It turned out to be to his pocket, his hand reaching in and drawing out his phone. He turned away from my door and hunched over it, his fingers moving, and I jumped in surprise when my phone buzzed, loud on the desk. My eyes darted back to the view, Chase facing my door again, his head down, looking at his phone.
My steps were quick, my hands fast when I grabbed my cell, the text on my screen simple and demanding.
Open your door.
I didn’t try to think of a witty response; I didn’t fight with what to do. I went against all reason and reached down, twisting the knob and pulling open the door.
“Ty.” His eyes held mine.
“Yeah?” I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Realized, watching the fingers of his hands curl around the edge of the doorframe, that he was mad. Shaking mad, his body tight, like it was being held back. Or maybe not mad. Maybe just upset. Or—
My hypotheses ended when he lunged forward, his hands rough in their grab of me, walking us backward, his foot kicking the door shut as soon as he was inside.
I didn’t fight it. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let his kiss crash into me.
40
Chase had tried. He’d tried and fought it as long as he could. Two nights without sleep would drive a man wild. Two days of watching every man on the team and trying to figure out which one had touched her. Two days stacked on two months of seeing her face, her smile, her body … and a man could only retain so much self-control. He’d tried to end it, sending her up into the stands, toward a strange girl. He’d wanted to test her reaction, to try and push some space between them. It had worked, on some weak scale, until he’d seen Tobey Grant.
The asshole had been downstairs. Drinking at the bar, two friends with him, idiots who cheered him on and laughed too loud. Given the hour, given the slur in Tobey’s speech … Chase had only wanted to warn Ty. Tell her about the drinking, maybe dissuade her from seeing him that night. But then she had opened the door, wearing what appeared to be nothing but a jersey. Hair down, cheeks flushed, she had smelled of soap and fucking innocence. She stood there in that doorway and studied him, and so help him God, he couldn’t stop.
He had stepped in, reaching for her, his touch too rough, his control shot, and had a moment of worry, hearing the slam of the door, feeling the tremor of her body—that he was forcing himself on her.
Then her arms had wrapped greedily around his neck, her mouth opening for his, her body soft against his … and it was official.
He was screwed.
41
I suddenly got it. I understood why women cheated on husbands, why teenagers screwed in the backseats of dirty cars, why na?ve girls let men like Chase Stern into their hotel rooms late at night. Our mouths met, our kiss fed, and I couldn’t stop. I wanted to touch him everywhere, pull him closer, inhale his scent and never stop breathing. His hands slid to my waist and lifted, my feet coming off the floor, and my legs were suddenly around him, my mouth frantic, his kiss deep, my fingers digging into his scalp, pulling his hair, wanting a hundred more moments and terrified that he would stop.
My butt hit the desk, my legs around him, his hands yanking up my jersey, the brush of fingertips against my sides surprising, my mouth gasping off his as he pulled back, his hands lifting the jersey higher, mine quick to grab it and hold it down. “Wait,” I panted, his hands stopping, his head lifting until our eyes met. “Wait,” I repeated, both of us breathing hard, his hands trembling as he released my shirt. “Leave the shirt on.”
“Okay.” He swallowed, putting his hands flat on the desk, one on either side of me, the motion lowering his head next to mine. “Is this okay?”
I rewrapped my legs, bare skin against the smooth fabric of his pants, and pulled him closer to the desk. “Yes,” I whispered.
He ran his lips slowly down my neck, nuzzling the skin, pushing aside my hair with his nose, his hands still flat against the desk. His mouth opened, and I shivered, the scrape of teeth against my shoulder, then the hot, wet flick of his tongue. “Is this okay?” he repeated.
“No.” I said, bolder, my hands running up his sides, coming across the front of his shirt, my fingers pulling at the top buttons of it. “I need more.”
He growled, the sound low in his throat, and I felt the twitch of his thumb against the outside of my left thigh. He shifted, keeping one hand flat, and lifted the other, sliding it softly up my thigh, his fingers spreading across the skin, his head dropping to watch its journey, my breath losing a beat when his fingers hit the edge of my jersey, gently tracing the fabric before slipping underneath it.