Page 68 of Trick Shot

“You… brought me breakfast?” She blinks at the tray like I brought her a bomb, her voice sleepy.

“Figured you’d rather not sip your coffee downstairs surrounded by sweaty men and someone else’s thong on the counter.”

The house is actually spotless, but any excuse I can get is good enough.

“Can I leave it inside?” I ask, pointing my chin at the room behind her.

Her eyes drag up to meet mine again, slow and suspicious. She’s clearly not expecting this. But then she moves, stepping aside to let me in.

Wow, that was easy.

I take a step in and set the tray on the dresser, glancing over at the unmade bed, imagining her with her hand between her legs, holding back her moans as she came with me last night. Even though she doesn’t know it yet, the thought is enough to send blood rushing to my cock.

“Almond milk, two sugars,” I announce, turning to face her.

“How do you know I drink almond milk?” she asks halfway through a yawn.

I use the opportunity and drag my eyes down her body. Deliberate. My gaze snags on the curve of her boobs through the shirt and the hem barely brushing those thighs I’m dying to part with my hands.

“Dom told me,” I lie, hating giving him any credit for it. I hand her the glass, and she takes it from me, careful not to touch me. She brings it to her lips and sips, throat bobbing as she swallows. I follow her reactions like a hawk, waiting for something to indicate that she likes it.

“If you think this excuses you for last night,” she says sharply, “you’re wrong.”

I raise a brow at her comment.

“Excuse me?” I echo, voice mock-confused. “For what, exactly?”

“You know what,” she fires back, yet still takes a sip of the coffee I made her.

“Was it the part where you wrapped your legs around me?” I tilt my head. “Or you moaning into my mouth? Or—”

“Shh.” She hushes me, putting her finger in front of her lips. “Are you crazy? Someone might hear!” she whisper-shouts, her cheeks turning red.

I lower my head and suck on the straw, taking a sip of the coffee she’s holding.

Tastes like watered-down breastmilk. How the fuck can she drink this shit?

“Someone meaning your brother?” I ask, looking up at her through my brows.

“Anyone,” she breathes, dazed and staring. And then, because I’m a bastard, I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Tell me something,” I murmur. “Was your hand as good as my mouth would’ve been?”

“What are you tal—” Her eyes widen, her lips part even more, and I watch the realization painting her face even redder.

“Thin walls,” I throw, straightening back to my full height. “Speaking of moaning…” I add casually. “Next time, maybe come to my room instead of dry-humping my pillows.”

Her eyes go even wider before she throws a pillow at me.

“You’re sick,” she says, coffee spilling on the hardwood from the force of her throw.

I block the pillow with my forearm, unable to stop the chuckle that escapes me.

“Better wipe that down.” I point at the coffee splash on the floor, still chuckling. “Paid a lot for the flooring.”

“Get out!” This time she sets the glass down on the tray and physically pushes me out of the room. I let her, laughing the whole way to the door. As soon as she shoves me out of my own room, I turn. And she’s already slamming the door.

It’s not even noon yet, and I’m already sweating. Group workout, beach, sand, sun, and wind cutting across the ocean. I’ve got sweat dripping down my back, arms pumped from resistance sprints, lungs burning like I’ve been chain-smoking. Around me, the guys are all cracking jokes, tossing around water bottles, talking about who got lucky last night. Someone’s talking about a brunette with a tongue piercing, another about two girls who pulled him into the upstairs bathroom.