about guys going crazy for a blow job, it makes me wonder if I was doing something wrong, and he was too nice to point it out.
“That’s a travesty.” Her eyebrows pull together. “Please tell me he gave you orgasms.”
After a pause where I have to think about it, I nod. “Yeah. A couple.”
“You don’t sound sure.” Her phone lights up with a text, and it must be her football guy because she does this little squirmy dance in her seat. “Can we pick this up again later? I was thinking I should show him how good I am at sexting.”
I laugh, loving how confident she is. “Sure. Go.”
She disappears into her room, and I grab my phone and pull up the toy she was talking about. After a few minutes of debate, I decide that maybe it’s time I start taking more responsibility for my orgasms. At the very least, I’d like to know what she was talking about.
I click “buy,” and I wonder if a vibrator qualifies as a form of companionship.
29
RIDER
Tank dumps all of his shit on the floor of our hotel room and swan-dives onto his bed, then promptly passes out.
We fly for any distance over five hundred miles, but Oklahoma is close enough that we loaded up the bus and drove, and after being in that damn thing for almost seven hours, my muscles are tight as hell.
Worse? I can’t visualize the game like I usually do. I have this anxious energy I can’t seem to shake, and my head won’t clear.
Hoping a shower will help with my restlessness, I head to the bathroom, blast the hot water, and strip off my clothes.
Standing under the water, I think about Poppy and wonder if she’s having a good night. I worry all of this back-and-forth with so many people babysitting is gonna fuck up her little psyche somehow. As soon as I get drafted, I’m getting that kid the best nanny money can afford.
If my idea of the perfect nanny happens to look like my neighbor, well, I don’t think anyone can blame me.
My thoughts drift to Gabby as they have all day.
To Gabby holding Poppy this morning before we took off.
To her smile last weekend when I brought her that pizza.
To her in that wet t-shirt when we gave the baby a bath.
Instantly, I’m sporting an erection that swells when I give in to that fantasy. The one where Poppy is asleep in the other room, and it’s just me and Gabby and her damp clothes.
I rest my arm against the shower wall while the hot water rushes over me, and I take myself in hand.
In my fantasy, I’d peel off her little shorts. Rub her slowly through her panties. Suck on her pretty pink nipples through her shirt. Wait until she’s gasping and begging for more to dip my fingers into her underwear and smear that wetness across her tight bud until she shudders in my arms.
While she’s still trembling, I’d strip off the rest of her clothes and bend her over so I could get a good look at her tight ass. Maybe drop to my knees so I could bite it. Then lick her until she screams and comes again, this time all over my face.
With a groan, I erupt all over my stomach.
Leaning against the tile, I catch my breath. Water sprays over me and washes away the evidence of what I’ve just done, but a hint of guilt remains. Because what I want and what I can have are two different things.
I want Gabby so fucking bad, but I won’t let myself go there.
It’s why I tried my damnedest not to rely on her too much this week.
I wanted to call. I wanted to ask if she’d have dinner with me and hang out while I did stuff with Poppy or while I studied. But I don’t trust myself not to screw shit up again.
Especially after I talked to Coach last week. He said I needed to focus, and I’m trying. So damn hard.
With Gabby, there are too many ways things can go wrong, and she’s one of the most important people in my daughter’s life right now.
Sure, I have several people babysitting for me, but Gabby is the only one I trust to watch her while I’m out of town. Not only is she great with the baby, but Poppy adores her. There’s a calmness that descends over her when Gabby holds her that no one else can achieve.