“Again, I can’t believe a professional football player would say that.”
He chuckles. “If anyone is an expert on the subject of winning and losing, it’s an athlete. Last year we lost out on the NFC championship based on one loss. On a fucked-up foul that the refs got wrong, made a bad call. That shit burned, Fi.” His expression stays calm, but his eyes fill with ire. “Even now, when I think about it I want to punch something. And you better believe those fuckers on the other team taunted us without shame. Didn’t matter that they won on a technicality. Scoreboard was all they needed.”
Slowly, he reaches out and cups my jaw. “Darlin’, that shit happens all the time. I know from personal, painful experience that winning doesn’t necessarily make a person the best. Sometimes, it just makes them lucky.”
“Well,” I say, still full of petulance and resentment, “that bitch will get even luckier if I leave.”
“Nope. Hell, one day she might become the most successful designer in New York—”
“Not helping.”
“But it will be based on nothing but her own insecurity. While you?” He leans in and gives me a soft, lingering kiss. “Have true talent and will be happily serviced by yours truly.”
I have to laugh at that. But it dies quickly, and I flop an arm over my hot forehead. “You don’t understand.”
“So educate me.”
“I’m a fuck-up.”
“Fi…”
“It’s true. Almost every plan I start—and believe me, I always have a plan—goes off the rails at some point.”
“You’re describing the majority of the population, Cherry.”
“Do your plans fail?”
Dex’s wide mouth goes tight as if he’s annoyed at me. But the look he gives me is tender. The bed creaks as he pulls me into his embrace, tucking me against his side. “I planned to stay away from you.” The rough tip of his thumb caresses my lower lip. “Best failed plan of my life.”
“Ethan.” His heart beats strong against the wide wall of his chest, and I give him a soft kiss there. Sighing, I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “It’s just…I’ve always dreamed big and have never been afraid to tell anyone and everyone about my big dreams. Except my dreams often change—here one day, alive and bright with all these possibilities, then dead and on to the next something new.”
I glance up at his solemn eyes. “Unfortunately my exuberance has made me into the Girl Who Cried Dreams. And my friends and family no longer believe me when I latch on to a new passion. I don’t blame them, but I’m tired of seeing people give me that tight, slightly patronizing, slightly irritated smile. I don’t want to be viewed as a quitter anymore.”
“Fuck what other people believe. Do you think you’re a quitter?”
“I told you. I never stick to anything.” My fingertip traces a longitude line on his collarbone. I love the way his skin pebbles under my touch. “I changed my major three times before I settled on art and design, and even then, my eye was always roving.”
Dex shifts a bit, his hip canting as my nail scrapes his tight nipple. His voice is gruff, a sure sign of him being turned on. But he runs his hand over my shoulder, stroking me. “Why did you keep changing?”
For a second, I simply play with his nipple, worrying it this way and that, because it turns me on too, the way he reacts, his breath growing heavier, his cock getting thick again. “I don’t know.”
In a blink, I’m on my back, my wrists held overhead in Dex’s massive hand. With a low grunt, he settles between my legs and hovers over me, the long strands of his hair tickling my cheeks. “Now ordinarily,” he says in a low, smooth voice, “I love your particular method of avoiding hard questions.”
“Oh, really?” I challenge, opening my legs wider so that his hard cock notches between the slick lips of my sex. A low hum of pleasure runs through me.