More Than This
Page 25
I nod slowly.
“Which hand?” Dylan asks.
What?
Behind me, Jake raises his right hand, bringing on a tirade of name-calling and questions from the guys. “It’s fine!” he yells above them all.
Lucy must sense how confused I am, because she answers my unspoken question. “His pitching hand.”
Shit.
I take his hand between mine and kiss the knuckles one by one. I feel him tense at my display of affection then stiffen under me. That’s my cue to get off him and do something—anything—else.
NINETEEN
JAKE
I am in too deep—way too deep. I spent the rest of last night with a hard-on, and I don’t think it’s fully left me yet. This girl is driving me crazy—that dress she wore, then she sat in my lap, laughing, touching, joking, flirting . . . Then she kisses my hand so intimately—my fucking pitching hand. It’s by far the sexiest thing a girl has ever done, ever. I don’t say this to be a dick, but girls have done a lot of shit to me.
I throw the covers off my pathetic joke of a bed and stretch. My back is screwed up and my whole body aches. I fold the blankets and shake my head. This thing is definitely not made for a six-foot-two frame. I may attempt sleeping on the floor tonight, because anything’s got to be better than this.
I walk into the kitchen—or more like wobble, in my condition.
Kayla’s already there. “Your mom left a note. She’s at a PTA meeting . . .” She takes in my physical state. “And what happened to you?”
“I don’t think the sofa and I are friends anymore.” I put on a pout.
“I’ll take the sofa, Jake. You can have your bed back. Besides, you can’t sleep on the sofa all summer.”
“You want to bet?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow at her.
She looks at me for a second then turns away, biting her lip. “At least let me give you a massage,” she says quietly.
I laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says.
I think about it but shake my head.
“Come on, please? I have to do something.”
“It’s fine, Kayla. I’ll see a trainer when we get back from Lisa’s wedding.”
“It’s not fine.” She starts to pull my arm to lead me away, but I dig my heels in.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” I smirk. “This body is in peak physical condition. I’m almost a professional athlete, Kayla. I can’t let just anybody touch me.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Trust me, I give good massages.”
“Yeah?” I eye her. “Says who?”
She looks away and blushes. James. I shiver in disgust, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Look,” she starts again, squaring her shoulders. “When James started to really get into basketball, all the training and game time killed him. He’d always complain about being sore, so I researched how to help him—if I could help him. One summer, I took classes in physical therapy and sports medicine at the local community college. I learned heaps and actually enjoyed it. For a little bit there, I genuinely considered becoming a sports doctor. I still think about it sometimes.”
I let it sink in then shake my head. “He really didn’t deserve you, you know that, right?”
“I know.” She smiles. “I am an awesome girlfriend, and some asshole is going to be really lucky one day.”
I swear to God I hope that asshole will be me. I motion toward the stairs. “Lead the way, doc.”
She smiles and leads me up to my room.
Kayla asks me to take my T-shirt off and lay facedown on the bed. She’s silent for a beat then asks, “Do you have any lotion or oil?”
“Yeah, there’s baby oil in the bottom drawer.” I point to my nightstand. The second the words are out, I regret them. That drawer is my sex drawer. It’s got boxes of condoms, lube, baby oil, tissues, and porn—yes, porn. I hear her open the drawer then chuckle a little.
“What?” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment. “I’m a guy.”
Next thing I know, she’s sitting on me, rubbing oil onto my back. Her tiny hands knead my aching muscles.
“Jake?”
“Mmm.” My face is shoved into the pillow, and her hands feel amazing.
“I hope I’m not cramping your style by being here.”
I laugh under my breath, but my body shakes. I shift my head so I can talk. “I don’t think anyone could cramp my style . . . unless we rewind back to 2002.”
She playfully smacks me on the back. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Well, I know there’s no shortage of girls who are willing to, uh, partake in certain activities with you.” She clears her throat. “I just don’t want you to think—I mean, I know how uncool it would be to invite a girl back here and somehow try to make that sofa work.”
“Kayla, I don’t bring girls home, if that’s what you’re getting at. So, no, you’re not cramping my style by being here. My parents aren’t dumb—they know I have sex, or have had sex, I should say. I guess it’s just an unspoken rule, you know, with Julie down the hall. I respect them enough to not do that under their roof.”
The room’s silent for a while. She’s still sitting with her parts right on my ass, legs spread, her hands working magic on me. She is good at this. Her voice is almost a whisper when she asks, “What do you mean, you’ve had sex? Do you mean you’re not doing it anymore—or often?”
I can’t believe she wants to talk about this now. I can’t handle where she’s positioned on me, or where her hands are touching . . . And she wants to talk about sex. My junk is at full attention now. If I think about sex for a second longer, I’m going to come in my pants like I’m thirteen.
“So?” She won’t give up.
“You’re going to think I’m an asshole.” I try to lighten the mood.
“I already think you’re an asshole.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
“Well?”
“Okay, okay. Well, as you know, we lived in Australia until I was fourteen. I started high school here halfway through freshman year. I was the new kid with the accent, and word had already got around that I was kind of good at baseball, which, apparently, was something girls were interested in. Anyway, once I joined the team, a lot of the older guys kind of took me under their wing. So there was a period of time when it was all parties and alcohol most weekends, then girls were added to the mix. I can’t even tell you what my first experience was like. She was older—like, seventeen or something. I guess she just wanted the honor of deflowering me.” I stop to make sure she’s listening. Her hands are still moving up and down my back, focusing on areas she can tell are tight.
“Which hand?” Dylan asks.
What?
Behind me, Jake raises his right hand, bringing on a tirade of name-calling and questions from the guys. “It’s fine!” he yells above them all.
Lucy must sense how confused I am, because she answers my unspoken question. “His pitching hand.”
Shit.
I take his hand between mine and kiss the knuckles one by one. I feel him tense at my display of affection then stiffen under me. That’s my cue to get off him and do something—anything—else.
NINETEEN
JAKE
I am in too deep—way too deep. I spent the rest of last night with a hard-on, and I don’t think it’s fully left me yet. This girl is driving me crazy—that dress she wore, then she sat in my lap, laughing, touching, joking, flirting . . . Then she kisses my hand so intimately—my fucking pitching hand. It’s by far the sexiest thing a girl has ever done, ever. I don’t say this to be a dick, but girls have done a lot of shit to me.
I throw the covers off my pathetic joke of a bed and stretch. My back is screwed up and my whole body aches. I fold the blankets and shake my head. This thing is definitely not made for a six-foot-two frame. I may attempt sleeping on the floor tonight, because anything’s got to be better than this.
I walk into the kitchen—or more like wobble, in my condition.
Kayla’s already there. “Your mom left a note. She’s at a PTA meeting . . .” She takes in my physical state. “And what happened to you?”
“I don’t think the sofa and I are friends anymore.” I put on a pout.
“I’ll take the sofa, Jake. You can have your bed back. Besides, you can’t sleep on the sofa all summer.”
“You want to bet?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow at her.
She looks at me for a second then turns away, biting her lip. “At least let me give you a massage,” she says quietly.
I laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says.
I think about it but shake my head.
“Come on, please? I have to do something.”
“It’s fine, Kayla. I’ll see a trainer when we get back from Lisa’s wedding.”
“It’s not fine.” She starts to pull my arm to lead me away, but I dig my heels in.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” I smirk. “This body is in peak physical condition. I’m almost a professional athlete, Kayla. I can’t let just anybody touch me.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Trust me, I give good massages.”
“Yeah?” I eye her. “Says who?”
She looks away and blushes. James. I shiver in disgust, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Look,” she starts again, squaring her shoulders. “When James started to really get into basketball, all the training and game time killed him. He’d always complain about being sore, so I researched how to help him—if I could help him. One summer, I took classes in physical therapy and sports medicine at the local community college. I learned heaps and actually enjoyed it. For a little bit there, I genuinely considered becoming a sports doctor. I still think about it sometimes.”
I let it sink in then shake my head. “He really didn’t deserve you, you know that, right?”
“I know.” She smiles. “I am an awesome girlfriend, and some asshole is going to be really lucky one day.”
I swear to God I hope that asshole will be me. I motion toward the stairs. “Lead the way, doc.”
She smiles and leads me up to my room.
Kayla asks me to take my T-shirt off and lay facedown on the bed. She’s silent for a beat then asks, “Do you have any lotion or oil?”
“Yeah, there’s baby oil in the bottom drawer.” I point to my nightstand. The second the words are out, I regret them. That drawer is my sex drawer. It’s got boxes of condoms, lube, baby oil, tissues, and porn—yes, porn. I hear her open the drawer then chuckle a little.
“What?” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment. “I’m a guy.”
Next thing I know, she’s sitting on me, rubbing oil onto my back. Her tiny hands knead my aching muscles.
“Jake?”
“Mmm.” My face is shoved into the pillow, and her hands feel amazing.
“I hope I’m not cramping your style by being here.”
I laugh under my breath, but my body shakes. I shift my head so I can talk. “I don’t think anyone could cramp my style . . . unless we rewind back to 2002.”
She playfully smacks me on the back. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Well, I know there’s no shortage of girls who are willing to, uh, partake in certain activities with you.” She clears her throat. “I just don’t want you to think—I mean, I know how uncool it would be to invite a girl back here and somehow try to make that sofa work.”
“Kayla, I don’t bring girls home, if that’s what you’re getting at. So, no, you’re not cramping my style by being here. My parents aren’t dumb—they know I have sex, or have had sex, I should say. I guess it’s just an unspoken rule, you know, with Julie down the hall. I respect them enough to not do that under their roof.”
The room’s silent for a while. She’s still sitting with her parts right on my ass, legs spread, her hands working magic on me. She is good at this. Her voice is almost a whisper when she asks, “What do you mean, you’ve had sex? Do you mean you’re not doing it anymore—or often?”
I can’t believe she wants to talk about this now. I can’t handle where she’s positioned on me, or where her hands are touching . . . And she wants to talk about sex. My junk is at full attention now. If I think about sex for a second longer, I’m going to come in my pants like I’m thirteen.
“So?” She won’t give up.
“You’re going to think I’m an asshole.” I try to lighten the mood.
“I already think you’re an asshole.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
“Well?”
“Okay, okay. Well, as you know, we lived in Australia until I was fourteen. I started high school here halfway through freshman year. I was the new kid with the accent, and word had already got around that I was kind of good at baseball, which, apparently, was something girls were interested in. Anyway, once I joined the team, a lot of the older guys kind of took me under their wing. So there was a period of time when it was all parties and alcohol most weekends, then girls were added to the mix. I can’t even tell you what my first experience was like. She was older—like, seventeen or something. I guess she just wanted the honor of deflowering me.” I stop to make sure she’s listening. Her hands are still moving up and down my back, focusing on areas she can tell are tight.
