“Trust me, cupcake, wanting to see you doesn’t have anything to do with making Riley jealous.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. I meant it when I said I missed you. You, not the rumors or the publicity or whatever. I asked you to come to D.C. so I could see you in the stands wearing my jersey, and so we could spend time together after the game. Preferably alone.”
“Oh.”
“Now, will you please open the door? I just want to be in the same room with you for a few minutes. I know it’s late and whatthis may look like, but I swear I’m not here for anything else. I know you’re still not over him.” When I don’t confirm or deny that statement, Preston says, “He always came by late at night too, right?”
“He did. The only time I usually saw him unplanned was in my chair for a haircut or, um, late at night. At least he would bring over a late-night snack…”
“I hate him even more for treating you like you didn’t deserve his days, too.”
That comment finally has my fingers reaching up to undo the chain on the door because it’s exactly how I feel. Like I was Christian’s part-time hookup when I wanted to be with him all the time. At least Preston gets that.
And how ironic is it that now, with Preston, it’s the complete opposite?
“Hi,” he says with a smile that makes me nearly melt when I open the door wide enough for him to walk in.
“Hi,” I reply before shutting and locking the door behind him. “I really am sorry you lost tonight. And that I didn’t stay for the game.”
“I get it,” he replies. “I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning. Maya told me to when I got home from Greensboro, but I was being stubborn. I’ve got serious trust issues…”
“You’re protective of her and Finley and want to keep them out of the media frenzy. I don’t blame you. If I had a sister and a nephew, I would feel the same. People online can be so cruel.”
“They can. I hate the shit they’ve said about you. They’re just jealous morons, you know that, right? They don’t deserve a second of your time.”
“I’m trying not to read the comments. At least the Warhawks’ fans were nice to me at the arena. Only smiles, no screaming assholes.”
“Really?” Preston says in surprise. “That’s good. I’m glad. I didn’t think about how the crowd would treat you, but I should have.”
“The home team seems very supportive of you and I dating. But after tonight, when I left the arena and the Warhawks lost, they could all be blaming me.”
“Nobody can blame that loss on you. Our whole team was off, playing like they thought game three would be a piece of cake after winning the first two away games,” he says with a sigh. “But seeing you, knowing you were sleeping in my jersey, makes the loss a little more bearable. Do you have on shorts underneath?”
I shake my head no.
“You are killing me, cupcake,” he growls before fisting the sides of it to pull me closer to him. Flush against his body, I can feel exactly what he means. As my fingers grip the tops of his wide shoulders, a rush of liquid heat warms my lower belly, making me wish he didn’t have that stupid rule.
And when Preston’s lips lightly graze mine, that heat has me nice and slick for that particular activity.
He kisses me like he’s pouring every second we were apart into claiming my mouth. This goes on for so long my knees are weak.
When he finally pulls back, our mouths are a hair’s breadth apart, our breath mingling, Preston says, “Give me one little taste, and I’ll never ask you for anything again.”
I nod my head in agreement, even if I’m not entirely sure what he means by “a taste.” That could encompass several possibilities…until Preston sinks to his knees in front of me. His large palms slide up the sides of both of my thighs, heading underneath the jersey until they come to the waistband of my panties. With his gaze locked on mine, Preston slowly peelsthem down my legs, only breaking eye contact when he reaches my ankle. He looks down to help me step out of them.
He dangles my navy-blue thong on a single thick finger while he examines the growling head of a yellow feline on the front triangle. “I didn’t even know they made Bobcats’ panties.”
I have to clear my throat to respond. “Those are obviously my lucky panties if they won tonight. I told you that underneath the Warhawks’ jersey, I’m still a Bobcats fan.”
Still studying the panties as if they’re the first he’s ever seen, Preston says, “If they’re lucky panties, then you’re definitely not getting them back.”
When he balls the panties up and shoves them into the front pocket of his jeans, I gasp indignantly. “You dirty pervert!”
Grinning up at me with his palms sliding up my legs again, this time taking the hem of the jersey with them, he tells me, “How about this? Let me stay here with you tonight. I promise to keep my hands to myself, and I’ll give them back to you in the morning.”
“I don’t know,” I reply, causing his hands to pause just an inch before exposing all of me to him. “What if I don’t want you to keep your hands to yourself all night?”
