Page 82 of Lucky Laces
In fact, I’m sonotalone that nothing I tell the specialists seems to take them by surprise.
Which is both a relief and infuriating.Why have I spent so damned long thinking I’m defective?Why have I let people, let my parents, convince me of that fact?
And why have I wasted so much time hiding from the fucking truth, from getting help?
It makes me want to punch something.
Or really, it makes me want to fuck someone…so long as that someone is Dee.
Unfortunately, I made her a promise.
Lucky for me that promise doesn’t stop me from kissing her or touching her or getting both of us naked.It’s just that when things start to get really good, she stops us.
Which meansIstop us.
The day after our horizontal date, the team has practice.I have a check-in with Doc, some evaluations on my brain shit (what Smitty calls it and frankly, it’s an apt description), and then Dee comes back over to my place with a huge pizza and a six-pack of beer.
And while we watch hockey, drink beers, and down the slices of pepperoni, black olive, and spicy honey pizza, I have a hard-on.One that certainly doesn’t go away once all that devouring of food and drink turns into devouring Dee.
Orwantingto.
Because as much as I’m desperate to have every part of her again, she’s set a boundary.I won’t blow past that.
I’m not that kind of man.
So when kissing becomes heavy petting and heavy petting means my fingers are drifting down her naked skin and heading straight for that slick, wet cunt, I hit the brakes, get us dressed, and walk her to her car—because she needs to fly out with the team early the next morning.
I scowl as she drives off, missing her already.
Because I’m obsessed.
And I can’t even summon a single damn about my ongoing obsession.
Especially since DeeDee FaceTimes me when she gets home and lets me watch her get ready for bed.And then FaceTimes me again after the game where we partake in some seriously hot FaceTime foreplay.
More hard-ons.
Along with a side of blue balls.
I’m so going to fuck her in the nightgown she wore, a nightgown she calls “cute.”I don’t know who in their right mind can think the slinky silky short-as-fuck nightie is merely “cute,” but I’m going to disabuse her of that notion at the first opportunity.
And now, as I drive to her place, thinking about that slinky, silky, short nightie, another five days of abstinence feels like a goddamned eternity.
The team has the day off tomorrow and I’m talking my way into her bed, even if it’s just to sleep again.
I need her next to me.
I need to feel her, smell her, kiss her.
Touchher.
I pull into her driveway, turn off my car, then reach into the back seat and snag my overnight bag.
Wishful thinking?Maybe.
But Iamplanning on talking my way into her bed.
I pop the door and climb out, careful to not put too much weight on my leg.
