wouldn’t sleep with him if you had the chance.”
The suggestion sends shocked laughter spilling out of me. “Oh, my God, no.” I crinkle my nose, swallowing down the bile in my throat. “Don’t make me puke.”
“What?” he asks, eyes widening. “I mean, he’s not my type. But you can’t deny the guy’s objectively good-looking.”
“Well, yeah, he’s handsome,” I admit, wincing slightly. “But he’s also my brother.”
“Your . . . brother?”
“Mhmm,” I confirm slowly, carefully gauging his reaction.
The stunned silence stretches on for a moment before he finally manages to speak. “Mica Jennings is . . . your brother.”
“Yep.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “So—Jade Jennings, huh?”
I study his expression as it shifts through various emotions—from surprise, to confusion, to something I can’t quite pinpoint. With a twinge of anxiety, I finally ask, “Are you mad?”
“No, definitely not,” he rushes to assure me, his voice filled with sincerity. “I’m just . . . shocked. Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“I didn’t want you to treat me any differently,” I say, my voice quiet. “I mean, I didn’t want to spend all of our time together talking about my brother. Been there, done that.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Has that happened to you before?” “So many times.”
His expression hardens. “That’s shitty, Jade.”
“I know,” I say, a wave of resignation washing over me. “But it is what it is.”
“I mean, damn, you’re related to Mica Jennings,” he mutters, mulling it over. “The man’s a legend, but . . . that doesn’t change how I see you. It changes nothing.”
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Jade . . .” His voice is soft, soothing, and I focus on him. “I know you weren’t trying to lie to me. I just needed a moment to wrap my head around it. You just wanted to see where things went before bringing it up.”
“Exactly.”
His subsequent sigh is one of disbelief, amusement tinged with fondness. “Well, shit. Now I feel like an even bigger jerk for calling you a jersey chaser.”
“It’s fine.” I wave him off, chuckling at his self-deprecating tone. “Well, not fine. But I’ve moved past it.”
“That’s good,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I should probably keep making it up to you, though.”
Raising a playful eyebrow, I challenge him, “Oh? And how are you going to do that?”
His lips curl into a confident smile. “I guess you’ll find out after our date.”
“Yeah, I’m counting on it.”
