Let Love Live (The Love Series #5) (38 page)

With one hand, I reach around and stroke his dick, matching the rhythm of my fingertip prodding at his ass. Dripping the slick lube over his tight hole, I push into him, first with one finger, then with two. Pushing against my hand, my name falls like a curse from his mouth. His cock swells in my hand. “If you keep that up,” he pants, pushing against my hand over and over again, “I won’t last much longer.”

I want him to come. I want to be the reason he explodes wildly. I want my name to be the one he screams. But I want all of that to happen with my cock buried deep inside of him. He bends forward, and I grab at his hips, easily gliding into him. “Fuck,” he cries, pushing his weight back onto my throbbing cock.

“So tight,” I grit out, my jaw clenched, holding on to my control by a thread. The heat of our bodies and the sounds of sex fill the room. Voices grunting, skin slapping – it’s all consuming. We build a furious pace, one that I know I won’t be able to maintain for long. The deeper I go, the tighter my grasp on his cock. With a few more hard and erratic thrusts, my legs begin shaking, the sparks of electricity gather at the base of my spine. “Ahhhh… Conner…” his name is dragged out as I come on one hard push.

Not even a second later, I feel the hot jets of his orgasm spurting over my hand. “Oh shit… fuck…” he grunts, fucking my cum-slickened hand. We crumble to the floor in a breathless, sticky mess. His back is to the cabinet, and my back is resting against his chest. With his arms draped over my shoulders, he holds me against him, kissing me on the temple. “I thought you were tired,” I question wryly, enjoying the feel of his laughter move in his chest behind me.

“I’m never too tired for that.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“We should clean up before Rachel gets home.” He peels himself away from the cabinet and up from the floor.

“You might want to wipe that up,” I point to the cabinet next to us and the mess currently sliding down it.

With a laugh, he grabs some cleaner, and wipes up the mess. After the kitchen is back to its pre fucking-Conner-up-against-the-counter status, I gather up our clothes. We take a long hot shower, getting each other good and dirty all over again before we can even think about getting clean.

When I walk into Conner’s room with only a towel twisted around my waist, he gets a hungry look in his eyes. “You can’t seriously have
that
much stamina,” I joke, but I drop the towel just for a good tease.

“Try me.” He arches an eyebrow as he moves in for a hot kiss. His mouth tastes sweet and minty, leaving me wanting more.

I break away from his lips. “I should get going.”

With an arm wrapped around my waist and one in a death-grip on my ass, he purrs into my neck, “Stay. I’ll get you to work on time,” he promises.

“Are you sure? We only just made up.”

“Twice, actually,” he chuckles against my skin. He digs through his dresser for a pair of shorts and t-shirt for each of us.

He tosses the clothes at me. “Good thing we’re about the same size.”

“Otherwise I’d have to sleep naked.” I return an arched eyebrow and a quirked lip.

“Yeah, that’d be a real tragedy.”

We fall into the bed and prop ourselves up against the headboard. In between commercials on some sitcom rerun, I reach for the remote in between us. “The boys missed you this past weekend,” I say as I turn down the volume. He turns toward me, sliding down the headboard and leaning on one elbow. I roll to my side as well. Resting on an elbow, I stare over at him. “I told them you had to work, that you had just opened your own gym and they were really impressed. They’re all hoping you’ll be back this weekend.”

“And you?”

My legs tangle with his as I reach for his neck with my free hand. Letting my fingers dance in the hair at his nape, I say, “I’d really love it if you came back, too.”

His lips pull into the sexiest of smiles before he yawns. “Then I’ll be there.” Drowsiness falls over him, and before long, he’s rolled over, facing away from me, snoring lightly.

Spooning up behind him, something more meaningful than I can put words to takes root deep in my chest. When he pulls my arm from around his waist, links our fingers together, and pulls our joined hands up against his warm, hard chest, a part of me I thought was gone long ago comes back to life.

Streaks of early morning sun slice through my room. I look over at the clock and curse. “Shit.” I jump out of bed. Stumbling to my feet, I trip over my sneakers. “Fucker.”

“Everything okay in there, Con?” Rachel laughs as she taps on my bedroom door.

In my ogre-like clumsiness, I stub my toe on the foot of the bed as I go to let her in. Hopping on one foot, I open the door. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just running late.” I scoop up a few things and make my way into the bathroom. After a lightning fast shower, I’m dressed and ready to go. With a mouthful of toothpaste, I look out into the living room and see that Dylan’s not here yet. After grabbing my sneakers, I flop down on the couch next to Rachel. “Dylan wants me to meet his friends tonight. Any chance you want to tag along.”

“I don’t know, Con. I don’t want to impose. Besides, I don’t even know them.” Even though she objects, I know I’ll get her to go.

“So what. Neither do I. Come on. Dinner and few drinks. Some laughs with some good people. You know you want to,” I tease.

She doesn’t need any more convincing. “Okay, sure. Sounds like fun.”

Dylan buzzes up to the apartment just as I finish tying my shoes. I pop a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m out. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She returns her attention to the home improvement show on TV, calling out, “Have fun,” just as I slip through the door, balancing a box on my hip

He’s waiting for me on the front steps, his back facing the entrance. I steal up behind him, and wrap my free arm around his waist. He turns in my arms and greets me with a quick kiss. “Hey, you all ready?”

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

“What’s in the box?” Dylan asks as I drop it into the back seat.

My eyes rove over him from head to toe, as I scratch my chin. “Nah, you don’t look a thing like Brad Pitt.” I make a lame-ass reference to his “what’s in the box?” question and he rolls his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

As we get into his car, he waves at Mrs. Keating who’s peaking at us through a partially opened curtain. “Do you think we intrigue or confuse her?” Dylan asks as we pull away from the building.

“Eh, she’s harmless. Based on the look that was just on her face, I’d say she’s definitely not disgusted.”

By the time we get to the little league field, the boys are already out on the field, running their laps. I pull the box out of the back seat and Dylan unloads the equipment from the trunk. The boys race over to help us. “Coach Michelson! You’re back,” Brett calls out excitedly.

“Yep.” The rest of the boys pipe down as I begin to speak. “Sorry about last week, guys. Something came up at work,” on the word “work” I shoot Dylan a pained look, hoping he knows exactly what I’m getting at. “But I promise no matter what goes on at work, from here on out, I won’t miss a practice or a game. In fact,” I drop the box at my feet and kneel before it, “I got you these to show you just how committed I am to this team.”

Reaching into the box, the boys look on with rapt attention. I pull out a bright orange and black jersey with the word “Tigers” emblazoned across the chest. Holding it up against my chest, it looks tiny – the perfect reminder of just how meaningful this all is. I turn the jersey around to show them the back. “Cool!” Brett calls out. “That one’s mine!” He scrambles to the front of the small crowd and grabs the jersey from my hand. “It’s got my name on it and everything.” The way Brett looks down at the piece of clothing in his hand can only be described as a look of pure and utter appreciation. He inspects it, checking over every fiber of the fabric, every stitch holding it together. A gigantic smile lights up Brett’s face as he puts on the jersey.

“Here you go!” I call out the names from the shirts, tossing them at their rightful owner, each greeted with a smile as bright as Brett’s.

“Now that’s what a winning team looks like.” Dylan’s approval is full of pride, as he stands there with his arms crossed, scanning over his team. “All right, you guys know the drill, warm ups then batting. Hop to it!” With more bounce than they had when we arrived, the boys sprint across the field.

“Thanks for that.” Dylan nudges me in arm – a simple sign of affection that goes straight to my heart.

“Of course.” I nudge him back. “Besides, I did it for them.”

I’ll go ahead and chalk it up to Dylan’s newfound willingness to give us a chance, but this practice feels all kinds of different from the last one. An air of ease and comfort makes the time pass even more quickly than it did last time. Catching on to mine and Dylan’s little streak of competitiveness, the boys challenge us to compete in a little homerun derby for the last ten minutes of practice. Even with his bum shoulder, I’m impressed with Dylan’s ability to easily lift the ball and send it skyrocketing out of the park. Watching him smile, hearing his laughter, seeing his kindness in action – my heart soars just as high at the ball he’s just hit.

When the bus pulls in to pick the boys up, they actually moan in protest. Dylan huddles them up for one last pep-talk. “Okay, now remember our last game of the season is on Wednesday. Are you guys excited?” Loud and raucous screams fill my ears as the boys show just how excited they are.

“You’ll be there, right, Coach Michelson?” Brett’s more than hopeful face shines brightly as he looks up at me.

“No chance I’d miss it.” I ruffle a hand through his hair and he falls in line with the rest of the boys to board the bus.

Five minutes later, we have the rest of the gear packed up and we’re pulling away from the field. Dylan’s hand moves from the steering wheel, reaches across the center console, and pulls mine from my lap. He rests our locked-together hands on my leg. It’s simple act – one I’m sure many people do rather subconsciously, holding the hand of the person they’re dating.

But with Dylan, I know it means more. It’s a chance he’s never been willing to take. I pull our joined hands up to my lips and plant a kiss there. “Thank you,” I say against his skin.

He pulls a confused face. “For?”

“Taking a chance on me.”

His face softens and the confused look morphs to one of deep-rooted emotion. “I’m the thankful one.”