“Anyone I would know?”
“Maybe. Carlton on the golf team?”
“Carlton?” he asks in a disgusted voice. “Milly.”
“Remember, drunk and lonely.”
“You’re not fucking lonely anymore. You have me and when the time comes, trust me, I’ll be a thousand times better than Carlton.” There’s no doubt in my mind about that. Just from the way his large hands move back and forth on my thighs, he already has me geared up and ready to go. “Now, about that fantasy.” He nudges me with his finger.
“You’re going to think it’s stupid and it’s nothing compared to yours. Which, for the record, I don’t own a thong.”
“What?” He sits up, moving me along with him. I’m still on his lap but now we’re face to face. “What do you mean you don’t own a thong?”
“It’s not a proper piece of underwear.”
He drags his hand down his face. “Mills . . . do you wear . . .”
“Granny panties?” He peeks through his fingers and nods. “No.” Exhaling, he pulls me into a hug.
“Thank God. Or else I’d be running to the store tomorrow.”
“That’s awfully shallow of you. What if I did wear granny panties, then what?”
Grinning, he says, “I guess I’d help pick your wedgies for you.”
“Oh my God.” I go to push him away but he pulls me in even closer, keeping his hands firmly placed on my back so I can’t go anywhere. This touching, this intimacy, it’s still so very new to me, but so welcome. And I like it. I like him. “Just so you don’t have nightmares at night, I wear cheekies.”
“You mean the underwear that shows half your ass?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn, Coach,” he drags out, making me laugh. “That’s fucking hot. Let me see them.”
He tries to reach around me but I swat him away. “Get a hold of yourself.”
“Listen, now that everything is out in the open, it’s going to be really hard for me to keep my hands to myself. I’ve held back for too long. It’s been torture. Watching you bend over and pick up balls, seeing your tits jiggle with every pitch you threw at me. I wasn’t taking in the speed of your arm, because I was watching your boobs.”
“Seriously, Carson?”
He chuckles and shrugs. “I’m a guy and you’re sexy as shit, especially when you’re holding a glove and lecturing me about fundamentals and lining my knuckles.”
“That’s the first thing they teach you in little league. It’s appalling I had to remind you.”
“It’s appalling you haven’t told me your fantasy yet.”
Oh right.
I drag my finger over his collarbone, feeling how strong he is beneath my fingertip. I can’t even begin to imagine how many times I’ve thought about touching Carson this way since he came into my life. Far too many to count, and it’s unbelievable I’m actually able to do it. That I’m sitting here, on his lap, with his arms wrapped around me, talking to him about intimate things. I did not see tonight going this way.
“Okay, but don’t laugh at me.”
“I would never.”
“Liar.” He smirks. “My fantasy, honestly, was you holding my hand. I know it’s simple and not really sexy, but I’ve never really held a guy’s hand. I’ve never been in a relationship, so the little romantic heart inside me didn’t really fantasize about sex, but about the intimacy of being with another person, the touches, the smirks, the quick snag to grab a kiss.” I shrug just as he entwines our fingers together. “I fantasized about the small things.”
Without skipping a beat, he says, “Then it’s the small things I’ll give you.”
“What happens if I don’t get drafted by the Bobcats?” Carson asks as he outlines the words on my shirt with his finger. He’s skimmed my boobs at least ten times now. I’m lying on the blanket and he’s leaning over me, his handsome face staring at me, a constant smile on his lips.
It’s hard not to think of this thing between us as more of a one-way connection since I still can’t believe Carson wants me. Out of all the girls he could have, he chose me, but I’m going to get there.
“Still a Bobbie for life,” I answer.
“What if I’m drafted by the Warriors? Does that mean you’re going to be a Bobcats, Storm, and Warriors fan?”
“Looks like I’ll have to make room for a new pennant.” I drag my finger down his coarse cheek. “But once a Bobbie, always a Bobbie. Sorry.”
He grumbles and then asks, “Okay, who would you want to win in a World Series? Or better yet, Fuck, Chuck, or Marry. My team, Cory’s team, and the Bobcats.”
“Impossible.” I shake my head. “I can’t answer that.”
“Fine, it’s my team and the Bobcats in a World Series, whose shirt are you wearing?”
“Do you really want to know?”
He slips his hand under my shirt so his fingers caress my bare skin. “I do.”
“Do you really think your hand up my shirt is going to sway my decision?”
“I would hope that your extremely attractive and talented boyfriend would sway your decision.”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of boyfriend. He’s jumping both feet into this, which can only mean one thing: he really likes me.
“Boyfriend, huh?” I tease.
“Yeah, which means you’re off the market.”
I snort. “You have nothing to worry about. There’s no one lining up for the position.”
His eyebrows sharpen, and the smile that’s been a permanent fixture on his face quickly fades.
“Hey, let’s get one thing straight. You’re not allowed to talk so poorly about yourself anymore. Just because you’ve never been in a relationship doesn’t make you any less special. It means the guys you’ve met weren’t intelligent enough to realize how incredible you really are.” He pauses and says, “Also, you were wearing a fisherman’s hat to baseball games, so . . .”
“You’re an ass.” I laugh and push him off me, but he quickly pins me to the ground, hands at my side, his nose brushing against mine.
“It was a hideous hat on a drop-dead gorgeous girl.”
My breathing picks up as I realize every time he says I’m pretty, a little piece of the puzzle that makes me whole melts away, becoming a piece of him. My brothers and my dad have always told me I’m pretty, but that’s because it’s their obligation to say so. But no one has looked at me the way Carson does and called me drop-dead gorgeous, or sexy, or beautiful. I’ve never associated myself with those words either. There have been days where I’ve felt cute, but never really beautiful. It’s why it’s so hard for me to actually accept the compliment.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“Are you fishing for kisses after saying such sweet things?”
“Compliments are free, no payment necessary. But I’ll take anything you’re willing to hand over.”
I have a feeling it’s going to be next to impossible for me to deny this man anything, especially when he looks at me like that, with such admiration. Part of me wonders why I never saw it before, but now that I truly think about it, everything he did to get closer . . . I should have known . . . if I thought it was a possibility. And let’s face it, I didn’t. It’s not about a low self-image, because I like who I am and know from my family and closest friends that I’m lovable. Perhaps I’ve simply believed the lies that only a certain shape, certain dress style, and a certain personality catches the attention of attractive men.