Beautiful Player
Page 27
“Well,” I started, “it doesn’t matter anyway. Given that he’s my brother’s best friend, I think we can pretty safely assume I am in unequivocal friend territory.”
“Has he talked about your boobs?” Chloe asked.
I felt the heated blush crawl up my neck. Will talked about, stared at, and seemed to idolize my chest. “Um, yes.”
Chloe smiled, smug. “I rest my case.”The next morning, I’m sure Will was convinced I was on some sort of mood-altering medication . . . or needed to be. I was distracted during our run and kept going over my conversation with Sara and Chloe in my mind. Not only was I thinking about how often Will looked at my boobs, gestured to my boobs, and spoke to my boobs, I was unfortunately thinking about Will with the other women I knew were in his life: what he did with them, how they felt when they were with him, and if they had as much fun with him as I did. Plus the fact that he was probably naked with women . . . a lot.
This, of course, led to me thinking about Will naked, which did nothing to help my focus, or my ability to go in a straight line down the path in front of me.
I forced my thoughts away from the man running in easy silence beside me, and to the work I had waiting at the lab, the report I needed to finish, the exams I needed to help Liemacki grade.
But later, when Will leaned over me, stretching my right leg after I’d basically crumpled on the trail from a leg cramp, he stared at me so intently, his eyes moving slowly over my face, every thought I’d tried to banish came rushing back. My stomach twisted and a delicious heat spread from my chest and down to the neglected ache between my legs. I felt like I was melting into the cold ground.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I was only able to nod.
His brows drew together. “You’re so quiet this morning.”
“Just thinking,” I murmured.
His sexy little smile appeared and I felt my heart trip and then begin to hammer in my chest. “Well, I hope you’re not thinking about p**n or blow jobs or how you want to experiment with sex, because if you think you’re keeping that shit to yourself, you’re in trouble. We have a rhythm now, Ziggs.”
I took a particularly long shower after that run.I’d never been a texter—in fact, before Will, my only texts had consisted of one-word responses to my family or coworkers.
Are you still coming? Yes.
Can you pick up a bottle of wine? Sure.
Are you bringing a date? Ignore.
Until a week ago—when I’d finally unwrapped the iPhone Niels had given me for Christmas—I still used a flip phone Jensen teased was the first cell phone ever made. Who had time to type a hundred messages when I could call and get it over with in less than a minute? It definitely didn’t seem very efficient.
But with Will it was fun, and I had to admit, the new phone made it easier. He would text me random thoughts throughout the day, send me pictures of his face when I made a particularly bad joke or a photo of his lunch when the chicken breast he’d been served was shaped like a penis. So, after my . . . relaxing shower, when my phone buzzed in the other room, I wasn’t surprised to see it was Will.
What I was surprised by however, was the question: What are you wearing?
I felt my brows pull together in confusion. It was random but by far not the weirdest thing he’d ever asked me. We were meeting for breakfast in a half hour and maybe he was worried I would show up looking, as he liked to say, like a graduate student hobo.
I looked down at the towel around my otherwise naked chest and typed, Black jeans, yellow top, blue sweater.
No, Ziggy. I mean *insert innuendo* WHAT ARE YOU WEARING.
Now I really was confused. I don’t get it, I typed.
I’m sexting you.
I paused, looked down at the phone for a few more seconds before responding with What?
He typed so much faster than I did, and his response appeared almost immediately. It’s not nearly as hot when I have to explain it. New rule: you need to be at least borderline competent in the art of sexting.
Understanding went off like a lightbulb in my head. Oh! And ha! “Sexting.” Clever, Will.
While I appreciate your enthusiasm and the fact that you think I’m witty enough to have come up with that, he replied, I didn’t invent the term. It’s been around in popular culture for quite some time, you know. Now, answer the question.
I paced the room, thinking. Okay. An assignment, I could do this. I tried to think of all the sexy innuendo I’d ever heard in movies and of course, in the moment, could not think of a single thing. I thought back on every pickup line I’d heard my brother Eric use . . . and then shuddered, reconsidering.
“Has he talked about your boobs?” Chloe asked.
I felt the heated blush crawl up my neck. Will talked about, stared at, and seemed to idolize my chest. “Um, yes.”
Chloe smiled, smug. “I rest my case.”The next morning, I’m sure Will was convinced I was on some sort of mood-altering medication . . . or needed to be. I was distracted during our run and kept going over my conversation with Sara and Chloe in my mind. Not only was I thinking about how often Will looked at my boobs, gestured to my boobs, and spoke to my boobs, I was unfortunately thinking about Will with the other women I knew were in his life: what he did with them, how they felt when they were with him, and if they had as much fun with him as I did. Plus the fact that he was probably naked with women . . . a lot.
This, of course, led to me thinking about Will naked, which did nothing to help my focus, or my ability to go in a straight line down the path in front of me.
I forced my thoughts away from the man running in easy silence beside me, and to the work I had waiting at the lab, the report I needed to finish, the exams I needed to help Liemacki grade.
But later, when Will leaned over me, stretching my right leg after I’d basically crumpled on the trail from a leg cramp, he stared at me so intently, his eyes moving slowly over my face, every thought I’d tried to banish came rushing back. My stomach twisted and a delicious heat spread from my chest and down to the neglected ache between my legs. I felt like I was melting into the cold ground.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I was only able to nod.
His brows drew together. “You’re so quiet this morning.”
“Just thinking,” I murmured.
His sexy little smile appeared and I felt my heart trip and then begin to hammer in my chest. “Well, I hope you’re not thinking about p**n or blow jobs or how you want to experiment with sex, because if you think you’re keeping that shit to yourself, you’re in trouble. We have a rhythm now, Ziggs.”
I took a particularly long shower after that run.I’d never been a texter—in fact, before Will, my only texts had consisted of one-word responses to my family or coworkers.
Are you still coming? Yes.
Can you pick up a bottle of wine? Sure.
Are you bringing a date? Ignore.
Until a week ago—when I’d finally unwrapped the iPhone Niels had given me for Christmas—I still used a flip phone Jensen teased was the first cell phone ever made. Who had time to type a hundred messages when I could call and get it over with in less than a minute? It definitely didn’t seem very efficient.
But with Will it was fun, and I had to admit, the new phone made it easier. He would text me random thoughts throughout the day, send me pictures of his face when I made a particularly bad joke or a photo of his lunch when the chicken breast he’d been served was shaped like a penis. So, after my . . . relaxing shower, when my phone buzzed in the other room, I wasn’t surprised to see it was Will.
What I was surprised by however, was the question: What are you wearing?
I felt my brows pull together in confusion. It was random but by far not the weirdest thing he’d ever asked me. We were meeting for breakfast in a half hour and maybe he was worried I would show up looking, as he liked to say, like a graduate student hobo.
I looked down at the towel around my otherwise naked chest and typed, Black jeans, yellow top, blue sweater.
No, Ziggy. I mean *insert innuendo* WHAT ARE YOU WEARING.
Now I really was confused. I don’t get it, I typed.
I’m sexting you.
I paused, looked down at the phone for a few more seconds before responding with What?
He typed so much faster than I did, and his response appeared almost immediately. It’s not nearly as hot when I have to explain it. New rule: you need to be at least borderline competent in the art of sexting.
Understanding went off like a lightbulb in my head. Oh! And ha! “Sexting.” Clever, Will.
While I appreciate your enthusiasm and the fact that you think I’m witty enough to have come up with that, he replied, I didn’t invent the term. It’s been around in popular culture for quite some time, you know. Now, answer the question.
I paced the room, thinking. Okay. An assignment, I could do this. I tried to think of all the sexy innuendo I’d ever heard in movies and of course, in the moment, could not think of a single thing. I thought back on every pickup line I’d heard my brother Eric use . . . and then shuddered, reconsidering.
