Page 31 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter sixteen

~MELODY~

I burst into the bedroom like I can outrun what just happened.

The second the door shuts behind me, I start pacing. One hand gripping the towel at my chest, the other trying to get wet strands out of my face. My hair is dripping onto the hardwood floor, and my body’s trembling with everything I don’t want to feel.

I can’t do this to Ghost again. Not until I confess to what’s happening.

And, in some ways, I think he senses it. He’s slipping through my fingers, and I deserve it.

I slept with someone else. And that someone else is still in the bathroom, standing under the water I ran away from.

I lunge toward the bathroom door, heart racing. I just need to shut it with him inside while I get dressed and get out. Seal him off like the mistake I’m trying to convince myself he is. Maybe if I can just slam the door fast enough, I can think. I can breathe. I can—

His hand catches the door, fingers wrapping around the edge. I shove against it, but it doesn’t budge. Not even an inch. His strength is terrifying, because he’s not even pushing. Not even trying.

"Let go," I say through gritted teeth, still pretending like this towel and a door are armor.

He gives the door a shove, and then he’s inside. He peels his shirt off, hair wet and dripping, and he looks better than anything I’ve ever seen.

His carved chest rises and falls too evenly. Water trails down his torso, catching in the ridges of his abs before soaking into the waistband of his workout shorts.

His eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t speak at first, just closes the door behind him with a click so soft it might as well have been a whisper.

"We can’t," I say, retreating a step. "We can’t do this anymore."

"I’m not leaving," he says, tone low and steady. "Not until you tell me why you’re fighting this."

"Jace, just stop..." I shake my head, backing up like it’ll help.

"No." One word. Sharp and slicing through the air. "Talk to me."

"Why are you doing this?" I snap, louder now. "I can’t take th—"

He’s in front of me before I even finish the sentence.

His chest brushes mine, barely but enough to make my breath stutter.

I open my mouth to stop him, but my voice falters when he lifts his arms. His palms plant on either side of my head, boxing me in. The warmth of his body seeps into mine, even with the few inches left between us.

He smells like his cologne mixed with my body wash.

"Why are you really pushing me away, Melody?"

My throat tightens and my eyes close.

"Because there’s someone else." The words crawl out of my mouth.

I hear his breath shift.

"I’ve been talking to someone else," I repeat, voice barely holding. "For months. And I’ve been lying to him, and I can’t..." I choke. "I can’t keep doing this with you."

My confession is met with silence. Dead silence.

I open my eyes and he’s still there, staring at me. Not angry, not hurt, just... watching me. His jaw isn’t tight, his eyes aren’t wild. He just looks at me like he’s waiting for a punchline.

What the hell?

"Did... did you hear what I said?" I ask, genuinely confused by his reaction.

"Mhm," he hums, still looking down at me.

"That’s it?" I blink, my heart slamming inside my chest.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I just told you I’ve been emotionally involved with someone else and you’re, what? Chill about it?"

"Were you hoping I’d throw a tantrum?"

"I was expecting something. You got all possessive over a joke Zed made, and now?" I wave at the space between us.

The same man who swore he’d break anyone who so much as looked at me is acting like I told him the forecast.

His eyes track mine. His hand moves slowly and he tucks a damp curl behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek.

My body automatically leans into the touch like it belongs to him even though my mind is trying to fight it.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "What do you feel for him?"

I open my mouth, gaping at him. That’s not the question I was expecting.

"I... I don’t know how to answer that." I glance away, shame climbing up my throat like thorns.

He tilts his head. The damp heat of him seeps through my towel and burns straight into my skin.

"You do," he says, voice low. Dangerous. "I think you know exactly what you feel."

His hand trails down, light and teasing, mapping the shape of my guilt.

"Convince me," he says, leaning down. "Convince me he’s better than me, Melody."

"Why?" I suck in a shaky breath.

"Because if you do," he continues, his lips grazing over my jaw, "I’ll walk out of this room and never touch you again."

"Jace, I don’t think..." I whisper, cutting myself off. I have no idea what his game is.

"Fucking convince me." His voice is deceptively soft as his fingers curl around the hem of the towel.

"He’s really kind."

"Try again," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my chin. "I’m not convinced."

My heart slams into my chest. His body radiates heat and restraint, but his eyes are locked on mine like he already knows the answers and just wants to hear me say them.

"Come on," he whispers, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. "Tell me what makes him so fucking special."

"I can’t!" I flinch.

"You can." His hand slides down around my waist, pulling me closer.

"Why him?" he asks, breath hot against my throat.

"I..." My voice cracks. "He makes me feel seen."

"And?" Jace murmurs, brushing his lips along the edge of my jaw.

"He makes me feel understood." I let out a broken breath.

"Keep going." He drags his teeth down the side of my neck.

"He makes me feel like I matter," I whisper, closing my eyes. "He listens to me."

"What else?" He kisses the place where my pulse throbs.

"He knows how to calm me down," I admit, breath shaky. "He always knows what to say."

His fingers slide lower, beneath the towel and down my hips. I’m slipping. Drowning. Falling into him even as I talk about someone else.

"He makes me laugh. He reads the books I read just so he can talk to me about them. He does the same with shows and movies."

Jace’s hand slides between my legs and I gasp. His fingers find how wet I am and he groans into my skin.

I don’t know why this is getting him so worked up but it is. And it’s doing the same to me.

"He makes me wet," I breathe, unable to stop. The words fall out of me like a sinful confession. "He makes me..."

His mouth is on my throat now. His hand flexes between my thighs.

"He makes me come."

"You sound so fucking desperate for him," he growls, sliding a finger inside me.

My head falls back against the wall, a moan ripping from my throat.

"So, why me?" he asks, pumping slowly.

I know what he’s asking. Why were you still a virgin if you’ve been talking to him for months?

"I don’t know what he looks like," I gasp, shame crawling up my face. "We’re only texting," is all I can get out before another moan escapes me as his finger curls.

"And what does he look like in your head?" he whispers against my neck.

"You," I breathe out the confession, almost not hearing my own whisper.

He goes still for a second, then his mouth claims me—tongue tangling with mine.

He thrusts his fingers deeper, his mouth devouring every broken sound I make. My moans are still echoing through the room when he grabs me.

He lifts me with one arm, carries me to the bed and tosses me onto it.

My towel slips off mid-air.

I gasp as I hit the mattress, breathless, completely bare. And he stands there for a second, staring at me. His chest rises and falls, his eyes dark.

Not playful, not teasing, and my entire body tenses in anticipation.

He climbs onto the bed, over me, hands braced on either side of my body. The mattress shifting under his weight.

"What’s his name?" he says, voice low and steady. But underneath it is something sharp.

"I... I don’t know his real name," I stammer, realizing how ridiculous I sound.

He tilts his head, lips twitching.

"What do you call him, then?"

"Ghost." My throat goes dry.

"Ghost," he repeats, drawing out the word like a promise, his hand sliding down my thigh, spreading my legs beneath him.

“How did you meet him?”

“Why are you asking me this?” My brows pull together.

“Answer the question.” He kisses the underside of my jaw, then bites down gently.

“I… it was Halloween. He wore a mask.”

“What do you talk about?” he murmurs.

“Everything.”

“Do you talk about me?” He drags his mouth down my neck and over my collarbone.

“Only once.” My breath catches.

“Good things?”

“Mostly bad,” I admit.

His laugh is dark and soft, hot between my breasts. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand, his other sliding down to where I’m already throbbing. His fingers glide over me for a few moments before he pushes a finger inside me again. Then another, stretching me around him.

“Oh god.” My body arches, chasing his hand, but my mind wants to know where his questions are leading. “Why are you asking me?”

“I want to know,” he whispers, “what kind of man gets to own your thoughts.”

He pumps his fingers harder.

“What kind of man makes you come when you’re alone at night,” he breathes. “What kind of man you dream about.”

I can’t form words, only desperate sounds.

I feel him everywhere. On top of me, inside me, under my skin. His fingers are still sliding in and out, slow and deep—and I still can’t make sense of any of this.

“Are you in love with him?” he asks, fingers curling.

“Yes,” I moan, grinding my hips against his hand and hating myself for it.

He exhales like the word feeds him. Then his lips skim the shell of my ear.

“And what do you feel for me?” he asks, voice thick.

My heart trips, my eyes snapping to his.

“Don’t think, Melody. Just say it.”

I shake my head, but his fingers thrust faster and I cry out.

“I hate you,” I moan.

“That’s not news.” His teeth graze my nipple.

“You piss me off,” I breathe, my hand tangling in his hair. “You’re cocky and arrogant.”

But every word slips out on a gasp, my body betraying me—aching for his touch while my mind starts to spiral. “I hate how much I want you.”