The Game Plan
Page 74
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fiona
Having never lived with someone, I worry how moving in with Ethan will be. Awkward? Stifling? Will we crash and burn?
Because, no matter how much I want Ethan, we’ve only physically been together a handful of times.
But he doesn’t give me time to worry. Every night he’s in town and off early, we go out and explore New Orleans—at a jazz club, where I cajole and entice Ethan to dance, or at a restaurant so good, I’m hard pressed not to moan with every bite. I’m a New Yorker at heart, so I’m used to good food. But New Orleans could give New York a run for its money.
We don’t hide being together. And a few pictures of us have popped up, along with speculation about Ethan’s new girlfriend. But the virgin witch hunt remains. Mainly because Ethan stubbornly refuses to talk about me—even if to confirm or deny a sexual relationship.
“It’s none of their fucking business,” he grumps. In public, he’s more restrained and simply says, “Unless it’s about football, no comment.”
Despite that ugliness, I’m happy. There are so many things I come to anticipate and love, namely the look on Ethan’s face every time he walks through the front door, his expression lit with happiness, his eyes hot with need.
Because the second he’s home, he’s backing me up against the wall, or bending me over the arm of the couch, fucking me like he’s making up for years of lost time.
I can’t keep my hands off him either. I catch him doing sit-ups and jump astride his hips before he does another crunch. His chuckle dies in a strangled groan when I kiss and lick my way over his hard body, tugging his shorts down to pull out that glorious, thick cock I crave.
Ethan’s often away. It isn’t great. But it doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. Because I know that on the nights he is home, we’ll fall into his massive bed to cuddle under the covers and talk about anything and everything until a touch or a look triggers the need we have for each other and we come together like a conflagration, burning hot and bright. Only when we’re completely worn out will we fall asleep.
More importantly, I know I’m loved. And I love him. Having that security in my life is a joy I only now realize I’d been searching for all along.
I grow inordinately giddy at the sight of Ethan’s big shoes—which include a ridiculous amount of sneakers—lumped together with mine, of my body washes and hair products crowding out his lone shampoo and soap.
I get to talk to Ethan’s parents, an experience I’d feared would be awkward as fuck, given the circumstances. But they’re warm, nice, normal. Ethan’s dad thanks me for making his son happy. Ethan’s mom assures me her son has impeccable taste, so if he likes me, she will too. I’m left blushing and stammering that, yes, I’d love to meet them when they return to California.
Ethan’s little brother is a slightly tougher judge. He asks me if I like Minecraft. When I confess to having had an Enderman figurine on my desk in college, I’m deemed cool.
But I fall irrevocably head over heels for Ethan when he takes my hand one sunny morning and asks me to come out to his studio. I’ve been there before. It’s a bright, airy space. His older work hangs on the walls or sits stacked in the corner. A few pieces are half-done and on easels, waiting for completion.
Ethan specializes in photorealism. He uses lush colors and goes for close-up studies. Most of his subjects are football related, though he’s done a few people as well. He’s been working on one of Drew, dressed in his uniform, helmet on the ground, his hands low on his narrow hips as he looks off in the distance.
“Anna asked me to do that one,” Ethan told me. “It’s going to be a wedding present. Though I seriously think she’ll enjoy it more than Drew will.”
I think he’s right.
Today he walks me out to the studio, a secretive smile on his lips.
“Have you finished your portrait?” I ask, though I don’t know when he’d have found the time. We’ve been in each other’s pockets this past month.
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Why do you look so smug?”
His grin grows. “You’ll see.”
“Tell me.” I tug on his hand.
“No.”
“Tell me, tell me, tell me.” I tug again, wiggling his arm as I smile up at him.
He laughs and swings me up in his arms. “Little pest. So impatient.” He kisses my nose and carries me up the stairs. The sharp scents of paint and turpentine mix with the warmer scent of pine and fill my nose as he opens the door.
Ethan sets me down, and I turn around only to gasp, my hand flying to my lips.
The canvases and easels are gone. In their place is a woodworker’s fantasy: circular saws, band saws, table saws, routers and lathes, miters, drills, joiners… Everything I need to make furniture.
“I thought maybe you could get started sooner than later,” he says, mirroring my thoughts.
“Oh, yes,” I murmur, walking around, taking it all in.
Work tables, a dust vacuum, stacks of different types of lumber. Emotion grabs me by the throat as I turn back to Ethan, who leans against the doorway, hands in pockets, a curious, almost anxious expression on his handsome face.
“Where’s your painting stuff?” I croak out.
“Moved it to the guest house,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t need all this room, anyway.”
I swallow convulsively. “How—when?”
Fiona
Having never lived with someone, I worry how moving in with Ethan will be. Awkward? Stifling? Will we crash and burn?
Because, no matter how much I want Ethan, we’ve only physically been together a handful of times.
But he doesn’t give me time to worry. Every night he’s in town and off early, we go out and explore New Orleans—at a jazz club, where I cajole and entice Ethan to dance, or at a restaurant so good, I’m hard pressed not to moan with every bite. I’m a New Yorker at heart, so I’m used to good food. But New Orleans could give New York a run for its money.
We don’t hide being together. And a few pictures of us have popped up, along with speculation about Ethan’s new girlfriend. But the virgin witch hunt remains. Mainly because Ethan stubbornly refuses to talk about me—even if to confirm or deny a sexual relationship.
“It’s none of their fucking business,” he grumps. In public, he’s more restrained and simply says, “Unless it’s about football, no comment.”
Despite that ugliness, I’m happy. There are so many things I come to anticipate and love, namely the look on Ethan’s face every time he walks through the front door, his expression lit with happiness, his eyes hot with need.
Because the second he’s home, he’s backing me up against the wall, or bending me over the arm of the couch, fucking me like he’s making up for years of lost time.
I can’t keep my hands off him either. I catch him doing sit-ups and jump astride his hips before he does another crunch. His chuckle dies in a strangled groan when I kiss and lick my way over his hard body, tugging his shorts down to pull out that glorious, thick cock I crave.
Ethan’s often away. It isn’t great. But it doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would. Because I know that on the nights he is home, we’ll fall into his massive bed to cuddle under the covers and talk about anything and everything until a touch or a look triggers the need we have for each other and we come together like a conflagration, burning hot and bright. Only when we’re completely worn out will we fall asleep.
More importantly, I know I’m loved. And I love him. Having that security in my life is a joy I only now realize I’d been searching for all along.
I grow inordinately giddy at the sight of Ethan’s big shoes—which include a ridiculous amount of sneakers—lumped together with mine, of my body washes and hair products crowding out his lone shampoo and soap.
I get to talk to Ethan’s parents, an experience I’d feared would be awkward as fuck, given the circumstances. But they’re warm, nice, normal. Ethan’s dad thanks me for making his son happy. Ethan’s mom assures me her son has impeccable taste, so if he likes me, she will too. I’m left blushing and stammering that, yes, I’d love to meet them when they return to California.
Ethan’s little brother is a slightly tougher judge. He asks me if I like Minecraft. When I confess to having had an Enderman figurine on my desk in college, I’m deemed cool.
But I fall irrevocably head over heels for Ethan when he takes my hand one sunny morning and asks me to come out to his studio. I’ve been there before. It’s a bright, airy space. His older work hangs on the walls or sits stacked in the corner. A few pieces are half-done and on easels, waiting for completion.
Ethan specializes in photorealism. He uses lush colors and goes for close-up studies. Most of his subjects are football related, though he’s done a few people as well. He’s been working on one of Drew, dressed in his uniform, helmet on the ground, his hands low on his narrow hips as he looks off in the distance.
“Anna asked me to do that one,” Ethan told me. “It’s going to be a wedding present. Though I seriously think she’ll enjoy it more than Drew will.”
I think he’s right.
Today he walks me out to the studio, a secretive smile on his lips.
“Have you finished your portrait?” I ask, though I don’t know when he’d have found the time. We’ve been in each other’s pockets this past month.
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Why do you look so smug?”
His grin grows. “You’ll see.”
“Tell me.” I tug on his hand.
“No.”
“Tell me, tell me, tell me.” I tug again, wiggling his arm as I smile up at him.
He laughs and swings me up in his arms. “Little pest. So impatient.” He kisses my nose and carries me up the stairs. The sharp scents of paint and turpentine mix with the warmer scent of pine and fill my nose as he opens the door.
Ethan sets me down, and I turn around only to gasp, my hand flying to my lips.
The canvases and easels are gone. In their place is a woodworker’s fantasy: circular saws, band saws, table saws, routers and lathes, miters, drills, joiners… Everything I need to make furniture.
“I thought maybe you could get started sooner than later,” he says, mirroring my thoughts.
“Oh, yes,” I murmur, walking around, taking it all in.
Work tables, a dust vacuum, stacks of different types of lumber. Emotion grabs me by the throat as I turn back to Ethan, who leans against the doorway, hands in pockets, a curious, almost anxious expression on his handsome face.
“Where’s your painting stuff?” I croak out.
“Moved it to the guest house,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t need all this room, anyway.”
I swallow convulsively. “How—when?”
