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“You could join me, I suppose.” My voice is steadier than my knees.
He presses a button and the red fades into purple. Holding up his left hand, he forms a W. “Go Dawgs.”
“Cute.” I giggle, adjusting the towel that’s barely hanging on to my dignity.
“I know, right?” He taps again and “Die for You” by The Weeknd starts. Apparently, the universe wants me to suffer poetically.
Pause. I could read into the song choice. I could analyze every lyric. But nope—I’m keeping my feelings locked down. I’m ignoring the song and burying it under six feet of denial.
“Steam, lights, and music? Damnnnn.”
He rakes his eyes down my body like he’s memorizing every inch. I know this look. It’s his ‘I want to do unspeakable things to you’ face. And those things? Worth losing my ability to form sentences for.
“This keeps getting better,” I say, heat rolling over me.
Pause again. You see him there, leaning against the wall like some GQ model who got lost on the way to a photo shoot? Hat backward, eyes glowing under purple lights, looking like sin personified? I can’t take it. I need him like I need air. Jaxon’s everything I could want physically. Emotionally? He needs work.
But his body?
Un-fucking-believable.
It’s like God had an inspired day, looked at all other attractive men, said “Bitch, I got this,” and created Jaxon. He’s a walking billboard for bad decisions, and my body’s ready to make every single one.
“You know what would make it better?” I drop the towel and smile, channeling my inner seductress (who probably needs a refresher course).
“Well, definitely that, but I know something else too.” He steps forward, and my heart decides it’s time for a drum solo.
“Oh yeah?” I swallow hard, watching him. “What’s that?”
“My dick?” He smirks, eyes sweeping the field. “Cuz it definitely thinks it should be in the lineup tonight.”
Judging by the situation in his sweatpants, I’m 99.9% sure he hasn’t been playing any away games lately. If you know what I mean.
Am I going to ask? Hell no. If I don’t ask, it’s not true. Welcome to the magical land of selective ignorance, where what you don’t know can’t hurt you—until it absolutely does.
Classic girl brain logic. We should probably work on that. Later. Much later.
I stand under the shower spray, letting the steam create a dreamy barrier. He steps forward, and suddenly, breathing is optional. “You look like you could use some help. You're probably too sore from pitching to wash yourself, huh?”
“Mmm.” I bite my lip. Yes, it’s cliché. Yes, I know. But when your hormones are calling curveballs, you end up in Clichéville, population: me. We bite our lips and fuck guys who are involved with someone else.
It’s not a vacation spot I’d recommend.
“I am pretty sore.” And about to be sorer, if things go as planned.
Jaxon’s body lines up with mine like puzzle pieces. “I can fix that.” He swallows, lips parting in a way that should come with a warning label.
I want to kiss him, but I don’t. Yet. Apparently, I’ve developed some self-control in the last thirty seconds. Growth?
The music wraps around us, and I lower my eyes to his chest, then lower still. His sweatpants are soaked, clinging to him like they’re afraid to let go.
Relatable, sweatpants. Relatable.
He kisses my neck first, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the water, and reaches between us.
“Nuh uh.” I press my hands to his chest, feeling his heart hammer. “You gotta be naked to be in here with me. House rules.”
“Ah, I see.” That half-smirk appears again. “Easy fix.”