Page 19

Caleb

I’ve showered, used the nice body wash, and shaved and trimmed all the important areas. I even cleaned up the mess in my room.

The bathroom mirror fogs as I towel off. I run a hand over my jaw, check the trim again. Still me—but the slightly upgraded version. The one who bought condoms today.

Not because I expect anything.

But because hope’s a persistent little bastard.

I can’t stop thinking about the way Rilee looked at me the night of the party.

The way she touched me.

The way she wanted me.

And yeah—she might have said we can’t, but something in her eyes tells me otherwise.

And it’s not just the sex. It’s her .

It’s how she never pretends to be fine when she’s not. How she’s got more grit than half our team and doesn’t even know it. She’s smart.

Hot.

Exhausted in a way I understand.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to take some of that weight off her shoulders. Not just tonight.

I pull on jeans, a T-shirt that fits just right, and try not to overthink how much effort I just put into looking like I didn’t try at all.

Then I build the blanket fort of my damn dreams.

Pillows stacked. Piles of blankets draped over my bed for maximum coziness. Popcorn popped and buttered to sinful proportions. Movie queued up. I even lit a candle, then immediately blew it out because too much , Ward, calm down.

I check my phone.

Still no reply.

Except—there it is.

Rilee: Sure .

Just one word. But I exhale like she just saved my night.

Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at my bedroom door.

I open it to find her standing there in joggers and a cropped hoodie, hair up, no makeup, and looking better than anyone should have the right to when they’re this tired.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless. “You said snacks?”

I grin. “Always.”

She steps in, and her eyes immediately land on the setup.

The mountain of pillows. The blanket situation. The popcorn bowl the size of a small tub.

Her smile is soft, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“You really went all out.”

“I believe in strong aesthetics,” I say, offering her the bowl. “And strategic snack placement.”

She climbs onto my bed and sinks into the fort like she belongs there.

“You look…” she starts, then catches herself.

“Clean?” I offer.

“Unexpectedly well-groomed for a guy who lives in a house full of athletes.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that tonight.”

She grabs a handful of popcorn. “Are you always this prepared?”

“Only when it matters.”

Her gaze flicks to mine.

And I know we’re thinking about the same thing.

The party. Sneaking away to this very room. The breathless, perfect mess of her mouth on mine.

But I don’t push.

Instead, I hit play.

And settle in beside her.

Close—but not too close.

Yet.

We’re about twenty minutes into the movie when it happens.

It’s not a dramatic moment.

It’s just her laugh.

Quiet. Unfiltered. A soft exhale as she chuckles and leans a little closer into my side.

And suddenly, I’m useless.

Because all I can think about is how good she smells. Like vanilla and that shampoo she uses. The curve of her hip is brushing mine under the blanket. Her bare ankle is resting just barely against my leg.

And I’m not watching the movie anymore.

I’m watching her .

Her lashes flutter. She bites her lip like she’s trying not to smile.

And then she looks up at me.

That one look short-circuits every rational thought in my head.

I should not kiss her.

She told me not to.

She said this would make things complicated.

But she’s still looking at me like she wants complicated.

I keep my voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

She tilts her head. “Yeah?”

“Are we still pretending this isn’t a thing?”

Her breath catches.

And that’s it.

I lean in—slow enough that she could stop me.

She doesn’t.

Our mouths brush. Light. Testing.

Then again. More sure this time.

Then she shifts, and suddenly she’s straddling my lap, hands in my hair, and we’re kissing —for real this time.

Deep. Hot. Hungry.

Her tongue slides against mine and I groan, low in my throat, gripping her hips like I’m afraid she might disappear.

She kisses like she’s trying to memorize it.

And I kiss her like I’ve been waiting to.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. I grip her hips. My shirt rides up. Her thighs tighten around me.

Every thought in my head boils down to one word: more .

Her hoodie bunches under my hands, and I break the kiss just long enough to tug it up.

She lifts her arms wordlessly, lets me pull it over her head and drop it somewhere in the blanket pile.

And I can’t help it.

I just look at her.

Her chest is rising fast. That little freckle just under her collarbone. Her pale pink bra that’s cradling the most perfect set of tits.

“You’re…” I trail off, my voice thick. “You’re kinda killing me right now.”

She smiles—just a flicker—and reaches for the hem of my shirt.

“Let me even the playing field.”

My heart thuds as I let her strip it off. Her hands brush my ribs, my stomach, and I feel every inch of it like I’ve never been touched before.

Her eyes sweep over me, slower than mine did hers. “Hockey looks good on you,” she murmurs, and her hand drags over my chest like she’s thinking of all the things she could do to me right now.

I lean in again, kissing her slower this time.

Deep and steady. Like I want her to feel how much I want this. How much I want her .

She shifts again, still straddling my hips, but hovering now right over my very hard dick.

Her fingers trail down my stomach, light enough to burn. “I’m not being very responsible right now,” she whispers.

“You want to stop?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

She bites her lip. “Not even a little.”

I run my hands up her thighs, thumbs brushing under the edge of her top. “Then let me see you.”

She nods once, slow. Then she unhooks her bra.

And I forget how to breathe.

Because there she is—bare skin, flushed cheeks, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.

Not posing. Not performing.

Just her .

“Holy hell,” I breathe. “You’re beautiful.”

She leans down, presses her forehead to mine, and whispers, “Then show me.”

And I do.

Slow. Intentional.

Hands and mouths, enough to leave us both aching.

Wanting.

And wondering what the hell we’ve just started.