Page 77 of Bleacher Report
It’s been four days since Peyton came apart in my arms.
Four days since I felt her tremble and fall against me, her breathy moans filling my ears and replaying in my head on a loop I can’t shut off.
And for four nights in a row, we’ve managed to miss each other.
I come home late from practice or a game, and she’s already in bed, curled on her side like she’s guarding the damn pillow wall again.
Or she’s holed up in her studio, headphones on, lights dimmed, so laser-focused I don’t have the heart to interrupt.
Either way, we haven’t talked about it. I haven’t touched her since.
And it’s driving me insane.
I’m the guy who only does casual—who prefers temporary hook-ups that never last more than a week or two, tops.
I shouldn’t still be thinking about how much I want a repeat with Peyton. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t get laid by anyone else for another six weeks.
Maybe…but I’ve had dry spells before. I don’t sleep with everyone I take out to dinner or drinks, and though it may come as a shock to the media, and probably even Peyton, I haven’t slept with every woman I’ve been photographed with either.
Two months without sex isn’t the kind of hiatus to put me in a mental or physical tailspin. I’ve had plenty of spans that lasted that long, or longer. So this? Peyton getting under my skin like this after only touching her once…it’s something I seem to have no control over.
Still, I know that Peyton deserves more than I’m willing to give her. She wants the white picket fence. The dad who takes his daughter across the county to tennis tournaments, the mom who takes care of the entire family and gives great big hugs to absolute strangers who crash Thanksgiving dinner since they’re fake dating her daughter.
She wants the syndication deal and the story about Bethany that I can’t bring myself to give her. It’s not a part of my life that I want to relive. Unfortunately, that puts us at odds, since it’s the story she needs to put her in line with winning the network spot.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, the cool leather squeaking beneath my fingers as I turn into Jesse’s school’s visitor parking lot near the entrance of the red-brick building. Kids run wild on the playground, their laughter a blur through my open window.
It’s been two weeks since we agreed to fake-date. Two weeks since I moved into Peyton’s townhouse to avoid Bethany. And Ithought I’d be able to keep a handle on this whole thing. Keep it fake. Keep it safe.
But my cock has been hard since the moment she collapsed against me, gasping my name. I’ve gotten off in the shower every morning since—eyes closed, one hand braced against the tile, the other replaying that moment with her in my lap, trembling, whispering my name when she came. Feeling her body squeeze my fingers.
I park, kill the engine, and glance at the school entrance where I’m supposed to meet Peyton. I exhale a slow breath and drag a hand through my hair.
Time to get it together.
The second I spot Peyton popping her head out the front door of the school looking for me and waving me over, a relieved smile on her face—I grin from ear to ear.
I head for her with a little bounce in my step. She opens the door wider for me as I walk up. Her face lights up—that full, open smile I swear could stop traffic.
“You’re here,” she says. “Thank you for coming.”
“I said I would.” I grin as I pass through the door. “Morning skate went longer than I expected, but I wasn’t going to bail on Jesse’s big day.”
Shari stands next to her. “Yes, thank you. Jesse hasn’t stopped telling people that you’re coming to Career Day. He said that his classmates don’t believe Hunter Reed is coming to speak today. He’s going to be so excited that you’re here.”
I follow Shari and Peyton as they lead me down the hall. The smell of cleaning supplies and library books fill the air. The nostalgic smell of an elementary school I suppose. Mine smelled exactly the same.
As soon as we round the corner, I see a small crowd of what I assume to be parents, standing outside of the classroom, here to discuss their job with the class.
A few murmurs break out as the parents see us coming. I hear some whispered remarks. “Is that Hunter Reed?” But I stay on target.
I barely get to the door of the classroom before Jesse’s eyes lock on mine.
“You’re really here.” I think I hear him say over someone else speaking to the class.
He’s sitting in the second row when he jumps up, grabs his cane, and heads for me. No wheelchair in sight. His first couple of steps seem like an effort but then he’s moving well.
Shari pipes up behind me as all three of us watch him head our way. “He said that since you were coming he didn’t want his wheelchair today. He wanted to show you how strong he’s been getting with his physical therapy.”
