Page 135 of With the Assist

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. I don’t let myself think about the promise in those words. I grab his hand and take off, laughing as we dodge between cars and jog across the street like teenagers. A horn blares. Someone yells something we ignore. The cold air burns my lungs, and my heart feels like it’s trying to escape my chest.

By the time we reach the other side, we’re both breathless and grinning, the tension cracked open by adrenaline and anticipation.

Nathan squeezes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“Certain.”

And for the first time all night, it feels like we’re moving toward something instead of away from it.

The hotel room door barely clicks shut before Nathan’s hands are on me. It’s not urgent, but lingering. His hands trail lightly across my skin, causing goosebumps to follow in his wake. I let myself focus on his calloused fingertips as he slides the straps of my dress off my shoulders.

His mouth finds mine as if he’s been searching for it forever. I let my tongue trace over his teeth as I moan against him. We’re both taking our time, as if learning the shape of each other all over again, even though we already know every inch.

The door is cold against my back, but I warm instantly when he presses against me. I squirm against him, my body as desperate for him as ever. His forehead rests against mine for a second, our breath tangling.

“It’s never going to be enough,” he murmurs, voice low.

My eyes open wide to find him watching me. I nod furiously in agreement. My hands slip into his jacket as my fingers trace familiar lines, knowing that I’ll never trace them again.

It will never be enough. There is no such thing as enough of Nathan. There’s only the desperate need for more. It’s terrifying and all-consuming and impossible.

Sure, we could keep doing this temporarily, but we’re not compatible long-term, not with the goals we have. The longer we drag it on, the more it’ll hurt when it all inevitably ends.

But, god, I need it to be real. For tonight, I don’t want to pretend that this is just pretend anymore. It’s not, and maybe it never was.

“Nathan,” I whisper against his ear, while he trails open-mouth kisses along my collarbone. “I know this is the last time and that it’s over. I know why it needs to be...” I trail off, nerves coiled around the confession on the tip of my tongue.

He pulls away, eyes focused on my face, hands steady holding my own, as he waits for me to say something I should absolutely not say. Something that only makes everything more painful.

“Wesley.” It’s a plea that’s so full of hope my chest cracks open.

“I need this to end tomorrow.” I close my eyes and breathe out, trying to ignore the sadness in his eyes. “But tonight, I don’t want to pretend this is fake. I don’t want benefits. I just want you. For real. Not as part of some deal and not to get our coaches off our backs, but because I want you. One last time.”

His eyes search my face, blazing with words unspoken, but he clenches his jaw, biting them back. Instead, he nods and presses a slow kiss to my lips.

“Real. Just for us,” he finally says, before tugging at the zipper on the back of my dress.

We take our time shedding layers, kicking off our shoes without care. Every movement feels intentional, stretched thin by the knowledge that there’s no rush and no tomorrow attached.

He backs me toward the bed, kissing me the whole way. His hands map me like he’s committing every inch to memory. When we fallonto the mattress, it’s with a soft laugh and a tangle of limbs, warmth bleeding between us.

His head is between my legs instantly, his tongue teasing me in endlessly slow circles. I weave my hands into his hair, losing myself in the feel of his tongue and the sounds that he makes as he brings me to the edge.

Having him like this still feels surreal. Every flick of his tongue against my clit is better than the one before. He’s not only amazing in bed; he’s generous. I can’t think of a single time in the past couple of weeks that I haven’t gotten off first on his mouth, his fingers, or his cock. Most of the time, more than once.

He teases that getting me off is one of the sexiest things he’s ever seen. Considering how enthusiastically he’s moving right now, I’m inclined to believe him.

His fingers slide into me, curling up at the perfect angle. I gasp, and he repeats the motion over and over.

My back arches off the bed as the orgasm rocks through me. He slides his tongue along my slit, guiding me through it until I’m weightless.

“That’s right. Come for me, Wesley,” he murmurs against my thigh.

Only once he’s wrung every ounce of pleasure out of my orgasm does he slide up my body, pausing along the way to tease each nipple into points. My nails scrape along his back, pulling him higher until I can kiss him. When our mouths finally meet, I exhale against him, losing myself in the kiss with the taste of myself still on his tongue.

We make out for a while, hungry yet patient, both of us wanting to make this last. It’s not like the passionate, quick fuck against his door when I get to his apartment after practice. Or the needy, quiet sex in the dark when we both wake up wanting each other.