the entire professional baseball league—strokes my skin and gently traces his fingertips along my spine, slowly moving over every bump. Every curve.
I shiver.
I feel his pecs crowd my back. “Are you turned on yet?”
“What was that statistic you gave me before?”
“Ninety percent of all massages lead to sex.”
I softly laugh. “That is not what you said.”
“I’m close though, give or take a few percentage points.” He waits a few more seconds, hands treading perilously close to my side boob. “So? Are you?”
I want to groan, but that will give me away. I want to deny it, but that would be lying—and I promised I’d be honest. Instead, I go with a half-admission. “Sort of.”
“Sort of? You are or you aren’t. Which one is it?”
Are.
Am.
“Yes.”
Buzz laughs. “Hollis, just admit you’re turned on or I’ll remove my hands from your body.”
Shit—I don’t want him doing that! It feels fantastic, and it’s been forever; Marlon never rubbed my back or did anything but squish my boobs, thinking that was adequate foreplay.
Wrong!
Then Trace whispers, “You know you want to take your pants off.”
Ugh, why did he have to go and say that! Admitting I’m wet and turned on is like admitting I want him to feel me up—which I do! My pride is a brutal mistress, rearing her ugly head, causing the words to get trapped in my throat.
My head twitches. Nods.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Are you saying you’re turned on or that you want to take your pants off? Either way—it’s a win-win for me.”
“I didn’t say a single thing,” I clarify, buying time.
“You nodded.”
“No I didn’t.” I did though, and he knows it.
“Hollis Westbrooke, are you lying to me right now? You know there’s a penalty for that, right?”
There is? “What is it?” That might be better than admitting I’m turned on, better than admitting my panties are wet and everything down south of my border is on fire.
“You have to pick one spot on your body for me to kiss.”
“That sounds more like assault.”
“Shit. Oh my god, that’s not—I didn’t mean. Never mind, I’m sorry.” He yanks at the covers and rolls off the bed, standing next to it as if I’ve just tried to poke him with a scalding-hot iron. “Fuck.”
“Wait—what are you doing? I was joking.”
“That’s not a joke, Hollis.”
“Okay, but where are you going? Your mom is outside waiting for us to slip away.” I pull the remaining blanket up to cover my naked breasts, seeking out his profile in the dark.
“I’ll sleep on the floor. I should never have said that.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit—I didn’t think he’d take me seriously, and I didn’t think he’d fly off the bed like it was ablaze. I didn’t think he’d care about how I felt, not like this.
I feel terrible!
God I’m an asshole…
“Come back to bed.”
“Nope—I’m good.” He flops down on the carpet beside me, spreading out the blanket. “There’s no room up there anyway. You take the bed and I’ll be right as rain down here. Good night.”
Well.
This escalated quickly.
I’m flat on my back now, topless, staring up at the ceiling, racking my brain for a solution. Sure, it’s for the best that he’s not on the bed, tempting me with that warm breath and those big, strong hands and that smooth skin. And cute laugh and dumb jokes and straight white teeth I can’t see in the dumb dark.
Reaching below the covers with both arms, my hands push down the waistband of these terrible bottoms, sliding them all the way off.
“I’m turned on.” My voice travels to him in the dark, along with the mesh basketball shorts, which I blindly toss in his direction. “You win.”
“Fuck me sideways. Are you naked?”
“No.”
“Underwear don’t count,” he tells me.
“Do granny panties count as underwear?”
“Yep. Those are hot as fuck.”
I laugh quietly. “Uh…then yes, I’m naked.”
“Why are you telling me this? To torment me now that I’m marooned in Siberia?”
I laugh again. “Has anyone ever called you a drama queen before?”
“Literally everyone who knows me has called me a drama queen at some point.”
He makes me giggle; I bite down on my bottom lip, debating my next move.
“I’m cold,” I blurt out.
I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You are not. It’s hot as balls in here—I think my mom wanted us both naked, hashtag babymaker.”
The fact that he says hashtag, as if it’s a word, still cracks me up. It’s obnoxious but…endearing.
“Your mother would not want me accidentally getting pregnant.”
“The hell she wouldn’t! If we had condoms