Page 60 of Out of Bounds
There’s no response but the sound again.
I tap gently on the door, then open it. The bedroom is empty but the door to the ensuite is half open and I can confirm that Tanner is not having himself off over silly old me. Rather, he’s struggling to take off his shirt.
“Tanner? Can I help you?”
He hears me this time, looking up through the doorway to see me.
His shoulders sag. “I can’t get my shirt off.”
I step into the steamy room that smells of him. Warm, decadent, homey. The hot tap is still running, its waterfall an indulgent soundtrack alongside the low hum of music coming through speakers somewhere.
“Let me help,” I tell him, setting my mug on the tray table across his effervescing tub. “Sit down? You’re a little taller than me, stud.”
He scoffs. “I don’t feel like a stud right now.” He sits on the edge of the extremely long tub.
“My hands are warm,” I say, coming to stand in front of him. He parts his legs wider, until I’m between them and reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Are you often this sore?” I raise the top over his stomach, my fingertips accidentally grazing his skin.
My lips part as I swallow deeply. It’s not as if Tanner and I haven’t touched before. We have. Every time we’re in each other’s company. But here, now, in this room, undressing him, the gentle caress of skin-on-skin hits different. I can almost feel my oxytocin skyrocketing.
I see his chest rising and falling with shallower breaths before his eyes close and his hands encourage mine to lift the clothing higher on his body.
“I don’t bounce back from a game the way I did when I was twenty-two, Annie.”
The tone of his voice is a reminder, a warning –there’s an age gap between us, I’m too old for you.I want to counter argue. Heisolder than me. Stronger, wiser. Great with Nelson. Confident in himself and his abilities. Surer of himself than I’ll ever be.
Which all makes me want him more.
“Tanner—”
He drags in his next breath as I peel off his shirt. “Tonight was a rough game,” he says as I flick his garment to the wash basket in the corner of the room.
When I look back, those heavy lids are back and his gaze rakes over me, from hips to mouth and lastly, my eyes. He almost reaches out, then brings his hands back to the tub.
I’m not crazy, there’s something crackling between us.
But he isn’t going to let this happen.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “For organizing for me to be there today, for getting Nelson and Betty here. For the way you played tonight.”
“For Tommy,” he says, hooking his index finger through a belt loop on my jeans. It’s absent-minded, I think. Or rather, his mind isn’t fully engaged by our conversation.
He doesn’t tug me to him or move away. He just sits, finger in my jeans, as if he’s having an internal battle of wills.
I know that feeling well. What my body wants but my mind knows it can’t have. Is that what he’s feeling?
“You can tell me you played that hard for Tommy and I’d have believed that was the only reason if every down and point earned hadn’t felt like a conspiracy between you and my brother. If it hadn’t been for that driving celebration.”
He lowers his hand and I ignore how that disappoints me because the way he’s looking at me says the exact opposite. He’s fighting. He battled for me on the field and he’s fighting with his own restraint now.
I run my hand down the side of his waist that’s already turning nasty shades of purple and blue. His eyes close.
“What did he say to you?” I ask.
He looks up to me, taking my hand off his body but holding it in his. “Whatever Auston said was heat of the game stuff.”
“Tell me. Please?”
He creaks his neck, runs his tongue along his teeth, anger still simmering. He lets go of my hand and reaches behind him to shut off the tap. “He said that if he asked, you’d go running back to him.”
