Page 31
Joely
Within my city limits, you can’t sneeze without someone offering you a tissue, a cup of coffee, and at least two unsolicited opinions about your love life. So when word got out that Brogan Foster was officially off the market—and not just off but tangled up with Joely Parnell like a pair of mittens on a kindergarten coat hook—the whole town buzzed with the kind of satisfaction that comes from being proven right. They always knew it would be her. And if there were candles flickering in every window and a little extra sugar in every pie today, well, that’s just how we celebrate when two of our own finally get the happy ending they deserve.
Playlist: Bloom by The Paper Kites
My first official day as Brogan Foster’s girlfriend starts the way all epic sagas do: with someone pounding on my front door at an hour only feral raccoons should be awake.
I fumble with my crutches, nearly trip on a discarded ice pack, and crack the door open to find Lynsie and Gisele standing on the stoop like a couple of reality show hosts about to stage an intervention. They’re both carrying enough bags to open their own Sephora outlet.
“About time!” Lynsie announces, breezing past me. “It’s game day, Parnell. Girlfriend sex doesn’t just happen. It’s orchestrated. It’s curated.”
Gisele gives me a once-over, her mouth puckering like she just licked a lemon. “Jesus, Joely, is that pizza sauce on your shirt or a crime scene?”
“It’s abstract art,” I say, but she’s already peeling off my hoodie and yanking open her own Mary Poppins bag.
“Bathroom. Now,” Lynsie commands. “We need a soak, a scrub, a shave, and at least three serums.”
“Can’t I just… you know, be myself?”
“Absolutely not,” Gisele and Lynsie say in eerie unison. “He’s going to remember this night his entire life. Do you want him to remember you resembled a yeti?”
I groan, but secretly, I’m relieved. I don’t know how to prep for “girlfriend sex.” I barely know how to put on eyeliner without giving myself a black eye. And my leg is still in a cast, which means I’m hobbling, cranky, and one slip away from starring in my own slapstick disaster.
Lynsie sets a folded towel on the edge of the tub and rolls up her sleeves. “All right, Miss Hopalong, prop up your royal foot. Gisele, hand me the scrub.”
Gisele starts pulling out products and narrating like a QVC demo gone rogue. “Exfoliant, check. Shave oil, check. Sparkly body lotion, obviously. And—oh my God, Joely—when was the last time you bought new underwear?”
“I have a system,” I say defensively, clinging to the world’s saddest sports bra.
Gisele snatches it and tosses it in the trash. “With that, you have a crime against humanity. Tonight, you wear lace. Period.”
Lynsie starts running the bath, tossing a bath bomb in for good measure. “You trust us, right?”
I shrug, trying not to show how nervous I actually am. “More than anyone.”
“Good. Because tonight is big. First real night as the girlfriend. Not the secret crush, not the almost. The main character. You deserve a montage.”
They get to work. Gisele’s hands are in my hair, Lynsie’s buffing my leg (avoiding the cast like it’s a bomb), and the bathroom fills with laughter, gossip, and the kind of love that feels like armor.
I close my eyes and let it happen. The pampering. The transformation. The wild, slightly terrifying joy of being fussed over by the people who know me best.
For the first time in a long time, I feel it: not just wanted, but worthy. And suddenly, I can’t wait for Brogan to see me—cast, nerves, and all.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my skin is glowing, my hair’s styled into loose waves, and my ankle is safely barricaded. I smell like coconut, vanilla, and a dash of raw nerves. The girls have turned my bedroom into a cross between a spa and a bachelorette party. There are candles on every surface, my bedside lamp is draped in a pink scarf for “atmosphere”.
Lynsie stands back, arms crossed, looking so proud you’d think she invented romance itself. “All right. Final step. Wardrobe.”
She swings open my closet door and starts rifling through hangers at warp speed. Gisele digs through her bag, and holds up a lacy slip of red lingerie that looks like it was designed by a sadist.
“Absolutely not,” I say, because one leg is in a cast and the other is currently trembling from all the standing.
Gisele just winks. “Who said you have to walk anywhere? You’re the queen. All you have to do is recline and accept worship. You just had surgery. For one night, you can be a complete pillow princess, and he can’t lodge one complaint.”
I laugh, nerves buzzing under my skin. It feels a little ridiculous—like I’m starring in some kind of makeover montage where the happy ending is less ‘red carpet’ and more ‘Brogan Foster seeing me as his girlfriend and not just the girl he grew up with.’
Lynsie finds a softer, silkier chemise in soft blue—still sexy, but with enough fabric to cover my bandages and bruises. “Perfect,” she declares, tossing it at me. “And this—” she adds, sliding a fresh pair of matching panties my way, “—because if you have to flash someone accidentally, at least make it cute.”
Gisele swoops in with a spritz of perfume, then helps me into the nightie, taking care not to bump my cast. “This is the good stuff. One spritz is seduction, two is a restraining order.”
When they’re done, they step back and survey their work like two Michelangelos judging a particularly difficult slab of marble. I’m sitting propped up on my pillows, foot elevated on a perfectly-fluffed bolster, feeling equal parts goddess and complete fraud.
“You look beautiful, Jo,” Lynsie says, voice softer now.
I almost cry. Because I feel beautiful. And for the first time, I don’t want to hide any of it. Not the scars, not the nerves, not even the wonky, swollen ankle.
“Okay,” Gisele says, grabbing her purse. “We’re out. Text when you want the post-game show tomorrow and we’ll bring wine and snacks.”
Lynsie squeezes my hand, eyes gleaming. “He’s going to lose his damn mind.”
I can’t even manage words. I just nod because I’m suddenly terrified and thrilled and ready in ways I didn’t know were possible.
They leave with a flourish, blowing kisses, and I’m left alone in the candlelight, heart pounding, waiting for Brogan.
I keep trying to breathe like a normal person. Not like someone waiting for their very first real “girlfriend sex” with the boy they’ve been in love with since literal elementary school. My ankle’s propped up on a pile of pillows, the silk chemise feels like butter against my skin, and the whole room glows with flickering candlelight and that warm, low promise that anything can happen tonight.
The house is dead quiet except for the faint hum of the furnace in the basement and my heart trying to launch itself through my chest. Every headlight that sweeps past the window, every branch tapping at the glass, I flinch like he might be here early. I check my phone twice—no missed calls, no texts. The girls have left a steady stream of GIFs in the group chat, mostly of cheerleaders and Channing Tatum dance moves, and one meme from Gisele that says, “Remember: Arch your back, not your expectations.” I snort out a laugh that’s equal parts terror and joy.
I hear his truck pull up before I see him—engine rumbling, a door thunking shut, his footsteps crunching through the snow. He knocks, because he’s Brogan Foster, a golden retriever in a man’s body, polite even when I’ve told him a thousand times to just walk in.
“Come in!” I call, heart thudding so hard I swear it’s audible.
The front door opens, then there’s the muffled thud of boots on the entryway rug.
Brogan’s voice calls out, just a little hesitant, “Joely?”
A pause. Then footsteps, and I swear the temperature in the house spikes. His boots thud as he toes them off and shuffles down the hall. He stops short in the doorway, and for a second, he just… stares.
“Oh,” he says, and his voice cracks like he’s been body-checked.
I try to play it cool, which is hard when I’m blushing from head to toe, and my hair smells like fancy coconut shampoo. “Hey.”
Brogan steps inside, still in his faded Slammer’s hoodie and jeans, his cheeks pink from the cold, arms full. I spot a grocery bag and a small bouquet of wildflowers sticking out from the top—daisies and sunflowers and one ridiculous, cheerful tulip.
He lets out a long, low whistle. “Jesus, Jojo. You look—” He tries again, stepping inside, flowers dangling forgotten from one hand. “You look like the part in the movie when the hero realizes he’s been in love with the girl next door the whole time.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, even though my whole body’s a live wire. “You brought me flowers?”
“Yeah,” he says, suddenly shy, holding them out. “And, uh, snacks. In case we, you know, get hungry. Or you need to carb-load for… whatever.”
I take the bouquet, breathing in the wild, hopeful scent. “You’re adorable.”
He drops the bag on the floor and sinks to his knees at the side of the bed, face level with mine.
His eyes flick over me—hair, chemise, the heap of blankets, the cast—and the adoration there is almost too much to take. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice soft. “You want this? Tonight? With your cast and everything?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You asked me to be your girlfriend. I said yes. We need to consummate it.”
He lets out a shaky breath, his hand reaching for mine. And just like that, the nerves settle. Because it’s Brogan. My Brogan.
And tonight is ours.
He doesn’t rush. That’s the first thing I notice. He’s still kneeling at the side of my bed, our hands tangled, his thumb making soft, slow circles over my knuckles like he’s memorizing them. There’s so much heat in his eyes, but also something steadier—gentle and careful, like he’s more concerned with me than whatever comes next.
He leans in, resting his chin on the mattress, close enough that his breath dances across my shoulder. “Tell me what you need,” he says, his voice so quiet it feels like a secret. “And if anything hurts, you tell me. I mean it, Jojo.”
My heart clenches. For a split second, I’m eight years old again, trusting him with my scraped knees and untied shoes. Now it’s my battered ankle, my whole body, my whole heart. “I need you,” I say, and it comes out a whisper. “I need you to be here with me.”
“I’m here.” His hand ghosts up my arm, fingertips just barely grazing the straps of the chemise. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug—just looks at me, waiting for permission. When I nod, he slides his palm to my cheek, and I melt under the softness in his touch.
He kisses me like he has all the time in the world—soft and slow and deep, like he’s trying to pour every word he’s ever left unsaid into the space between our mouths. My fingers curl in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he hums against my lips, shifting his weight so he can join me on the bed. He’s careful, always careful, moving slowly as he slides in beside me, leaving plenty of space for my propped-up cast and my nerves.
He settles on his side, one arm braced above my head, the other hand trailing light up and down my good leg, as if reassuring himself I’m here, I’m real, I’m okay. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over my body, lingering at the pink flush on my cheeks, the way my hair tumbles over the pillows. “Even if you do look a little bit like an injured Disney princess right now.”
I bark out a laugh that dissolves into something soft and giddy when he dips down to press a kiss to my forehead, then the tip of my nose. “Which one?” I ask, teasing.
He grins. “Sleeping Beauty, obviously. If she’d broken her ankle and had a team of best friends who bathed her and picked out her underwear. Because there’s no way you could have done all this to yourself. Remind me to buy Lynsie a drink the next time I see her.”
The laughter helps—eases the nerves, reminds me that this is what I’ve always wanted. Not the perfect, movie-montage kind of sex, but this. The intimacy, the caretaking, the feeling of being adored even when I’m at my most vulnerable.
His hands never stray far from safe territory—my hair, my shoulder, the edge of my jaw—like he’s waiting for my signal. And when I tug him closer, threading my fingers through his, it’s not about what we can’t do, or what’s awkward, or even what hurts.
It’s about letting him love me, exactly as I am.
And as he kisses me again—so tender, so deliberate—I realize I’ve never felt more wanted, or more safe, in my entire life.
Brogan props himself up on his elbow, facing me with that devastating combination of heat and pure, undiluted devotion. He strokes my hair back from my forehead, his fingers gentle as a whisper. “You sure you’re comfortable?” he asks, glancing at the mountain of pillows and the awkward angle of my leg.
I nod, my pulse fluttering. “Just promise me you won’t make any jokes about my toenails. It’s winter. And I’ve got enough issues.”
He grins, leaning down to brush his lips against my jaw. “No promises,” he murmurs, lips curving against my skin, “but I think I’m into your cast. Makes you look dangerous.” He shifts a pillow beneath my knee, never losing contact, his big hand cupping my ankle with reverence. “Tell me if anything hurts. Seriously, Jojo. If you need me to stop—”
I tug him in for a kiss, stopping the spiral before it starts. “Brogan,” I whisper, my words feathering against his lips, “you’re the safest thing I’ve ever known.”
The air shifts, thick with anticipation. His hand skims my thigh, careful and slow, igniting goosebumps in his wake. Every touch is deliberate—no hurry, no pressure. Just worship. I arch into him, hungry for more but greedy for the tenderness, too. He buries his face in my neck and inhales, the warmth of his breath sending sparks down my spine.
“You smell like strawberries and Gisele’s expensive perfume,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s the highest compliment he’s ever given—makes me flush all over again.
“Don’t give her the satisfaction,” I mutter, breathless, even as I tilt my head to give him better access.
His laughter vibrates against my collarbone, and then he’s back to kissing, exploring, coaxing my body to trust him with every slow movement. His hands map a path over my hips, my waist, my ribs, careful never to jostle my cast or push too far. He murmurs encouragement, low and rough—beautiful, gorgeous, perfect—until I believe every word.
And when he finally reaches the edge of the lacy underwear Lynsie and Gisele picked out, he pauses, giving me a look that asks a question only I can answer.
“Are you ready?” he whispers. “You’re not in too much pain.”
“More than ready,” I breathe, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said.
He smiles, the kind that’s all relief and gratitude, and starts to peel the fabric away—inch by careful inch, never letting me feel exposed, never letting go of my hand. His mouth follows the path his hands make, kissing every patch of skin he uncovers, worshiping me like I’m some sacred relic and not just a girl in a borrowed chemise with a bum ankle.
I’ve never felt more beautiful. Or more seen. Or more loved.
He stretches out beside me, bracing his weight on his forearm so I don’t have to move an inch. His other hand traces the edge of my chemise, pushing the fabric up with excruciating patience, until I’m bare from the waist down—ankle propped perfectly, leg cradled just so.
Brogan watches me with a reverence that almost undoes me. “God, Joely, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking beautiful. You have no idea, do you?”
His fingers are warm, a little rough from hockey and hard work, but when he slides them between my thighs, he’s gentle—so gentle it’s almost a tease. He finds me already wet and makes a sound in his throat that’s half-groan, half-laugh.
“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he murmurs, thumb circling, two fingers slipping inside in one smooth, perfect motion. “Let me take care of you. Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”
His hand moves slowly at first, deliberate, learning me all over again like he’s mapping the route to my undoing. He leans in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to my throat, my collarbone, the top of my breast—never rushing, never greedy, just savoring every shiver, every gasp.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice so low it’s barely more than a vibration against my skin. “Tell me if you need more. Or less. Or anything. I want to make you feel good.”
I can barely speak, just nodding, clutching at his shoulder as he starts to build a rhythm, fingers crooking just right, his palm pressing where I need him most. My hips lift, instinct taking over, and he hushes me, his mouth at my ear, “Easy, Jojo. I know you want to move—let me do the work. You just let go for me.”
I do. I come so hard it leaves me wrung out, clutching at him, gasping his name. He doesn’t let up until I’m trembling, boneless, every nerve fried.
Brogan doesn’t gloat. He just looks at me like I’m the whole damn world. Then grabs a tissue, leans over, and kisses me—deep, possessive, claiming.
“Round one to you, Coach,” I whisper, grinning up at him, still breathless.
He laughs, forehead pressed to mine. “Baby, I’m just getting started.”
Brogan gently shifts, his hands under my hips, moving me onto my uninjured side. He props a pillow between my knees, one under my cast, fussing until I’m as comfortable as I can possibly get. His body curls behind me, warm and solid, his hand smoothing up my thigh, steady and sure.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs against my neck.
“Perfect,” I whisper, breathless.
He shimmies out of his jeans and briefs, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, and peels off his T-shirt one-handed—tossing everything onto the chair in the corner like it’s the world’s least sexy striptease. By the time he climbs back into bed, warm skin pressed against my back, I can feel the anticipation thrumming between us.
Brogan pauses, glancing over his shoulder at his jeans. “Hang on, let me grab—”
I catch his wrist, a smile tugging at my lips. “You don’t need to. I’m on the shot. Got the all-clear from Nurse Aggie two weeks ago.”
His eyes flash with heat and relief, a crooked grin breaking out. “You really are perfect.”
“Still gonna want that slow, though,” I tease, nudging his chest with my elbow.
He laughs, settling back in behind me, hands everywhere, voice low and thick. “Whatever you need, Jojo. Always.”
He slides in slow—so careful, so goddamn gentle it almost undoes me. I arch back, the stretch and pressure making me gasp, and Brogan lets out a shuddering exhale against my skin. One arm is locked tight around my waist, holding me steady, the other cupping my hip.
He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Instead, he presses a kiss to my shoulder, his lips hot and soft. “Let me take care of you, Jojo. Just let me make you feel good.”
His fingers find their way between my thighs, slow and slick and steady, and when his calloused thumb finds my clit, I swear I almost come apart on the spot. He circles it, gentle at first, then harder, rougher, just the way I like—just the way he knows I need.
He goes still, buried deep, breath catching like he can’t quite believe it. “Fuck, Jojo. You have no idea what this does to me. I’ve never—” His voice breaks off, thick with wonder and something more. “Never been inside anyone like this. Not bare. Not… you. God, it’s so much better. I can feel everything. I can feel you.”
He groans, a sound that rumbles low and honest against my back, and I know—right here, right now—he’s never going to forget this. Neither will I.
“God, you’re so wet,” he whispers, voice ragged in my ear. “You always do this to me. Every single time.”
I whimper, clinging to his forearm as the pleasure builds, fast and sharp, his cock filling me, his fingers coaxing me higher, higher, higher.
“Come for me,” he growls, not a command but a plea, and his hips move just enough to keep me right on the edge. “I want to feel you. I want to hear you lose it, Jojo. Give it to me.”
I do—hard. My body tightens, pulses, legs shaking as I come all over his fingers, his cock, the sound I make somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He doesn’t stop—keeps stroking me through it, keeps telling me how perfect I am, how much he loves me, how he’ll always be here to hold me together, no matter how many pieces I fall apart in.
I come apart for him—so hard I can’t even breathe. My whole body goes tight, and all I can do is hold onto him and whisper, “I love you. God, I love you so much.”
Brogan’s hand tightens on my hip, his own breath catching. He presses his mouth to my shoulder, voice broken and reverent: “I love you too, Jojo. Always. Always.”
Brogan’s rhythm stutters, hips jerking, breath going wild at the feel of me shaking for him. He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name, and then he’s coming too, deep and hard, every muscle locked as he spills inside me, his arm holding me close and safe the whole way through.
We’re a mess of tangled limbs, sweat, and shaky laughter, but he never lets go—just pulls me tighter, hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together, like maybe if he holds on tight enough, nothing in the world can break us.
And when Brogan finally stills, the world goes quiet and bright all at once—just us, tangled up in sheets and hope, daring to believe in a new kind of beginning.
The room is quiet except for the sound of our breathing—mine still shaky, his steady and deep. I’m tangled up in Brogan’s arms, the duvet and about six pillows barricading my ankle in a fortress of softness. My hair’s a mess, my heart’s a puddle, and I think my mascara is somewhere on his neck, but none of it matters. I’ve never felt this safe. Or this… sated.
Brogan kisses the tip of my nose, then the shell of my ear, and finally the spot on my forehead that always makes me giggle. “You good?” he whispers, his voice low and warm.
I can’t help but grin, my whole body buzzing with the kind of glow you can’t fake. “I think I’ve officially ascended,” I say, burying my face in his chest. “Is this what girlfriend sex is supposed to be like? Because if so, I’ve been doing everything wrong my entire life.”
He chuckles, tightening his hold on me. “I think it’s supposed to be exactly like this. Minus the broken bones, maybe.”
I tilt my head up, catching his eyes—soft, sincere, wrecked and rebuilt all at once. “I love you,” I say again, just to see the way it lands.
Brogan’s whole face lights up, and he leans in to kiss me, slow and deep. “I love you, Jojo. And I’m never letting you go.”
He sits up a little, propping himself on one elbow so he can check my ankle. “You’re not in pain, are you?” He’s fussing again, the way only Brogan can—rearranging pillows, smoothing my hair, running a thumb over the bridge of my nose like he’s mapping out constellations.
“I’m fine,” I reassure him, catching his hand in mine. “You’d know if I wasn’t. You always know.”
For a second, he just stares at me—like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and it’ll all disappear. I feel that, too. But the way he’s looking at me, the way his hands keep finding me, tells me this isn’t a dream. It’s ours.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. Then about a dozen times in rapid fire.
Brogan groans. “If that’s Lynsie and Gisele demanding a group FaceTime, I swear I’ll fake an outage.”
I snort. “It’s probably just their code for ‘did he make you see stars or nah?’”
He laughs, that wild, easy sound that always makes me want to kiss him again. “You going to answer them?”
“Not a chance.” I wiggle closer, letting his body absorb all the leftover nerves and adrenaline. “Let them wait. I want to stay right here. At least, until I have to pee again.”
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Bathroom escort, at your service.”
“And after that?”
He grins, wicked and soft all at once. “Round two. Or at least some victory snacks.”
I close my eyes, content in a way I never thought possible. I’m sore. I’m loved. I’m probably about to be roasted in the group chat for eternity. But none of that matters.
Because this—Brogan, me, my weird, wonderful life—is finally enough.