Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Her mouth twitches into a shy smile as she waits for me to say something. “Fuck” is the only word that comes out of my mouth as I close the distance between us. My one hand cradles her face as my other one moves down the jersey and lands on her smooth thigh. My mouth crashes into hers. It’s not sweet or romantic. It’s raw and needy. Urgent and demanding. My tongue duals with hers, and she moans into my mouth. My fingers glide back up her thigh, under the jersey, and when I feel there’s nothing underneath, I let out a low groan.
“You’re killing me, woman,” I murmur against her lips. My hands grip her ass cheeks, and I lift her and bring her over to the bed, laying her down under me. My mouth goes back to hers, kissing her with everything in me. Her soft, plump lips have me addicted.
We kiss until she pulls away slightly. “I feel like we really are teenagers. I’m wearing your jersey…we’re making out like we’re in high school.” She giggles, and I shake my head at her playfulness.
“What am I going to do with you?” The question is meant to be rhetorical, but when I speak the words, Olivia’s eyes widen.
Her voice is soft. “Maybe…one day love me.” She shrugs her shoulders shyly.
Stick a damn fork in me because I’m fucking done. This woman is everything I need in my life, yet I had no idea I was missing.
“That’s definitely a huge possibility,” I say before my lips capture hers once again, and we continue to make out like horny teenagers.
Twenty-One
Olivia
It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I’m sitting up in the friends and family suite with Corrine and Shelby, while Nick and my dad, along with the rest of the team, are in the locker room getting ready for the biggest game the New York Brewers have faced in over a decade. The game is being played in Denver, but the team we’re up against is none other than Nick’s old team, North Carolina. They made it to the playoffs last year without him but lost. This year they’re favored to win it all.
The last few days have been nothing short of amazing. During the day, Nick has been with the team, practicing. It’s a huge game, even bigger because he’s playing against his old team. They let him go, thinking he wouldn’t bring them another championship, yet here he is, hopefully about to prove them all wrong.
Every evening Nick has spent his time with Reed and me. While Reed is awake, Nick’s and my attention is on our son, but once he’s asleep, it’s a whole different ball game. I’ve never experienced such closeness with a man without having sex. The foreplay with Nick is out of this world, but more than that, it’s the time afterward—before I fall asleep in his arms, when he talks to me.
After our conversation about Fiona and me both leaving him a note, an idea sparked. I wanted to turn something negative into a positive, so a couple nights ago I snuck out of bed, wrote him a note, and stuck it in his gym bag. Then last night I did the same thing—unsure if he even saw the first one. Only this morning, I woke up to a note as well, telling me he not only saw it, but it meant a lot to him. He promised to always leave a note, so his words are the first thing I read when I open my eyes, and in return I made the same promise.
“Excuse me.” A soft voice brings me back to the now. Reed is awake in my arms, but it won’t be long until he’s asleep. It’s 4:30 here, but he’s still refusing to conform to the time zone in Denver. In New York, it’s 6:30, and Reed’s internal clock has him passed out by seven o’clock every night—waking up every four hours to eat and getting up for the day at six. I love that my son is already on a routine, but here in Denver that means he’s up at four in the freaking morning!
“Excuse me,” I hear again, and this time I look up to see if someone is speaking to me. With Corrine and Shelby to the left of me, I look to the right. It’s an older woman who looks to be around the same age as my stepmom, maybe a little younger. Her hair is dyed in perfect highlights and is tied up in a tight ponytail. Her dress is Stella McCartney—a designer my mom used to love. Her lips are pursed into a half smile-half grimace, and I glance down at my son to confirm he’s not crying. I learned from my stunt a few weeks ago, people don’t like babies who cry in public.