Griff pulls me from my thoughts when he asks, “Where did you put that massage gun I got you?” The twinkle in his eyes leads me to believe he’s up to something.
“It’s in the case on the bottom of my side table. My back is pretty tender, so could you use the lowest setting?”
“Oh, I don’t plan to use it on your back, Sunshine.” He smirks. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” I reply without hesitation.
“Roll onto your back and spread your legs slightly.”
I comply, eager to see where he’s going with this. Griff places two of his fingers over my clit, circling them over my sweatpants.
A rush of heat floods my core, the way it always does when Griff touches me. He kisses me deeply. The combination of the way he tastes on my tongue and his spicy scent fills the air—he consumes me.
He grabs the massage gun and turns it on the lowest setting, straddling my thighs. Placing his two fingers back on my clit, he uses his other hand to hold the massage gun. The moment he places the massage gun against his opposite hand and his two fingers begin vibrating against my clit, my hips jerk in response. The way his legs bracket mine in place keeps me from bucking off the bed.
The combination of the vibration and the way his fingers play my clit like a fiddle have me coming undone in under a minute. My orgasmtakes me to new heights, and just like Griff read, as the high subsides, I notice my pain has, too.
Griff puts the massage gun back, then motions me to drape myself over him, just how he likes. But I don’t want to receive without reciprocation. As I start to lower myself between his thighs, he stops me.
“Sunshine, tonight was about you and helping alleviate your cramps. Now get that fine ass back up here so I can snuggle my girl while we watch a movie together.”
I do as he says because how could I not? I mean, in a hormone-induced haze, I almost spilled my feelings for him. I’m not sure he’s ready to hear those three little words just yet, but damn, do I feel them with every fiber of my being.
11
August
The Sports Pavilion, where the Bobcat’s volleyball team is about to take the court, is packed. The band is playing, amping up the crowd of spectators, and Carson and I are seated in the front row of the student section, behind Abbott’s service line. The crowd roars when the home team comes jogging out of the locker room and onto the court. Tonight is Katie and Kenna’s first home game. They’ve both been working their asses off in practice and training camp for the past two weeks. After warmups are over, the Bobcats stand beside their bench as the lights dim and a spotlight is directed at the human tunnel they’ve made.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Sports Pavilion, home of your Abbott Bobcats as they take on the Michigan Lakers!” I hear the announcer boom before he begins listing Michigan's starting lineup.
“And now, starting for your Abbott Bobcats . . . Starting at setter, a freshman, standing at five foot eleven inches from Edina, Minnesota, number twenty, Katieeee Turnerrrr,” the announcer roars through the speakers.
“Holy shit, did you know she was starting tonight?” Carse smacks my chest when he asks.
“I had no clue,” I confess.
“Staring at outside hitter, a freshman standing at six feet tall from Edina, Minnesota, number twenty-one, McKennaaaa Wilderrrr,” the announcer says as the crowd cheers.
“That’s my sister,” Carson shouts so loud, I see Kenna’s shoulders shake from laughter. “Please tell me you had no idea she was starting either.” Carson looks at me accusingly.
“You know how it goes, Carse. Coaches sometimes make game-day decisions with lineups. I’m just as pleasantly surprised as you are to see that our freshmen sisters are in the starting lineup. Thankfully my old man and your parents were able to make it.”
The announcer has finished listing off the rest of the starting lineup and Katie and Kenna stand beside one another at the service line during the National Anthem before running to the net to do the pre-match handshake. I can’t imagine having to shake the opponent’s hands before an intense game.
The Bobcats lost the coin toss, so they’re on serve receive. Katie and Kenna did some elaborate handshake with each other before taking their positions on the court.
From where we’re seated, Kenna is only a few dozen feet ahead of me, bent over in a ready position. I’m drawn to the way her black spandex shorts cling to her ass. Apparently, so are a few other guys standing behind us in the student section. And apparently, they have a death wish.
“Bro, look at number twenty-one’s ass. If that’s what the incoming girls look like, I’m going to have to reconsider my no-freshmen hookup rule,” one of them declares.
Before I can say a word, Carson stands up, turns around and says, “Hey, asshole. That’s my sister, so why don’t you shut your damn mouth before me and her hockey-playing boyfriend rearrange your face.”
The guy’s face pales when he looks between the two of us, sizing us up and realizing he and his buddies are no match for us.
“Sorry, man. Just a bit of harmless hackling with my bros. No disrespect.”
“Well, keep my sister out of it, or we’ll have a problem. Got it?” Carson doesn’t wait for a response. He turns back to face the court just as the first set starts off with a serve aimed right at Kenna.
