Page 19 of Love on the Tracks
Some of the humor has drained from his face and I can’t help but wonder why. Instead of dwelling on it, I prod him with a poke in his T-shirt-clad ribs and a question. “Fourth?”
He looks at me then, not turning his body, but just his head, and it’s that serious, earnest look he doesn’t often get. “I’m not sure this is the right time or place to talk about it.”
I glance at the clock—it’s quarter after six, and if I want to get to the team run on time, I probably have to leave in an hour. “I think it’s a perfectly good time. And this bed is comfy as fuck. What did they make it out of, angel feathers and unicorn manes?”
“Goose down I think,” he mutters absently, but then focuses on me again. “About the whole platonic thing.”
Oh.Oh.
“What about it? Did something happen last night? I don’t—”
“No, no, nothing happened. I gave you my word I’d be a gentleman and I have been. I don’t truck with sexual assault. The only thing I did was take off your bra, under your shirt, and I wouldn’t have done that except I have three sisters who spent a surprisingly large portion of their high school years bitching about how uncomfortable underwire was. I didn’t want you sleeping in it all night.”
Oh dear god. I never thought a conversation involving the word underwire could be swoony, but this one totally is. I can be cool. I totally can. “Okay. So?”
He swallows, and his face scrunches up. “So, my feelings toward you have become not exactly platonic. If that’s not true for you, I stick to my story that I will be a gentleman. We can keep up this PR stunt the way we have been, or we can end it, totally your call. But if you’re feeling the same way . . .”
There isn’t much in my experience that’s drilled down to my core. Especially not since my mom died. The hopeful look on Zane’s handsome face as he turns to look at me, the way the arc of his brows narrows at the same time his eyes squint slightly, as if he’s unsure, though . . . it hits square in that part of me.
I want to tell him Iamfeeling the same way. My feelings from the beginning were nowhere near platonic, and spending time with him has only deepened the shallow admiration and, let’s face it, hots I had for him. In addition to being crazy good looking and a huge star, he’s also kind and considerate, and more talented than anyone gives him credit for. That song he played last night, I could’ve listened to it forever. Simple, but soul-touching, it’s going to get played at proms and weddings . . . if he ever gets to share it.
As much as I want to confess all that, I can’t. I’d scare the living crap out of him, some crazy girl declaring her love for him after we’d known each other for less than a week. Maybe he doesn’t mean he likes me romantically at all, but that sleeping in the same bed made him even more aware of my body and he’d like to tap that. With my consent of course. That is also an idea I can get behind.
So I pick up the layers of bed linens and slide across the cool sheet separating us until we’re nearly nose to nose, chest to chest, our knees threading in between one another’s. “I am.”
“Right. Okay then.”
Any embarrassment I felt at my squee-fest onTalk Americais erased by the completely bewildered look on Zane’s face. Like he can’t believe this is happening, and he doesn’t quite know what to do.
“That’s great.” Swallow. God I want to lick his Adam’s apple, feel the light scruff that covers it like sandpaper against my tongue. But I’ll wait.
“So, I don’t know if you have superstitions about, uh, fooling around before a big race? I know some people do, and if you’re one of them, then we can wait. Until you’re done with your races I mean. To do . . . whatever it is you’re up for doing.”
“I have no superstitions, and I’m up for anything. Everything.”
He may have had me at a disadvantage for ninety-eight percent of the time we’ve known each other, but I’ve finally found where I have the upper hand, which is maybe the last place I would’ve expected it from a guy who must have dozens of groupies begging to bang him any time he performs. Maybe that’s why he’s so disconcerted.He’saskingme.Which might explain why his eyes go the size of saucers and his mouth opens slightly. “Whoa.”
“Basically, yeah.”
Because I already cleared the first hurdle, which is always the hardest, and I can’t take the tension anymore, I lean forward, slide a hand to the back of his neck and kiss him. It starts out like it has before, just a firm press of lips, but it quickly turns into more than that, with tongues and even teeth, bodies pressed together and hands roaming.
I’ve fucked mostly other athletes, which means I’ve had my hands on my fair share of built guys, but there’s something about Zane’s body that makes my heart sing in a way my other partners’ haven’t. Maybe it’s that we know each other better than most of my hook-ups, or maybe it’s that he’s brilliant in a way I can only begin to comprehend, but he feels perfect under my hands.
I slip a hand not so subtly under his shirt, skimming the skin of his back with my fingers, enjoying the faint outline of his ribs under muscle. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and it’s so frigging cute I can’t deal. So I press at the small of his back, forcing his hips toward mine, and I’m not surprised but only pleased he’s hard for me already.
Do pop stars have stamina like athletes? I’m going to have to wait to find out, because we don’t have a ton of time, and I want him, badly. Fully.
I break away from our desperate kisses long enough to ask if I can take his shirt off.
He blinks, his long lashes making him look shy somehow. Who would’ve thought that I of all people could feel as though I wascorruptingsomeone like Zane Rivera? But I do, and the sensation is heady.
“Yeah, of course.”
Before I strip the tee off of him, I sit up and pull my own shirt off, smiling at how he’d bothered to take off my bra under my shirt. If I ever meet his sisters, I will give them my compliments. In an exceedingly vague way, of course.
When I’ve yanked my own top off, there’s a small choked noise from Zane. “Jesus, your body is . . .”
The way he trails off makes something catch in my stomach. One of the reasons I like fooling around with other athletes is they know what to expect. One of the few non-athletes I’ve been with—a waiter I picked up at a competition in France—said I wasn’t “very feminine.” I was too stunned at the time to say much of anything, but I swear to god, I’ll punch Zane in his pretty boy face if he says anything remotely like that.
