Page 13 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

“We’re going to watch from up here,” Mabel says, turning and glancing at me. I’m standing at the door, and she and Hattie are on their knees, facing backward on the couch so they can stare out the large bay window. It faces the street.

Where Weston is going to pull up. To pick me up for our date.

“Don’t watch me,” I say, fluffing my hair one last time in the little mirror by the door, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters.

It’s been two days since we almost kissed in the PT room, and I get the feeling Weston is purposefully keeping his distance from me, like he doesn’t want to risk touching me again.

Meanwhile, it’s the only thing I can think about.

At night, before I fall asleep, I feel his arm around the small of my back.

I picture laying on his chest, lifting my head up to run my lips over the scruff of his beard.

Since that night—learning that he has silver hairs coming in—I’ve wanted to examine his facial hair, too, see if I can pick out any little silver pieces in it.

I meant what I said. About liking the silver.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this,” Hattie says, twisting around and crossing her arms. She’s wearing a loose pink overall lounge set and looks adorable in it.

There’s a swipe of paint over her left forearm, and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail.

“And I just want to make it clear that I’m not on board with it. ”

“You’ve made that very clear,” Mabel says, and though I can’t see her face, I can practically feel her rolling her eyes. “Maybe Elsie wants to live a little, Hats. Don’t act like you wouldn’t be on board for a little fun with the handsome coach—”

“There’s been no fun time—” I interject, interrupting myself when I hear my phone ping in my pocket. Sliding it out, I see that Weston has texted.

Weston: On my way.

“Don’t watch!” I warn once more, even though I know neither of them is going to listen, before I turn and push out the front door.

The hallway is mercifully empty, so I don’t have to make small talk with any of our neighbors, and by the time I make it down to the street, Weston is pulling around the side street, his blinker casting the road in yellow as he turns.

I feel Hattie and Mabel watching as he pulls up to the curb in a sleek black sports car, which beeps twice when he gets out of it, shaking his head at me.

“Don’t you dare touch that door,” he warns, picking up the pace and pushing my hand to the side, insisting on opening the door for me.

“Oh, please,” I laugh, “is this real?”

“Not about to let a photo of me making you open your own doors make the rounds online.”

“Wow, what a gentleman,” I laugh, then I realize that maybe he’s been through this before—with his ex-wife. Did photos of him come out? Did people pick apart their relationship, accuse him of being a bad boyfriend, husband?

He shuts the door and circles around to the front, and I’m caught between admiring him—in a casual gray suit, the front open to reveal a white undershirt—and taking in his car—some fancy sports car that smells like rich leather and oozes luxury.

By the time he opens the driver’s side door, I’ve already pressed each button on the dash, laughing when one of them turns on a seat cooler that makes me feel like my ass is wet.

“Okay,” he says, rolling his eyes at me and pushing my hand away from the console. “Let’s not touch things in the car, okay?”

I smile and lean back in the seat as he pulls away from the curb, thankfully not taking advantage of the horsepower in this thing.

Weston is a careful driver, and by the time we roll up outside the restaurant, I’m not even carsick, which is a feat for me.

Usually, if I’m anywhere but the driver’s seat, I’m ready to throw up after the second turn.

Once again, he insists on opening my door for me, then tosses his keys to the valet like some sort of movie star. I roll my eyes at it, even as his cool confidence does numbers on my stomach.

“Alright,” Weston says, as we walk toward the host, snapping off his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. When he glances at me, I have to bite my tongue at how handsome he is right now, in the light of the setting San Francisco sun. “Ready to do this?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling and taking his arm, reminding myself, not for the first time, that this thing is fake. An act. A performance.

And I need to remember that.

Inside, after we’re seated, I prepare myself for stilted, awkward conversation, but it doesn’t happen.

Instead, Weston and I talk about the Squids, about the Blue Crabs, about hockey in general.

Our next game is against the Sharks, a team with a lackluster defense at best. If Weston is surprised by my hockey knowledge, he doesn’t comment on it, and eventually I accidentally let it slip about Jonathan being my ex.

“Is that so?” Weston says, in a way that makes me think he already knew that.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and shrugging. “But it was never super serious with us—it was always destined to end. And honestly, he was always kind of a dick. I just wish he’d have told me before he suddenly traded away like that.”

“Yeah,” Weston laughs, holding his glass up to mine, so the crystal clinks together gently. “I’ll toast to that.”

Then the meal is over, and Weston is tucking me back into his car. The streets are dark now, except for the pools of golden light cast by the streetlights.

“That was nice,” he says, and when I nod, I get the sense that this is when a real couple might hold hands. I twist my fingers together in my lap to keep from reaching for him, my mind already itching to know what his hand would feel like in mine.

When we pull up to my building, Weston’s eyes narrow. “It’s dark,” he says, turning his car off before I can protest. “I’m going to walk you in.”

He doesn’t just walk me to the door, but follows me to the elevator, nodding at the doorman, who waves at both of us.

We step inside, and it’s like I can hear my heart beating in my ears. He’s a good guy—obviously, I didn’t think he was evil, or anything—but he’s more than that. Opening doors for me, delivering me directly to my apartment door.

Jonathan had asked me to take the bus home—or order an Uber—after some of our dates. I’m not used to a man going to this length to make sure I’m safe, but it warms something inside me, urging me to say something.

A strange tension starts to grow between us, and I’m holding my breath, counting the seconds down until we’ll get to my floor and we can break this tension, when the elevator sticks.

“What the hell?” Weston asks, his eyes flying to mine.

“Oh,” I say, knowing my voice sounds a little too breathy, but not knowing how to fix it. “That’s just the elevator. It always sticks like that.”

Then, the lights go out.

“Does it always do that, too?”

“No,” I admit, feeling unmoored in the darkness of the elevator, my pulse quickening. Without thinking, I take a step in his direction, reaching for him, like I need to anchor myself to another body. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, I can see his form through the dark.

When my hand lands on him—in the center of his chest—he sucks in a quick breath. I feel it under my palm, the air entering his lungs, and for a long moment, we’re stuck hovering like this, my hand on him, us breathing together, suspended in the dark.

Then everything changes.

Like a rubber band finally snapping, Weston moves, his hands wrap around my back, sliding over the slick material of my dress, making it ride up over my thighs dangerously as he twists me around and presses me against the elevator wall.

When Weston covers my mouth with his, he tastes like spearmint.

I react, reaching for him, balling the fabric of his jacket in my fists, letting out an embarrassingly desperate little noise from the back of my throat.

My mind splutters out for a solid three minutes at the start of the kiss, even as I’m responding, hips pressing up to his. One of his hands drops, palming my ass, squeezing obsessively, sliding down to the back of my thigh, hitching my knee up so he can press into me.

He’s hard, and that fact makes my blood molten. Feeling him against the fabric of my panties makes me gasp, and he swallows the sound with a deeper kiss, his tongue licking into my mouth.

There’s nothing in the dark elevator but the sound of our heavy breathing, the raspy scrape of hands over fabric and skin. Even though I know I should stop this—remind both of us that this isn’t what we’re here for—I can’t. I won’t.

Maybe I want it too much. Or maybe everything that’s happening has short-circuited my brain completely, and all that’s left of my nervous system is the places where Weston’s fingers touch.

He kisses me in an all-consuming way, his tongue sliding against mine, the movements timed to the rhythm of our breathing. His hips jerk, the friction sending pleasure scattering through me, the movement a crude approximation of what I really want.

At first, when he slides his hand away from my knee, I’m missing the touch, but then his fingers land on the inside of my thigh, sliding higher.

Weston toys with the edges of my panties, infuriatingly, and I go completely still, as though it might be the answer to getting those fingers where I really want them.

“Say you want this,” he rasps, his lips moving against mine as he does.

When I nod, my nose bumps into his.

“Not good enough. Say it out loud.”

I whine, shifting my hips to try and force his hand inside my panties, but he holds it back until I say, “I want this, Weston.”

With that, his fingers are sliding under the hem of my panties, dipping into me in one long stroke. My body flies apart, the boundaries of myself dissipating, my hands clutching desperately at his shoulders.

If it was hard to form a coherent thought before this, it’s impossible now.