As it turned out, I saw Ryan the very first night he was back in town, at his request. We discussed going out, but I knew he’d be tired, so I asked if he wanted to just come over to my place. He said that would be perfect as I gave myself a pep talk. Don’t be embarrassed by your apartment. Don’t play the underdog. Be confident. Seize the day. Don’t think, or talk about, or, God forbid, get a buzz and call Coach.
By the time Ryan knocked on the door, I was ready, answering it and beaming up at him. He was even more gorgeous than I remembered, his skin tanned to a golden hue, his blue T-shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and arms.
“Hi, Ryan,” I said, excited, maybe even closer to thrilled.
“Hey, you,” he said, bending down to give me a long kiss, pausing only to whisper in my ear. “It’s so good to see you.”
I felt goose bumps on my arms as I pulled away and looked in his eyes. “It’s so good to see you, too,” I said, deciding that I was not going to ruin the night by asking about Blakeslee. Instead, I led him over to my sofa, where we made out for a long time under the only luxurious thing in my living room, a cashmere throw that my father and Astrid had given me for Christmas last year. It was so soft that Ryan actually commented on it, murmuring, “I’d like to be under this thing naked with you.”
I gave him a coy smile, then, before I lost the nerve, took off my shirt and slid out of my jeans. “I want you,” I said between urgent, deep kisses.
Ryan whispered. “I want you, too, sweetie.”
“I like when you call me sweetie,” I said as I ran my fingers through his hair, admiring the texture.
“You are my sweetie,” he said—and at that moment, I not only believed him but felt sure that nothing was going on with Blakeslee or any other woman.
I watched as he sat up and took off his T-shirt, exposing his lats, pecs, triceps, and all those other muscles I couldn’t name. I shook my head, blown away by his body, and he smiled, because he knew exactly what I was thinking—that he was a sublime male specimen. Wishing I were the female equivalent, I unsnapped the front closure of my bra, then pressed my body against his, nestling deeper into our cocoon on the couch. “See how soft it is?”
I meant the blanket, but it sounded like I meant my own body, and he said, “Oh, yes, you are,” which turned me on because I could tell he was turned on.
“And you … you are a friggin’ underwear ad. Your body is so sick that it makes me …”
“It makes you what?” he breathed.
“It makes me almost not like you,” I said.
“C’mon, now. Don’t say that,” he said, smiling.
“Well, it’s intimidating,” I said, covering myself, thinking that I had really outkicked my coverage with Ryan. He was way out of my league. “You’re intimidating.”
He moved my hand away, then caressed my stomach. “I love your body, too. Right here,” he whispered.
I believed him so much that I stopped sucking in my stomach as he lifted me up off the couch, blanket and all, and carried me back to the bedroom. It was a first. Other guys, including Miller, had carried me to bed before, but it was the first time I hadn’t felt completely awkward, like deadweight, in the process. Ryan made me feel lithe, light, downright graceful in his arms, my hands clasped around his neck. He held my gaze as he effortlessly lowered me to the bed, more muscles flexing in the warm glow of my bedside lamp, just the right amount of light to hide some of my flaws but still illuminate his perfection.
“Do you want music?” I said.
Standing over me, he shook his head slowly, then kneeled on the floor in front of me. I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back with one callused hand, as his other hand made its way up the inside of my thigh, resting between my legs. I didn’t resist and instead raised my hips, making it easier for him to remove my black thong. Then I sat up, pulled his shoulders toward me, and said, “C’mere. I want to feel you over me.”