Intercepted (Page 23)

He goes to speak, but I cut him off before he can say anything.

“Besides Chris, I have only slept with one person. You.” I pause to let that sink in. “Can you please try to understand what I felt like in your apartment that morning? I was so damn happy to have taken a huge step in moving on from Chris only to wake up alone and find out the guy I was with lied to me.”

“Fuck.” The accusing tone he was using with me is gone and in its place is one filled with regret. “I didn’t think you would wake up before I got back. I swear, I was only gone for thirty minutes. You must’ve woken up right after I left.”

“But you still lied to me. If I would’ve known you were a football player, I wouldn’t have gone home with you.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have, but from my experience, me playing football is the only reason women do want to come home with me. I was trying to protect myself as much as you were.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” I narrow my eyes and purse my lips. Even mad I can’t deny the glory that is Gavin Pope. With his full lips, sharp cheekbones, large arms, and washboard abs? Homeboy’s a sculpture. “Trust me, that’s not the only reason.”

“Marlee.” He says my name like I’m supposed to know what he means.

“Marlee what? I don’t speak macho man shorthand.” Chris did that condescending shit all the time. Nothing pisses me off more.

“You just complimented me while yelling at me. Now I don’t know if we’re still fighting or if I get to kiss you yet.”

Wait . . . what?

“Kiss me? Did you really say that or am I hearing you wrong again?”

#NotMakingThatMistakeTwice

“Yes. Kiss you.” He closes the distance separating us in two quick strides.

“But I’m not done yet.”

“Yeah you are.”

“No, I’m not.” I fold my arms across my chest and stick out my hip.

He puts his hands on my back and pulls me close. “I fucked up. I should’ve let you know I was getting coffee. I should’ve told you who I was before you found out from those pictures. You were right to be pissed. But I’m not sorry I lied to you, and knowing you would’ve shot me down makes me even surer of it. Because if you did that, I wouldn’t be standing in front of you right now.”

Was that an apology?

No matter what Chris did, I always ended up being the person who apologized.

“You don’t fight fair, Pope.” I can’t prevent the way my bottom lip pokes out.

“Me? You coming to the fashion show dressed like you were dressed, walking the way you were walking, showing every single one of those women up and rubbing Alexander’s face in what he lost? Then kissing me the way you kissed me? You’re the one playing dirty, babe.” The way his voice gets even deeper and his eyes get darker as he talks? Game. Set. Match.

“I’m done now.”

He smiles again, the corner of his eyes creasing and the dimple on his left cheek deepening. He slides his hands down to my hips and tightens his grip before pulling me so close, my chest presses against his abs.

“But I’m just starting,” he whispers.

I have no time to respond before his teeth are nipping at my pouty lip and my instincts take over. I open my mouth, giving him full access, and let my hands roam his strong back.

I still intend to keep my no-more-athletes promise, but you know what? I deserve a little fun. And what’s wrong with a small indulgence before I turn my apartment into a Jesus-only convent? Not a damn thing.

I pull back, both of us breathing like we finished running a race, and I push him onto my couch. He watches me, hands clenched by his sides, as if my yoga pants and tank are the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. I climb onto him, my legs straddling his body, my hands tangled in his hair, and do what I’ve been wanting to do all morning. I trace a path from the base of his neck up to his chin. Each whisker against my tongue sends shivers through my body. When I get to his mouth, he loses control.

#FirstDown

His hands are off of the couch and on me before I even know what’s happened. The bun I threw my hair in this morning has started to unravel and Gavin takes full advantage, wrapping the loose strands around his hand and pulling to give himself full access to my neck. The slight ache on my scalp only intensifies the yearning between my legs. His mouth follows the opposite path mine made and he grasps the top of my tank with his teeth, pulling each side beneath the lacy bra that’s doing nothing to conceal my hardened nipples.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he whispers against my cleavage, the heat from his breath somehow causing goose bumps to cover my arms.

When his tongue starts tracing the scalloped lace edges against my breasts, my back arches, pushing my heavy breasts impossibly closer to him and causing my ass to rise just enough for his hand to slip beneath it. If my mind was capable of thinking about anything other than how to get closer to him without physically climbing inside of him, I might worry about where his hand is heading. Instead, the only thing I’m worried about is why it’s taking so long to get there.

“Please.” I manage to say as I roll my hips against him. Usually this is the point where I close my eyes and let my mind present me with a better, more exciting reality. But for the first time since my drunken night in Chicago, reality is so much better than anything I could dream up. Gavin doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t even answer, he just looks at me from beneath his lashes and unclasps my bra at the very same moment his fingers find proof of how turned on I am.

I try to keep my eyes open, I really do, but then Gavin bites down on my nipple that has been begging for attention and his thumb starts moving in delicious circles between my legs. I have no control over the way my jaw goes slack as every other inch of my body tightens until an orgasm so intense—I’m positive no other woman on the planet has felt anything like it—rips through my body and my eyes slam shut. But I think that just before they closed, I saw Gavin still watching me with a smile on his lips.

* * *

• • •

LATER THAT NIGHT, my phone lights up with a text while I’m catching up on the latest Real Housewives.

Had a great time last night and this morning. You looked beautiful and made a night I wasn’t looking forward to fun. Let’s make plans soon.

I start to type out a response, but before I hit send I remember my promise and delete it, hoping he’s not watching the bubbles of a response disappear into never-never land. Today was fun. I deserved a little pleasure after years of mediocracy and the possibility of an STD, but that was it. I did the athlete thing for ten years too long and I’m not going to go back on my promise to leave them behind because of one slightly—whatever, majorly—mind-blowing orgasm. I’m a grown-ass woman, I know that a little hand action on the couch doesn’t equal love or any kind of commitment.

And if I always respond the way I did to him this morning, I know even a friendly series of text messages could get way out of hand.

I can’t go down that road . . . not again. No more athletes.

I shut it down there and turn off my phone, wishing I had a voodoo doll so I could poke Chris in the eye for ruining yet another thing in my life.

Seventeen

The problem with being an adult is absolutely everything.

Bills. Work. The bone-crushing disappointment that comes from knowing the guy you want isn’t right for you. A slowed metabolism.