“So you want a fuck buddy.”
“Something like that. Yes,” he says. “No strings. No labels. No commitment. Just sex.”
“You sound like every other red-blooded American man,” I say, sighing.
He rolls his eyes.
“Okay, so why do you want that with me? I’m just some girl, that twenty-four hours ago, you’d never met in your life,” I say.
He rubs his palm against his grainy five o’clock shadow and exhales. “You remind me of myself.”
My jaw hangs. “No offense, but I’m nothing like you.”
Rhett laughs. “You’re exactly like me, and that’s why this needs to happen. Now give me your phone.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” I crawl out of his bed Wednesday morning, all of last night feeling like a hazy blur. All I remember is going to The Prescott Club with Bostyn, getting cornered by Rhett, then letting him program his number into my phone as a sort of nonverbal agreement to be his fuck buddy.
I texted him when I got home so he’d have my number, and he texted back within minutes, asking me to come over.
And I did.
Like a fool.
“Do what?” he asks as he stirs awake, the blankets pulled up around his waist.
I bet we got three, maybe four hours of sleep at most, and I’m plagued with a sweet soreness between my thighs today, but I don’t mind because it was well worth it. Rhett fucked me in positions I never even knew existed last night, and I kind of feel like a brand new woman because of it.
“Reel me in,” I say, standing in front of his bathroom sink. The door is open, and I’m brushing my teeth. Like a dork, I brought an overnight bag, but I figure since we’re not dating and this will never turn into anything more, I don’t have to do the thing where you gradually move your stuff in and let things happen naturally, at their own pace. “I’ve never had a fuck buddy in my life, though I’ve been propositioned a few times. It’s never been my thing.”
“Are you trying to say I’m lucky?”
“Yeah. Basically.” I spit the toothpaste in the sink and turn to him, soaking in how beautiful he looks in the warm morning light. “I’m also telling you not to fuck it up.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’d be lying if I said this entire situation didn’t flatter the hell out of me. This man was engaged to a Victoria’s Secret Angel slash supermodel slash beauty and fashion mogul. He’s wealthy and handsome. A professional athlete. He could literally fuck any woman on the face of the earth ... and yet he wants me.
And the clincher? He’s good in bed. So good.
I leave the bathroom and gather my clothes off the floor of his room, shoving them into my bag in exchange for some clean ones.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, slipping my legs into my jeans. He’s staring at me, I feel it.
“Just admiring the view.” He props a pillow behind his back, then interlaces his fingers behind his neck as he wears a sleepy, satisfied smirk. I roll my eyes and pretend it annoys me, when I know damn well it doesn’t.
My bra is hanging from the chrome knob on his nightstand drawer, but when I try to retrieve it, he reaches for my arm, pulling me into bed. I’m straddling him now, shirtless, and his hands are trailing up my sides, making their way to my breasts before pulling my nipples between his fingers. I flash a half-smile, grinding my hips against his hardness, which is separated by my jeans and his sheets.
“You want this again?” I tease, lowering myself enough so that our lips graze.
He kisses me, his hands cupping my face and his fingers at the nape of my neck. It’s a soft, tender kiss, a harsh contrast from the multitude of ways he fucked me last night.
I’d never been fucked so hard before, literally and figuratively. I caught a glimpse of something when our eyes met earlier this morning, and it made me wonder if he was trying to fuck the hurt out of him, which sounds insane and a little bizarre, but it’s kind of the only thing that makes sense right now.
And maybe I owe it to him. I’ll let him use me. I’ll do this willingly.
My brother fucked him over, so now he gets to fuck me.
“I have to go.” I pull myself off him. “You have my number.”
He sits up as I fasten my bra a moment later, and he scratches at his temple. His hair is mussed and sexy, and this room smells like us.
“You can get a hold of me too, you know,” he says. “This agreement of ours, it goes both ways.”
“Good to know.” I pull my shirt over my head and straighten the hem. I’ve got a meeting today with that lawyer Coach Harris connected me with. He’s going to help me set up this foundation for Bryce. “Think I’ll still let you do the calling.”
“Of course you will.”
I flash him a wink and a smart-mouthed smirk, and I show myself out.
By the time I’m outside, he sends me a text.
Thanks For That
Smart ass.
Eleven
Rhett
* * *
I can still smell her perfume as Coach Harris yammers away about something or other this morning. I don’t know. I’m not really listening.
She came by last night, which marked the fourth time in the week that’s passed since we agreed to a no-strings attached arrangement, but she didn’t stay the night because she had a deadline to meet for work and was going to stay up all night finishing her project.
When she left, I stole her pillow, and this morning, I can still smell her.
Let me make this clear: I’m perfectly fine being on my own. In fact, I prefer it. But it’s kind of nice not having to be alone with my thoughts at night. In the evening, when everyone’s doing their own thing or no one wants to go out or people are too busy to reply to your text, a man can get all too acquainted with the thoughts he’d been ignoring for the better part of the day.
But that’s where Ayla comes in.
I take one look at her ... that ass ... those lips ... and I’m one hundred percent distracted.
That’s all she is—a distraction.
And that’s all she’ll ever be.
“Carson, you get that?” Coach barks in my direction. Some of the guys look my way. I overheard a few of them talking about me earlier, shocked that I could just “go on as if it never happened.”
Fuck them.
If they only knew.
“The charity event.” Shane’s on my left, whispering under his breath.
“What charity event?” I whisper back.
“For Bryce,” he says, refusing to make eye contact.
“This Friday,” Coach says. “You’re all to report to the ice at seven o’clock. We’re holding a skate-a-thon in Bryce’s name, in collaboration with the new foundation being established in his honor. Attendance is mandatory.”
In Bryce’s name?
Fuck this shit. I’m out.
My chair makes an awful screeching noise as I push it away from the table, and all eyes are on me. Coach’s wild gray brows furrow, and he’s telling me to get my ass back in there, but I’m gone. I’m done. I’m not doing a damn fucking thing to honor that man.