Page 5 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

far too long, the ache in my nipples and slick throb between my legs demanding attention I wasn’t willing to give. Not with

Dex across the hall. Not when I’d have thought of Dex while doing it. That would only have made things worse.

As it is, I’m grumpy and chomping on a slice of buttered whole grain bread like I’m trying to annihilate it. Worse? Ivy is

watching me.

Her dark eyes track my movements as I pick up my coffee and take a bracing drink.

“You’re staring.”

“Well, duh.”

“Are you asking for me to ping you with this bread?” I say before taking another bite and talking with my mouth full. “Because

I totally will.”

She looks semi-rested now. Her hair, at least, is washed and combed. And she smirks before drinking her orange juice. “Gray says you smelled like you’d rubbed yourself all over Dex last night.”

“Gray can sit on it and spin.” I swear, these two are the worst gossips.

She snorts into her glass. “Colorful. Now tell the truth, Fi-Fi. Were you rubbing yourself all over Dex?”

Like a cheap suit on a sultry day.

As if reading my thoughts, she leans her elbows on the table and gives me a sly smile. “He’s totally hot, in a bad-boy rocker

kind of way. Which is weird considering his job.”

“Bashing into people?” I laugh without humor. “Yeah, totally bizarre that he looks like a bad boy.”

“Sarcastic is not a good look on you.”

I stick my tongue out at her.

“Spill, Fiona May.”

“Shit,” I drawl. “You pulled out the middle name. That’s harsh.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Unlike Ivy, I have a good poker face. That’s one thing I learned from our dad. Never let them see you flinch.

But Ivy knows me well, so maybe I’m not fooling her. Or maybe she simply decides to give me a break, because she suddenly

shrugs and grabs a slice of bread, slathering on blackberry jam.

“Dex is kind of...” She pauses, knife in midair. “Different.”

“Different?” Okay, I know he’s quiet. And obviously whip smart; he managed me with a deftness that scares me. But different?

Ivy sets her bread down, and her voice lowers. “He’s really sensitive. In a good way, but... Gray thinks he might be a

Tebow.”

“What the fuck do you mean a Tebow ?” And why am I so annoyed? “You mean that whole kneeling and praying thing?”

She leans forward. “No. A virgin.”

I swear all the blood rushes out of my face. “What? No way. He’s... well, he’s fucking hot.” Okay, that slipped. “And he...”

I bite my lip to keep from saying he sure as hell didn’t kiss like a virgin.

Only it’s been so long since I kissed a virgin, I’m not sure how one kisses, or if the way someone kisses is even a marker

of sexual experience. I mean, sex is a lot more than inserting peg A into slot B, or B into B or—whatever the case, it should

be more.

I cover my slip with another truth. “He’s got to be twenty-four. How on earth could he be a virgin? Is it for religious reasons?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s at all religious. Honestly, I don’t know why he’d be a virgin either. And it’s not

something that Gray or his college teammates ever openly talked about, which is saying something.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be gossiping about it now.” I know I sound snappish, which is unfair to Ivy; we gossip about everything.

But it feels wrong talking about Dex this way.

Ivy blinks as though I hurt her, and I feel worse. But then she gives a small nod as if she understands.

“Look,” she says in a low voice, “I’m only mentioning it because... Hell. If you did fool around with him last night, or whatever, just be careful with him.”

I can’t help but laugh, though it hurts my throat. “What? Am I some sort of man-eater now?”

“No. Of course not. But Dex isn’t hookup material.”

“I think you should let Dex decide that for himself, seeing as he’s a grown man and all. And before you start in on me again,

I’m not going to do anything with him. Jesus. We only hung out an hour at most.” And kissed like we were dying for it. “That’s

all.”

Liar, liar, liar.

Ivy knows I am. I can see it in her eyes. Maybe motherhood has softened her, because she doesn’t push, only takes a sip of her coffee and goes silent.

For a long moment I sit there, silent as well. Then my fingers start to tap on the table.

“How do you stand it?” I blurt out.

“What? Your weak little innocent act?” she asks with cheek.

I stick out my tongue. “Funny, bunny. I meant, well... How do you stand being left behind while Gray travels to all his

games?”

We grew up with a dad who left his family to play professional basketball, then later as a sports agent. And we’ve dealt with

it differently. Ivy is the fixer, always trying to soothe ruffled feathers.

Me? I went out and partied, cracked stupid jokes and shut down any and all deeper connections. It’s worked so far, but seeing

Ivy so gone on Gray and still she has to live this life? I don’t understand it.

Ivy’s long fingers wrap tight around her mug. “It was better when I could go with him. It sucks when we’re apart. I won’t

lie about that, but...” She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “I don’t know how else to explain it except to say that

Gray is my heart. Life simply doesn’t work without him in it so...” She shrugs. “We do what we have to do during his season.”

“And that’s really enough?”

Her smile is almost secretive. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Gray is more than enough.”

The way she says it, like he’s the joy that begins and ends her day, hits me square in the chest, and I have trouble breathing.

Loneliness is this cold, drafty thing blowing over me, making me want to hug myself tight.

How must it feel? To be a part of someone else? And they’re a part of you?

Someone to have your back no matter what?

My knuckles press against the table. I should be enough for me. I shouldn’t feel lonely. Fuck. Maybe I’m getting hormonal or something.

Thankfully, I don’t have to wallow in my weird maudlin mood because the front door opens, and Dex and Gray amble in. My heart

rate kicks up, seeing Dex’s massive frame outlined in the doorway.

Gray zeroes in on Ivy. “Is he sleeping?”

“I put him down twenty minutes ago.”

Baby G might not sleep at night, but he naps like a champ, a good two hours at a stretch. Something Gray knows better than

I do.

He grins. “Shenanigans are go.”

Yeah, I don’t even want to know what that means, though I can guess.

Especially when Ivy blushes. “Seriously?”

“As a Hail Mary on Super Bowl Sunday. On your feet, woman. Time’s a wasting.”

Ivy grumbles under her breath about perverted cupcakes—again, don’t want or need to know—and then gets to her feet. She’s

hauled off by Gray a second later. He carries her up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I got to give it to him,” I say to Dex, who hasn’t left the kitchen. “His stamina is impressive.”

“Motivation helps,” he answers dryly. God, he has a nice voice. Smooth, deep, even. “But then, you know, we do train for stamina.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes that goes straight to my sex, gives it a teasing tweak.

I lurch up from my seat and refill my coffee cup because I’m not falling for that one. “You want a cup?” I ask.

Dex still hasn’t moved from the entrance to the kitchen. Steady as always, I suppose. While I’m fluttering around like a fool.

He nods and walks to the heavy pine farm table that sits beneath a wall of windows.

The table fills me with pride because I made it. I never intended to make furniture, but my two friends Jackson and Hal are

furniture designers and cajoled me to give it a try. I love creating something with my own hands, going from concept to completion.

This table was my first try, and while I see where I could improve things, the design works well here, counterbalancing the

modern, gleaming white cabinets and copper-covered appliances—Ivy thought steel was boring.

And because veritable giants live in this house, the seats are large and sturdy. Even so, Dex’s frame swallows up the chair

as he sits in it.

I bring him a cup, and then I notice: he’s wearing his hair down. Holy hell. It falls in thick, brown waves to the top of

his collar. The sun has left streaks of gold running through it. And while the combination of full beard and flowing hair

should be too much—call to mind an iconic Jesus or something—it isn’t. It just looks hot. Wild.

Touchable.

I sit and curl my fingers around my mug.

He does the same, and the late-morning sun shines through the window, illuminating his tattoos. Black and red roses, a clock,

a sugar skull, an indigo dragon, a 1940s battleship—there’s a lot to look at. They run up his arms and under his sleeves,

making me wonder if his chest and torso are covered too.

“Do they have meaning?” I ask, because I’m clearly looking.

“Some do.” His rich voice is almost a shock to my system, as if by speaking, he’s flicked my senses into overload. But he

doesn’t notice. “Some of them just came to me while I was drawing.”

“You drew these?”

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee. “It relaxes me.”

“I like to draw too. Mostly room designs nowadays.”

“You did a great job with the house,” he says, not bothering to look around. I have no doubt he’s already made a study of

the entire place.

“Thanks.”

I’d like to think we’re just making chitchat. That we’re just like any other casual acquaintances who happen to be houseguests

at the same time and place. But that’s not what’s happening. Because Dex’s gaze never leaves mine.

It’s unnerving. Hot. As if behind his light conversation, what he’s really saying is: You loved it, didn’t you? Sucking on my tongue, grinding on my cock. You want it again, don’t you?

Heat washes over me, and I struggle not to shift in my seat.

I realize we’ve stopped talking and are simply staring at each other. Every place he didn’t touch last night—every place I

want him to touch—is hot and achy.

I take a deep breath. Watch him do the same.