“I’m okay, Dallas. I promise.”
Her lips purse, perfectly kissable.
She kneads at my muscles, and I flinch a little, sore and caught off guard. Her touch softens, and she leans down to brush a light, apologetic kiss across my shoulder, and I release her ankle immediately, not trusting myself to keep from flipping her over until her back is against this couch and her legs around my hips.
My voice is little more than a growl as I say, “You cannot do things like that, Daredevil, and expect me not to pull you onto my lap and kiss you senseless.”
Her answering look is contemplative. Her gaze drops to my shoulder again, and damn it, I can see her thinking about it. That right there is almost enough to make me say screw it all and take as much as she’ll give me.
But the moment passes and she just replies, “Okay.”
Then she goes back to working on my arm, and I continue my slow descent into madness courtesy of Dallas Cole.
Chapter 15
Dallas
In hindsight, it might not have been the best idea in the world to give Carson a massage. I already knew his arms were my weakness, and if seeing them filled me with lusty thoughts, touching them made my previous urges saintly by comparison.
Two days have passed, and I should have my head on straight. I should not still be obsessing over how strong and devastatingly sexy he is.
I should be kicking in that backup plan and walking away for good.
Tomorrow, I will likely need another powwow with my old pal’s hindsight and stupidity, since I just ditched Stella at her art party in favor of hanging out at Carson’s place again.
I just . . . I was sitting there at that house party listening to discussions on artists and techniques that sounded like gibberish to me. A pretty cute guy in thick, black-framed glasses and a mop of curly brown hair was hitting on me, and I was bored out of my ever-loving mind.
When I started thinking about one of the history essays I’d read two days prior at Carson’s house, that’s when I knew I was in trouble.
It’s the team’s open week, so it’s the only Saturday for a long while that Carson won’t be busy, and I want him to spend it with me.
Insane! Of the certifiable sort.
He doesn’t answer when I text, even though he told me earlier today I could come over if I got bored. His apartment community is gated, but the gate automatically opens if a car pulls up close enough. Not exactly a stellar security measure. He’s in building ten, and there must be a party happening in one of the other apartments, because the parking lot is completely full. I have to circle back around and park down by building six just to find a space.
I should probably be nervous, but somehow in all the jumble of things I’m feeling . . . nerves are nowhere near the top of the list.
Stella’s stupid painting is in my car, and really, I blame it for the reckless way I’m feeling. Well, it can share the blame with Carson’s killer arms anyway.
When I pass building eight, my suspicions of a party are confirmed. There are half a dozen people outside on the sidewalk smoking, and I can hear music trickling out of a closed door behind them. One of the guys smoking catches my eye and nods a hello as I pass. I smile, but then focus my head forward and down toward the sidewalk, walking a little faster.
I don’t expect anyone here to recognize me, but I’d prefer to get to Carson’s quickly all the same. There had been one too many times in my life when a complete stranger had approached me at the mall or the grocery store or wherever to proclaim, “You’re the Cole girl, aren’t you? Spitting image of your dad.”
I’d never understood that. I didn’t think Dad and I looked anything alike. My red hair came from the mom I never knew. Dad’s is a dark brown, peppered with strands of gray. He is hulking and huge, and my figure could barely rival that of a telephone pole. Our height, I guess, could be it. I’m tall for a girl. And maybe our noses and eyes are similar, but how that could allow a total stranger to pick me out in public as his child, I’ll never know.
My phone buzzes with a text as I come up on building ten. I drag it out, expecting it to be Carson. It’s Stella.
Would you hate me forever if I
hooked up with Silas Moore?
Silas? As in, the dude who’s
friends with Levi and tried to sleep
with me at the frat party, Silas?
Yep. That’s the one.
Jesus Christ.
Did he show up to your art
party? I don’t understand.
Nah. I got bored after you left, and
hopped to another party.
You do know he’s slept with like
half the girls on campus.
And I’ve not heard any of
them complaining.
Are you kidding? I’ve seen at least
two girls cry over him, and I don’t
even do the party scene.
They’re not crying because he’s
bad in bed. They’re crying
because they thought they’d be
the one to tame him. I have no
such illusions.
You’re crazy.
I know. But will you be mad?
I hesitate and then reply.
Of course not. I can’t stand the
dude, but do what you want.
She sends back a fist-pump emoticon followed by a smiley blowing me a kiss.
I’d halted at the bottom of the stairs to Carson’s place, not trusting myself to climb and text at the same time. I jog up them quickly now, feeling a slight chill creep through my leather jacket. Even though a couple weeks have passed since the the first game, it’s just now starting to smell like football season, that slightly damp, grassy smell that most people probably just call fall.
I knock, and then shove my fists into my pockets, glad at least that I didn’t give in when Stella tried to push me to wear a skirt to that party. The only noise that follows my knock is the whining chirps of a dozen or so crickets huddled close to the wall of the building. I shiver. Crickets. Just another reason to despise fall. They come out in plague proportions.