Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(36)
Racking my brain, I land on the only solution I can think of. “You can sleep down here. In the morning, change into your robe before you go upstairs and pretend you were in the shower. If anyone asks, say you got home after everyone else was asleep.”
“Yeah…” She nods slowly. “That’ll work, right?”
“I’m sure it will,” I tell her, turning away to set my water bottle on the nightstand.
It’s a lie to keep her calm. There’s a non-zero chance this sleepover could backfire. At least the basement door squeaks like a motherfucker. It annoys the shit out of me, but it makes for a good early warning system.
Seraphina pushes to stand, fanning herself. “Oh my god, it’s boiling in here.”
My mouth goes dry as she unzips her dress at the side and slips it off one shoulder, evidently unfazed that I’m standing right in front of her. I hate that I have to stop her, but I do.
“Whoa, Tink. Let me give you—"
She lets the fabric go and it drops to the floor, revealing her perfect, full breasts and a tiny pair of see-through black panties. My cock stirs as I suppress a groan, and I immediately tear my gaze away. Even from the split-second glance I got, the image has been permanently etched into my memory. Pert, rosy nipples pebbled and begging to be touched; the dip of her waist leading to the swell of her hips; and the outline of her pussy visible through the thin fabric of her underwear.
Under normal circumstances, this would be too much temptation to handle. Right now, it verges on torture.
“What’s the big deal?” Playfulness tinges her tone. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
No need to remind me. I only replay it in my head a hundred times a day.
“You’re not wearing a shirt,” she adds. “With how hot it is in here, I assumed clothing was optional.”
“In that case,” I manage, voice strained, “maybe we should both put on shirts.”
I open my closet and find a worn black concert T-shirt, handing it to her. It’s slightly faded, but it’s broken-in and the fabric is softer than the rest. I may or may not have fantasized about her wearing it, albeit under dramatically different circumstances. Then I grab a white T-shirt for myself. Fair’s fair, I guess.
Making no attempt to hurry, Seraphina leisurely pulls on my shirt while I channel every shed of my self-control to keep myself from looking directly at her. Once she’s dressed, I know I’m really in trouble. She looks just as hot in my shirt as she did naked.
My dick perks up again as she walks over to the bed with the dark fabric draped perfectly over her body, hitting at mid-thigh. He clearly hasn’t gotten the memo about sex being off the table tonight, and he’s in for a world of disappointment.
I pull back the covers, sliding over to make room for her. She crawls all the way to my side and wraps herself around my torso, clinging to me koala-style. Her neediness is one reason I’m glad she’s not around Rob right now. I’d never take advantage of her, but I doubt the same can be said for him.
“You smell nice.” She sighs, resting her cheek on my chest. “You always do.”
She always smells edible, but I can’t say that out loud.
It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know what to do with my hands. Even snuggled up together like this, I’m trying to be respectful. Not touching her seems weird but touching her too much seems opportunistic. It might also give my overly optimistic cock the wrong idea. I settle for resting one palm on her shoulder, placing the other on the bed beside me.
“Could you pet me? Play with my hair, maybe?” Seraphina asks, her voice small.
Even high, she’s cute as hell.
Brushing the silky strands off her forehead, I rake my fingers through her rose-gold waves. She lets out a happy little sound, a cross between a sigh and a groan, nestling against me. Her full breasts press into my side, smooth legs intertwined with mine. This arrangement isn’t helping me fight my attraction to her. It’s become a losing battle at this point; like resisting gravity.
She sighs. “I feel a lot better than I did earlier.”
“I’m glad, Tink.”
“Do your hands get sore from playing? My dad’s always did. He used to have a lot of hand and wrist pain.” Seraphina takes my free hand in hers and presses her thumb into the fleshy part of my palm, massaging in small circles. An appreciative moan escapes the back of my throat. I should be the one taking care of her, but her touch is incredibly relaxing.
“Everything is always sore. Kinda goes with the territory.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “Bet I could make it feel better.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure you could.”
We lay in the dimly lit room while she tells me about her freshman year at Arizona and I tickle her arms at her request. Then she asks me random questions about being a goalie, like what possesses me to throw myself in the path of a puck traveling eighty to ninety miles per hour. That one’s a little hard to answer because I’m not too sure myself.
It feels like it’s only been a handful of minutes, but when I check the clock it’s been over an hour. Having anyone else wrapped around my body for this long would’ve made me claustrophobic. Hell, if she were anyone else, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d have made sure the other person wasn’t dying and left them to fend for themselves. I might’ve left them a bottle of water on my way out.