Page 90 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Perfect. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll meet you at your office. You can show me around town, and we can go in search of hobbies.”

“Hobbies,” I repeat, thinking about how much I learned about him yesterday.

“Yeah, you know. Those things we don’t have. Maybe we’ll find something we’ll both enjoy.”

“I like that idea. What are you going to do while I’m at work?”

“I met a kid who plays for UVA yesterday at the track. His name is Ben. I told him I’d run some drills with him when I have time. I’ll text him and see if he’s still up for it.”

“That’s really nice of you.”

“I love working with kids, and he was excited to meet me. I think it’ll make his day.” He draws me into his arms again. “Now, how about I make yours?”

“Yes, please,” I whisper, and pull his mouth to mine.

He lifts me onto the counter, kissing me like he can’t get enough, and I’m pretty sure I never will, because the way he kisses makes me desperate for more. He whips my shirt off, lowering his mouth to my breast, sending heat searing down my core. Grabbing his head, I arch into him. “Clay.”

“I’ve got you, baby.” He moves a hand between my legs and crushes his mouth to mine, fracturing my ability to think. Our kisses are hot and hungry as his fingers work their magic, taking me up, up, up, until my entire body tingles and burns, and all at once my orgasm crashes into me. I cry out, and he lowers his mouth between my legs, using his teeth, tongue, and fingers, driving me out of my mind. My vision blurs as waves of pleasure pummel me. I’m gasping and moaning, each wave more intense than the last.

The smell of burning eggs hits me. “Clay,” I pant out, but he’s relentless in his pursuit of my pleasure, feasting and teasing, sending me right up to the peak again. I cry out as smoke billows from the stove, but we don’t stop. He intensifies his efforts, and I bury my hands in his hair, rocking against his mouth, unwilling to be deterred from enjoying everything he has to give.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Clay

Ben is waiting for me at the field when I arrive, and he looks as excited as he was yesterday. “Hey, Ben. How’s it going?”

“How’s it going? I’m standing here with you. How do you think it’s going? I still can’t believe you texted.”

I set down the cones I bought at the sports store when I picked up the balls for Chris and Min. “I told you I would.”

“Yeah, but with most people, that doesn’t mean shit.”

“I’m not most people. If I say I’ll do something, then short of an act of God stopping me, it’s going to happen. You look a little tired. Were you out late partying last night?”

“No. My mother had to work, and my little brother got sick. I stayed over so she could get some sleep after she got home.”

“Your mom works nights?”

“Sometimes. She works at a club when they need her.”

“Sounds like your family’s lucky to have you around. Is your brother okay?”

“Yeah. He just had a bug and felt like he was going to puke every time he lay down.”

I eye him more closely. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just a little tired. I’ll be fine once I start running. I always am.”

He reminds me of myself at that age. “In that case, why don’t we hit the track and warm up?”

“You’re running with me?” he asks.

“I’ll start out that way,” I say as we head to the track. “But I’m sure I’ll leave you in my dust.”

He scoffs. “In your dreams.”

Ben and I practice for nearly two hours, working on tracking the ball, speed, and running drills. As I blow the whistle for the last of the footwork drills, he sprints straight toward the first cone. He maneuvers around it, runs toward the second one, and cuts to the right beyond the third.