“Because she’s with Garrett.” Em rolls her eyes.
“Are they exclusive?”
Holt smacks Carson in the stomach. “Don’t be a douche and steal a girl from your tit-drawing teammate. He earned the right to draw those things.”
“How? He’s a goddamn freshman with fumbling hands. You should see him behind the plate. I swear he’s Coach’s charity case. I don’t know how he got on the team.”
“Probably slipped Coach a tit drawing,” I say, making my two friends laugh.
“Coach probably has a drawerful of Garrett’s drawings. That dude is lonely as fuck.”
“Aw, really?” Emory asks. “What about Mrs. Flower? There seems to be something between them. Her husband passed away, so maybe it could be a new love connection.”
I shake my head. “Coach will never make a move. He’s old and set in his ways. He lives and breathes baseball, so there’s no way he’d make room for a woman in his life when he spends all his time harping on us.”
“It’s what makes him the best though,” Holt says, checking his phone. “Hey, I have to go. My girl just got done with her shift.”
“Are we ever going to meet this girl of yours?” I ask.
“Not any time soon.” Without another word, Holt hops off the couch and makes his way to the front door where he leaves the loft. That was quick.
“What’s that all about?” Carson asks, his eyes trained down the hallway. “I don’t like him keeping shit from us.”
“No idea, but he’ll come to us when he’s ready.” I squeeze Emory and say, “Want to head to my room?”
“Please do,” Carson says, not letting Emory answer. “Entice him, Em. Get him to break.”
Standing up, she says, “I’ll try my best.”
We waste no time. I lock my bedroom door, making sure no dickheads can come in, and turn to my girl who’s getting comfortable in my bed. I lean against the yellow of the door and say, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting comfortable.” She reaches into her shirt and does some fancy fooling around until she sticks her arms back out of the sleeves along with her bra. She tosses it to the side and then takes down her hair as well, the long locks floating over her shoulders. The thin, white fabric of her shirt leaves nothing to the imagination as her pebbled nipples press against the fabric.
Jesus.
She’s going in for the kill, and I feel my will slipping.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
She shakes her head. “No, just getting comfortable.”
“You getting comfortable has given me a goddamn boner.”
Her eyes focus on my sweatpants that are now bulging at the crotch.
She sits on her knees and wiggles her finger. “Then come here and let me take care of that for you.”
“You’re going to break the bet?” I ask, my brows shooting up to my hairline, my excitement peaking at an all-time high.
“No.”
My hopes come to a crashing halt. And it must be written all over my face, because she chuckles and lends out her hand. “Come here, hot stuff.”
Like a depressed puppy, I head to my girl, boner leading the way. She pulls me onto the bed and pushes me against the headboard so I’m sitting against it.
She straddles my lap and takes a seat . . . directly on my boner. I hiss through my teeth and clamp my hands around her hips.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Talking to you.” She smiles and shifts. “Mmm, you feel good.”
“Stop it,” I scold. “I know what you’re trying to do, and unless you want my penis to fall off, I’d stop right fucking now.”
“You’re that determined to win you’d let your penis fall off?”
“Yes,” I answer, glancing at her tits. Fuck, they’re so perfect, and from the sight of them, she’s just as turned on as me. God, I want her.
I have no clue how I’m not ripping her top off her right now, closing my mouth around her fucking gorgeous tits. My skin is heating, and all I can think about is her. On her back. On my cock. Fisting that hair while I fuck her from behind. I can feel her heat on my cock through our clothing. Shit. And I bet she knows how close I am to pulling down those sexy-as-hell torn sweats and sucking her pussy until she screams. Shit. Why do I have this stupid bet with the sexiest girl in the world?
I’ve got to get it together. Think of stats. Think of stupid baseball stats. Anything.
I lean over to my nightstand and desperately try to ignore the heat of her as I move. Hell. I take out a small box wrapped in red Christmas paper and hold it up to her. Finally finding my voice, I say, “Merry Christmas, babe.” And somehow, somehow, I find self-control to simply watch her expression rather than look at her tits.
And it’s worth it.
Her eyes fall to the box and then back at me. “You got me a present?”
“Of course.” I squeeze her backside. “You’re my girl, and I want to make sure you’re my girl when I get back from Christmas break.”
“Trust me, I’ll be counting down the days.” She takes the box and asks, “Can I open it?”
“Yeah.”
With a huge smile on her face, she has no shame in ripping the paper off and opening the little velvet box. Her mouth drops open and her eyes turn soft. “Oh my God, Knox, it’s beautiful.”
I take the box from her and lift the very delicate necklace from the casing. White gold chain with a delicate heart strung through it. I knew the minute I saw it, I had to get it for her. It’s subtle, almost too hard to see, but it’s a gentle reminder that this girl has my heart.
“Can I put it on?”
“Please do.” She lifts her hair, so I bring the small clasp around her neck, and as she leans forward so I can see what I’m doing, I clasp the two sides together. The necklace falls over her collarbone, the heart so small, it blends perfectly with her beautiful skin. It’s not ostentatious or lavish. I need her to know that even though miles will separate us, she won’t be far from my thoughts. I want to be close to her heart. But do I tell her that? Would she feel pressure from that?
Her fingers go to the necklace where she feels it along her skin. “Thank you so much, Knox, I love it.”
I bring her chin close and place a small kiss on her lips. “Just a reminder of who you belong to.”
“Like I need reminding,” she replies, wrapping her arms around my neck. She bites her bottom lip and says, “So, this bet . . .”
Fuck, yes, please break it.
“It’s physical sex, right? Does that include dry-humping?”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “I don’t think there’s anything in the rules about dry-humping.”
“So if I were to . . . say”—she slides off my body and pulls down my sweats. I lift off the bed to help her—“take these sweats off, would that be breaking the rules?”
I shake my head vigorously. “Nope. Not at all. That’s a great idea actually.”
Her thumbs loop through the waistband of her sweats. “And if I were to take these off, that would be okay?”
“Totally. Yup, take those right off.”