Precision. Power. Control.
The Ryan Shay wearing a Devils jersey is much like the one I live with. Governing of his space, not letting anyone close enough to affect him. But what if someone came along and swiped one of those balls out of his hand. It’d make no sense. He’s simply warming up on his own, away from any other players. But I wonder if he’d get upset at the loss of control, kind of like how he wanted to yell at me for switching his apartment up on him.
He was so wound up and frustrated, but I was able to calm him down. A jolt of victory flooded my veins as we sat and ate breakfast together, when he hugged me, when he offered to water my flowers while I travel for work. And at the end of it all, he let me leave a bit of color in his stark apartment and I’m almost positive he didn’t hate having me there.
Five minutes into his game and I can’t keep my eyes off him. I knew he was good from the reputation he carries, but he’s like a god to some of these fans. The Boston fans outweigh the Chicago ones, but the majority of those wearing red and black are sporting his last name.
He’s amazing. Graceful. Composed. Even when plays don’t go his way or calls aren’t made properly, he keeps his emotions locked in. He looks small on the screen, but his talent and ability tower over the competition.
It’s sexy as hell.
This is the type of control I like. Everyone on the court bends to him. He creates the plays. He makes the calls. He’s in charge and I can’t look away.
He’s fouled on a breakaway, but he still makes the layup, putting him at the free-throw line for one.
Calm, cool, and collected he makes his way to the free-throw line and when he lifts his jersey to wipe the sweat off his brow, I’m anything but calm, cool, or collected. His chest heaves as he regains his breath. Sweat drips down, cascading in ripples until they fall prey to the crevices of his taut ab muscles. A spattering of dark hair dusting under his navel directs my daydreams to imagine where it leads.
The way his stomach muscles contract, quick and sharp, I can’t help but picture the way they’d tighten, hovering over me. The way his arms might quiver as he held himself up. Would he be able to hold on to his precious control? Or would he let me take it from him, becoming wild and unruly?
My curtains are closed, my room is dark. The only light is the glow from the television. No one would know. Maybe one very much-needed release will get me to stop lusting over the man across the hall. Maybe the overwhelming attraction will go away as quickly as it came on.
Sliding my fingers down, I slip them under my cotton shorts. I’m hot already. My middle finger grazes my clit and it’s swollen and needy and I’m wet. So goddamn wet because of my roommate. Circling, I imagine my fingers are his. The ones that flex and move and have so much control he runs an entire game with those fingers. With those hands, commanding and powerful. The way they overwhelmed my body when he hugged me. The way I wished he would’ve slid them lower, cupping my ass. The way it would’ve felt for him to lift me up, my legs wrapping around him as he carried me to his bed. How heavy his body would be on top of mine. How solid his legs would feel, pinning my own to the mattress.
Oh God, this feels good.
His body, shining with sweat. His blue-green eyes dilated and dark, crazed. My hands running the length of his back, my fingers digging into his skin and into his hair. His blonde hair falling over his eyes, sticking to his forehead.
Wait. What?
Ocean eyes are replaced with brown ones. Calloused fingertips are replaced with soft hands that have never worked a day outside of an office. Blonde hair replaces Ryan’s chestnut fade, and my body is replaced with hers.
I’m no longer here. I’m standing in the doorway, reliving the worst day of my life. Him inside of her while on our bed. The way she cried his name—the name that belonged to me. His pace, his tempo, how lost he was in the moment that he didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t see me standing there watching him. How she fucking came and neither of them knew I was there. I was cemented in place, in shock and disbelief while I watched the only man I have ever loved make someone else come.
It’s gone. The moment has passed. There’s no possible way to get back in the right mindset to get myself off. He’s ruined this, just like he ruined us, our future, our history, and just how he’s ruined every orgasm I’ve chased over the last seven months.
Every time I’m close, that picture invades my imagination and I’m done. I can’t do it. It leaves as quickly as the moment comes and I haven’t gotten off in seven goddamn months because of him.
9
RYAN
“What the fuck is a meet cute?” I take a seat on the couch in my living room, projecting my voice to be heard through Indy’s bedroom wall and her blaring music.
“It’s the way a couple meets. It’s usually a charming story about an accidental run-in or how two dogs wound their leashes up around their owners’ legs, forcing them to meet face-to-face.”
I’m thankful Indy’s in her room with the door closed so she can’t see the slight tug on my lips. Custom-fitted suit, cuff links, and a Rolex look a bit out of place paired with the stupid smile I’m wearing over my twenty-seven-year-old roommate referencing 101 Dalmatians.
“I guess if anyone asks how we met, we tell the truth,” I decide. “You came to my apartment crying then drooled over how amazing I looked as I stood shirtless in my kitchen. Then you threw up all over my shoes. Is that cute enough for you?”
One tune shifts to another, but in the break between songs, Indy asks, “Have I reminded you of how much you suck today?”
“Only twice.”
There’s a subtle comfortability between us now, most likely because I have to trust her enough to fake our relationship and vice versa. Unluckily for us, we’ve only seen each other in passing this week between her travel schedule and mine, so we’re left nailing down our relationship story five minutes before leaving for the fall banquet.
She projects her voice past the wall. “How about you saw your sister’s best friend from afar and instantly knew she was the one. I continually rejected you, because of course I did. But you followed me around like a lost puppy until I caved and gave you a pity date.”
“So much for a realistic storyline.”
“I think most people would buy it.” Her bedroom door opens. “What do you think?”
Lilac-painted toes and white strappy heels are the first thing I see as she steps into the living room. My admiring eye trails the never-ending path of her golden legs, though only one is fully on display tonight thanks to the slit falling dangerously high on her thigh. Shimmering satin paints her body in a bright pink, and I don’t understand the mechanics of it all, but the dress stays perfectly in place by a single strap across one shoulder.
I wonder how quickly it’d pool at her feet, revealing what’s underneath, if it slipped off that slope.
“Ryan.”
“Hmm.” I force my eyes up to meet hers.
“I asked, what do you think?” She holds her hands out, gesturing to herself.
Jesus Christ, get it together.
Nodding, I stand from the couch, smoothing out my suit. “You look lovely, Blue.”
“You look lovely, too.”