Page 25 of The Love Playbook

I swear I could kiss this boy all night long and be happy.

Well, I’d be sad ifallwe did was kiss. But I am definitely enjoying the kissing. And from the masculine sound of contentment deep in his chest, I’d say Jackson’s enjoying it too.

He plants one hand on the bed next to me, his other hand moving to my jaw. Then he trails it down, his fingers slowly tracing their way over my throat, resting on my collarbone for a moment. Then he continues his progress, dragging the low scoop neck of my top down a bit as he goes, pausing to cup and gently squeeze my breast before continuing down to my side. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer as he kisses me harder, deeper.

My hands go to his chest and shoulders, almost involuntarily, then I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on for whatever he decides to do next.

His other arm comes around me, and he gently lays us down so we’re on our sides facing each other, our feet still dangling off the edge of the bed. I hitch one leg over his hip, using it as leverage to align our bodies and pull myself closer.

With a soft groan, he pushes himself into me, and I feel him for the first time, the hard ridge of his dick in his shorts.

God, I want that inside me.

I know I’m getting ahead of myself. The odds of that happening tonight are slim to none. I know Jackson’s terrified of getting a girl pregnant, condom or not. It’s understandable, given what happened with his sister. And then Tiffany and Gray’s situation only seemed to confirm that his fear is reasonable.

The fact that I’ve had sex a bunch of times and never gotten pregnant won’t matter much to him. Because it only takes once, after all. And who’s to say he wouldn’t be that one time?

I mean, no, it’s not likely. Not if we’re careful and safe. But … clearly it’s happened before. It’s not impossible.

So no, the odds of Jackson being inside me tonight are pretty much nonexistent.

That still leaves a wide variety of options to explore and fun to be had, though.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jackson

I can’t quite believe this is happening. That this, right here—lying on Autumn Mills’s bed with her kissing me and pressing against me and letting me touch her—this is real life.

Yeah, I know what the guys say about her. That the only reason anyone considers her more than just a jersey chaser is because she’s friends with Dani and Ellie and Piper, who are friends and girlfriends of players. Little sisters too, in the case of Ellie and Piper, though their older brothers have both graduated. Doesn’t matter much to the upperclassmen, though. We all consider them team little sisters. And teammates’ girlfriends. Dani is Eli’s best friend besides me. So she’s protected in the same way. The other guys don’t hit on her out of respect.

Autumn, on the other hand, started hooking up with players, making it known that she didn’t desire or require the same kid glove treatment as her friends.

I know she’s had sex with a bunch of my teammates.

But I also know she hasn’t gone on dates with any of them. She hasn’t invited them to her place for dinner and … whatever else we’re doing. Making out, obviously. Touching. Which I guess is second base?

I’m not sure what she has planned beyond this. I told myself at one point that this was enough, that I didn’t want to go farther than this tonight.

But that was before she dragged my hands to where she wanted them, encouraging me to touch and squeeze and fondle to my heart’s content.

And I don’t think my heart will ever be content.

Propping myself up on one arm, I stare down at her, taking in her turquoise streaked hair spread all around her head, her lazy stare and drowsy smile that are all for me.

None of the other guys have ever gotten this from her. I know that for a fact.

This is only for me.

Yeah, sure, maybe it’s because she wants to help me. But she also likes me. She said so. She wouldn’t help me or kiss me or touch me if she didn’t.

Repeating what I did earlier, I touch her chin, then drag my finger down her throat, spreading my hand over her collarbone, fascinated by the pounding pulse in her throat. Meeting her eyes, I slide my palm lower, down her sternum, finding the ridge of her bra where it meets between her breasts.

What color bra does she have on?

Some part of me is a little surprised she’s wearing one. She has that wild child, hippie vibe to her that makes her seem like the type to decide bras are too restrictive or antifeminist or something.

But she also likes it when I look at her boobs. And she wore a top that displays an enticing amount of cleavage. So maybe that’s why.

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