Page 61 of Keeper
“I could take my shoes off,” I goad, enjoying how wound up she is right now.
“I could put my dress back on,” she challenges in return.
“All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up for a second before undoing the buttons and sliding my shirt off. I childishly enjoy the way she ogles me. Her green eyes raking up and down my chest. She doesn’t even try to hide it, even though her cheekbones flush crimson beneath the fluorescents.
Clearing her throat, she continues, “All right, so what happens when a ball gets by you?” She shakes out her short blonde hair and then claps her hands together dramatically as she squats down into position. “Like, you see the striker coming right for you! It’s Camden or Tanner, and you’re certain you know what they’re going to do. So in your sexy, overly-analytical brain, you work out precisely how to stop the ball, but they juke you out completely and you miss it.”
“Did you just call my brain sexy?” I ask.
She bites her lip playfully, slipping out of character before shaking her head and snapping, “Focus, Harris! Now, what do you do when one gets by you? Do you quit?”
“No,” I respond with a thoughtful frown, mulling over the image she’s described and trying my hardest to ignore the way her breasts press together when she rolls her shoulders. I kick the ball to the far corner and it makes a cringe-worthy sound as it slaps back into the net. I hate that sound. I hate that feeling. “Of course I miss sometimes. No keeper is perfect. But it doesn’t stop me from being gutted over the balls that get past me. No one is harder on me than myself.”
“But can’t you learn from missed saves?”
“Yes,” I pause, deep in thought. “Actually, I learn more from misses than stops. Stops are predictable. You see them coming from a mile away. The surprising shots that sneak past you…Those are the ones that burn into your brain forever.”
She nods subtly. “Are you afraid that I’ve snuck past you and made it into your net?”
“Yes,” I answer, a thickness in my throat forming over her echoing the same words as Gareth. Everyone around me is convinced Poppy has breached my net, but why is it so hard for me to admit? “I thought I knew what it would be like when you came back and I was completely wrong. Now I’m terrified because I feel out of control. And if I mess this up, you’ll leave again.”
Her face falls, her round eyes sad. “I wouldn’t leave, Booker.”
“You’ve done it before.” My voice is trembling, the humour of the game completely gone. The nakedness of our bodies forgotten. “And things are different already, Poppy. I hated Andrew holding your arm all night. I hated watching you leave with him. I hated not being the one you turned to when you had tears in your eyes. I hated all of that because things have changed between us, and if you leave again…”
“I won’t leave.” She sniffs. “I’m…different now. I know myself better. And I promise that if we try this and it doesn’t work, you won’t lose me. We will work our way back to being Booker and Poppy, no matter what.”
“And you would be okay with that?” I ask, unsure if I would be okay with it myself.
She nods. “In time, I think I would, yes. Any Booker is better than no Booker.” There’s a fleeting pained look in her eyes, but she turns to grab the ball out of the net before I have a chance to confirm it. When she faces me again, there’s a softness to her expression that hurts my heart. Her voice is raspy when she says, “And I know I can be a handful, but you’re great with your hands.”
Her words are exactly what I need to hear. I want every bit of the handful she is. And as terrified as I am, I can’t just be friends with her anymore. Too much has happened. Too much has changed. I need her. I needmore. I know it won’t be easy, but neither is staying away from her.
A sudden desire sweeps through me as I husk, “Maybe I’ll use a different catching technique with you.”
She smiles and kicks the ball back at me with the side of her bare foot. Reaching behind her, she unclasps her bra. My dick hardens as she covers her chest with one hand and drops the fabric on the ground. Her two hands cup her breasts as she stands before me wearing nothing but her knickers with the net backdrop behind her and the light illuminating her body.
But I can’t take my eyes off her face. She’s stunning. She’s open. She’s vulnerable. She’s so much more than my best friend.
She’s Poppy.
I eliminate the space between us in seconds. I reach for her hands, sliding my fingers through hers before placing them on my shoulders. Her fingers clasp behind my neck as her hard nipples brush along my abs. She feels so good pressed against me. So right. I look at her through lowered lashes, taking in the beauty of her as my fingers stroke along the sides of her ribs.
“You’re in my net,” I whisper, hunching down and caressing her lips with mine.
“Obviously,” she murmurs in a bouncy tone. “I’m super athletic. I’m surprised you didn’t realise—”
I smother her giggle with my lips, slowly rolling my tongue into her mouth, twining it with hers in smooth, languid movements. I reach down and grip her arse, hoisting her up so our faces are level and I can kiss her properly. Her legs wrap around my waist and squeeze. She’s light in my arms as we devour each other.
This kiss feels different than the others. There’s an awareness we both have now that brings it up a notch. It’s not a sexy, lust-filled kiss. It’s a new beginnings kiss, and I’m savouring every bit of it.
I want to curl my fingers beneath her knickers and see how wet she is. I want to feel the slick heat of her sex wrapped around me as I drive into her for hours, making her voice hoarse from exertion. But we don’t have hours. We have minutes. And Poppy deserves a hell of a lot more than minutes.
“Poppy,” I husk, pulling away from her swollen lips and trying to control the raging erection pressing against my trousers.
“Yes, Booker?” she moans.God, I love her voice like that.She peppers my jaw with kisses, panting and writhing in my arms, further stoking the painful desire shooting through my limbs.
I swallow hard and want to punch myself for what I’m about to say. “I don’t want to do this here.”
