Rush (17 page)

Chapter Twenty

Preston

My fingers punch the code into the keypad. It’s Carson’s jersey number forward and backward—1331. The security gate shakes and then eases open, pulling the iron curtain back on the Dean family crib. The great thing about having parties at Carson’s house is that the animals in the asylum can roam loose and we can still keep a sense of control—anyone that comes or goes has to be buzzed in or out, including the cops. There’s also a guesthouse at the back of the property that I usually stay in, and I’m planning on asking Priscilla if she wants to stay with me.

I lift the seat and reach a hand in for her, watching her jeans cling to the lean curve of her leg as a long boot stretches to the pavement. Her gaze shifts instantly away from my appreciative look, focusing on the expansive glass and whitewash finish of Carson’s ultramodern home. My fingers barely touch her back before she’s moving forward, responding to a question Sasha asks about SEU’s campus.

A mix of coeds are spread across the sleek front porch, laughing and clutching plastic cups, half of them waiting around the keg. A voice calls Jace’s name, and the girls stop to visit.

“I’m going to get a beer. Can I get you one?” I ask Priscilla. She angles her head but doesn’t look at me, declining my offer with a quick shake. I stare at her profile a moment. She crosses her arms, focusing on the conversation in front of her, but I know she sees me. She relents, turning my way and casting me a quick smile, but there’s a tightness on her face that concerns me, and she turns away again. Hmmm.

She hasn’t said much to me since I picked her up. Whatever it is that’s bothering her, I hope she gets over it quick. My fingers burn with the urge to touch her, and I feel like hauling her off and kissing her until she snaps out of it. Better give her a little time to loosen up before I try that.

I fill a red cup, chatting with Carson and Sasha, but after they exchange a couple intense looks, I make an excuse and bow out of the conversation. I’m heading back to check on Priscilla when my cell buzzes, and I see my soon-to-be NFL agent’s name appear. My pulse jumps as I swipe the phone open. “How are you doing, Mr. McCray?”

“Congrats on the win. Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”

“No, no, that’s fine. Did you catch the game?” I ask him. We chat for a few minutes before his tone changes.

“I’ve been hearing a few things that I thought I should talk to you about. Sources are telling me your football program could have some NCAA problems coming down the line…”

Paralysis seizes my step. Hip-hop music pounds in my ears, and my brain races.
Who told him? What does he know? Is he calling to cross me off his list of prospective clients?
My pulse ramps up to haywire, and I redirect my path to a side door, focusing on his stern voice as he asks, “Is there anything you want to talk about?” I angle toward the shadows of the backyard, tossing the contents of my plastic cup at a bush, and take a deep breath.

Thoughts pummel my mind, and I deflect each of them until there’s only one left. If he’s going to be my agent and represent me, he needs to know, and I might as well tell him now. “How much time do you have?” I ask.

He lets out a laugh. “That bad, huh? I’ve got all the time you need. Let’s hear it.”

I tell him everything—my history with Martin Todd, my night spent in jail with Little Bo Peep, my suspicions about the bar fight, the trouble Priscilla is having, and lastly my plan to appear as a witness at her hearing. When I’m done, there’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Before I give you any advice that you didn’t ask for, I’m going to make a few calls and see if I can get any more information, if that’d be all right with you? I’ll get back to you before that appeal day.”

“Sure. Yeah, thanks for hearing me out.” I hang up and let out a breath, but it does nothing to relieve the gravity of the situation, weighing on my head like a thousand fucking pounds. I probably just killed my chance to be part of his team. He’ll make a few calls—or not—then tell me he doesn’t have the time that representing me would take. And, of course, his last bit of advice will be to tell me not to appear at Priscilla’s hearing.

I trudge slowly to the house in search of the one thing that can ease my pain and distract me from my football troubles. I grab a bottle of beer from the cooler on the back patio and head into the house. I find Priscilla moving through the living room and angle into her path. “Hey,” I say, “How ya doin’?”

She stops short. “Fine,” she says. But she doesn’t look fine. She looks mad. I stare at her, my mind wallowing in my confessions to McCray. All I want is to feel an ounce of warmth from her right now, but it doesn’t come.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. She stiffens, blinking up at me and I release a breath.

My voice is hard—too hard, and I’m sure my face doesn’t look any better.

“I’m going to go find a bathroom,” she murmurs, brushing past me.

Frustration beats through my chest as she disappears into the bodies. Clearly, I’m going to have to ease her pain before I find any relief for my own. It’d be so much easier if she’d just tell me what’s going on.

I trail a few paces behind her as she’s making her way to the stairs. A sheet of paper is taped to the bannister with the words
Toilet Upstairs
written on it. I watch her climb—holding the railing and staring at her boots—until a voice shrieks my name. The shrill tone sinks into my shoulders like teeth. It’s Amelia—she’s skipping toward me with a voluptuous blonde in tow. Great. I glance at Priscilla, who’s standing at the top of the stairs, nailing Amelia with a fierce look.

“Hey,” Amelia calls. “This is my new friend, Lilly.”

“Nice to meet you,” I respond, nodding and shifting another look to the top of the stairs. Not good. Priscilla has reversed gears and is making her way down, striking the wood floor like she’s marking a warpath. Her fists are clenched, and her face is flushed with anger. She stops beside me, drawing Amelia’s attention.

“This is my girlfriend, Priscilla,” I say. Amelia’s expression morphs from curious to surprised. Unease waves through me. If Amelia knows what’s good for her, she’ll shut her mouth—but she’s never been the kind of girl who picks up well on body language. If she were, she would have recognized my “clearly not interested” signals years ago.

“Girlfriend,” Amelia says, puckering her mouth as if she just spit out a lemon rind.

“Yeah. Girlfriend,” Priscilla says, curving her upper body forward.

Amelia’s mouth drops a half laugh, half gasp as she surveys Priscilla with a haughty expression. She looks at me, then back to Peep, and repeats the sound, only louder. “Well, sorry, but you don’t really look like his usual type. You look…”

Oh God, Amelia. Shut. Up.

“Smart?” Priscilla snaps.

“Uh, that’s not what I was going to say,” Amelia says.

“If you have a brain cell left in your head, you won’t say anything because I’m about to knock that smirk…”

I move in front of Priscilla, taking her elbow. “Later Amelia,” I say.

She jerks away and leans around me. “Next time you need to take a family picture, find your own damn boyfriend.”

My arms circle her waist, lifting her toward the stairs as her words sink in. She shoves my shoulder. I drop my hold and watch her climb.

Okay. I get it now.

She saw me with Amelia and her parents earlier. That’s why she’s pissed, and that’s why she didn’t wait for me. Come on. It was a stupid picture. I take pictures with countless people. She’s an athlete; she should know that.

I start after her, calling her name. She ignores me and climbs faster, but I am not letting her get away without hearing me out. “Priscilla,” I shout, covering the stairs two at a time. Her pace quickens, blond hair swishing hard over her back. She grabs the wall, swings into the upstairs hallway, and bolts. But I’m on her, steps away. She slides into the bathroom, hooking her fingers over the doorjamb to stop herself then turning to slam the door and shut me out. Not gonna happen. I leap and extend my leg, wedging a foot in the last open inch. The corner of my mouth lifts. I barge inside the small space, close the door, and lock it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Priscilla

“You could have told me,” he says, stepping closer, despite the fact that I’m glaring at him.

“I just did,” I respond.

“Peep…”

“Don’t ‘Peep’ me,” I sneer. God. I hope I don’t look as crazy as I sound, but I can’t hold it in any longer. I tried. Thought I could. But I can’t. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just going to ruin his night. He deserves to celebrate. My head bumps the wall. I’ve nowhere else to go to avoid him—I consider hopping in the tub, but I’m sure he’d just follow me in there, too. I brace myself for his approach.

He stops in front of me and rests his hands on my hips.

“Amelia and I dated freshman year for a few months.”

I close my eyes. Oh God. Now I immediately want to know if he slept with her, but I’m not going to ask. I’m not going to lower myself to the level of one of those sniveling, whiny, insecure, red-eyed dingbats who follows her boyfriend around hounding him about any girl who blinks at him. I’m not going to do it. I draw a calming breath, and exhale to a slow count—one…two…three. There. I’m calmer now.

“Did you sleep with her?” I hear myself blurt out. Crap.

“No. We did other things—I’m not going to lie to you—but I didn’t sleep with her. I never liked her that much.” His words comfort and sting at the same time, and I can’t help but think about the times he’s put the brakes on our intimacy. Oh God. I
am
one of those crazy bitches.

“You have nothing to be jealous of.”

“I am not jealous,” I say, a little too aggressively.

“She’s no threat to you.” Calm gray eyes stare, unblinking, penetrating my doubts with a sincere and tender look. I know he’s not lying to me. I know it in my heart. All I’ve proved to myself with this ridiculous confrontation is that I’m no better than those other crazy bitches.

“She hasn’t been my girlfriend in a long time,” he reaffirms.

“Does she know that?”

“Yes, and she knows about you. She’s a volunteer student aide with the team, and I told her last week at practice that you and I were going to the banquet together.”

I watch him a moment longer, then nod my head. “Okay, I might owe you an apology, but I can’t right now. I’m still a little angry,” I say, and the edge of his mouth lifts. “When I saw you with her family, I just…it made me feel bad.”

“There’s nothing to feel badly about. I know her family from when we used to date, and they’ve been very good to me.”

I swallow and an uneasy feeling lingers. “Preston, when you told me there were things going on in your life that you couldn’t talk about…”

“That I couldn’t talk about
yet
,” he corrects me.

“You’re not talking about things involving another girl, are you?”

“It all relates to football.”

Pounding vibrates against the door, and I flinch. “Hey, are you almost done? There’s a line out here,” a nasally voice shouts.

“Toilet is clogged,” he yells. “Try the one in the basement.”

“Thanks a lot,” she groans, smacking the door.

He tightens his hands on my waist and steps closer. “We okay now?”

“Yeah. We’re okay now,” I say.

His fingers move along my sides, sliding to my lower back. “Good, because I really need for us to be okay right now,” he says, and I notice the tight line of his jaw. There’s something clouding his expression. He’s miles away from the way he looked after the game and I think it’s more than just my mini-meltdown. I’m about to ask but he interrupts me. “I’m staying in the guest house tonight. I was wondering if you want to crash there with me?”

My brain lapses into
huh
mode. “What?” I say, staring blankly.

“I’m asking if you want to stay the night with me.”

“That sounds…yeah…sounds…good,” I say, skipping over words as my brain processes the likely outcome of sharing a private guesthouse.

“You sure?” he asks. “We don’t have to.”

“I’m sure. I want to,” I say, a little too fast. His face fills with a knowing, sensual grin that shoots an arrow low in my belly. I clench my legs around the feeling.

“All of a sudden, I’m kind of over this party,” he says. “How about you?”

“Yeah, definitely kind of over it.”

We snake through the house, exit the sliding glass door at the back, and follow the path lined with boxwoods to the small guesthouse. A motorized click echoes as he unlocks the door with a key code, then steps in and flips a switch.

The space is half kitchen, half living room—the latter dominated by a gray sectional sofa. I text Jace and let her know our plan, asking if they can hitch a ride home with Sam or Syd, as Preston heads into the galley kitchen. “Want anything?” he asks, pulling the refrigerator door open and bending low.

“Umm, maybe just some water.” He pulls out two bottles and tilts his head to the hallway.

“Let me show you my favorite part of the guest house.”

“The bedroom?” I quip.

He flips a smile over his shoulder and grabs my hand, pulling me along. “You’ll see,” he says, leading me to the end of the hall. We climb a flight of floating stairs and cross into the shadows of a spacious loft. My focus zooms to the king-size bed, half covered in pillows and sitting square in the middle of the space. My stomach tightens, and a small sound escapes from my throat. I cover it with a soft cough—no matter how much I feel ready for this, it’s impossible not to be nervous.

“Come look,” he says, holding a hand out. I join him at the floor to ceiling window and follow his gaze.

“My God,” I whisper. Sprawled below is a perfectly manicured Japanese garden. Sparse branches fold around the corners of our window, encasing us in the scene. “It looks like an artists sketch, only it’s alive.” Stepping stone paths bend through the landscape, lit by pagoda lanterns that carpet the ground with a soft yellow haze. He steps behind me, sliding his hands over my ribs and locking strong arms around my waist. The weight of his body warms my back as he speaks low next to my ear.

“I was hoping it would work for you to stay with me tonight, so I could show you this.” My heart flutters. The tenderness of his words ignites a million tiny fires that fan across my belly. I arch and stretch my back, prompting his hands to move—one lifts to my breast, cupping and squeezing. I moan, relaxing against his powerful body as his other hand dips. His fingers slide a firm grip between my legs, raking the seam of my jeans over the most sensitive part of me. His hand finds the button at my waist.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, and I hear the slightest trepidation in his voice—but surely it’s not for me. He’s about to unlock the door to la-la land, and I’ve been lined up like a Black Friday shopper for the last two weeks.

“I’m sure.” I’m more than sure. He pops the button and lowers the zipper, while his other hand catches the hem of my sweater, moving underneath it to my bra. He pushes the cup aside, sliding two fingers over my nipple. His touch draws a zing of pleasure through me, which moves to the tip of my breast, tightening the skin to an intense degree. I raise my arms and circle his neck, reveling in the feeling of being surrounded and consumed by him. He nestles close, and his tone is deep, laced with the promise of what’s to come.

“You tell me if I go too fast, okay?”

“Okay.” The word floats out in a rasp, and I’m confident it’s the last coherent syllable I’ll speak. His hand sinks lower, spreading over my stomach and skimming my panties. He twists the lace gently around his fingers, drawing the thong deeper and sliding it gently between my legs. Alternating the stroke of his fingers with the feel of the twisted lace, he teases the sensitive skin, while his other hand continues tracing my nipple with a calloused finger, squeezing and plucking, the exquisite pressure sending small shivers down my spine. Heat is building between my legs, working its way up my body.

He slides one finger slowly inside of me, and my soft moan carries until he’s deep within me. The pad of his thumb touches my clit, and I jolt at the intensity. His mouth lowers, brushing the top of my ear with the faint feel of stubble when he speaks. “Can you feel me?” he asks, using his hands to pull me closer and increasing the pressure of his touch. His hips shift against my backside, and I smile and nod my head. Hell yes, I can feel him. He’s big and hard and I feel him in the curl of my toes, and the spinning of my head—like I’m hanging off the end of a merry-go-round with my face turned to the sun. I move my hips in a slow swirl against the hard bulge of his cock at my back.

“God…Priscilla,” his words drag through a groan. I reach a hand back, grip the sides of his legs, and slide them toward his cock, but he locks his arms and shakes his head. “Not yet, baby.” My hands stop moving. I feel a ping of disappointment, but I move back to massaging the hard muscles in his thighs, drawing pleasure from the deep humming sound vibrating over his throat.

His hand withdraws slowly from between my legs. My knees feel weak as he turns me to face him and lifts my sweater, grazing my sides with his knuckles. His thumbs dip into the waistband of my jeans and push them down. His hands look so big against the shallow curve of my waist, holding me as I wiggle out, kicking. I help him take his shirt off, stopping to run my fingers up the smooth ridges of abdominal muscle and he skims a hand up my back and unfastens my bra. A nervous shiver shakes my spine as his focus dips and lingers. His big perfect body is almost enough to make me forget I’m standing in front of him naked. He sucks in a breath, and his pecs expand as his gaze moves over me. A small euphoric feeling twirls in my head. My arms and legs feel weak just from watching his reaction to my body. Suddenly, I’m desperate to touch him.

I reach for his waistband, and he turns me so that my back is to his chest again, facing the window. “Not yet,” he says, squeezing me until my lungs tighten. “I want to…so, so bad, but we’re going to go slow. We have to go slow.” I bite the inside of my lip. His deflection of my touch, for the second time now, jams the signals in my head.

One arm tightens against my waist while he lowers a hand to my ass, cupping and squeezing as he kisses my neck, whispering to me. “Fuck, I love your ass, Priscilla.” His body curves over me as he lowers his mouth, kissing my back and breathing fire into my veins. “Spread your legs for me, baby.” His thigh lifts, parting my knees. Cool air teases the sensitive skin between my legs. I’m dying, waiting for his hot touch, squirming and bending against his arm. I let out a rush of breath when his finger slides deep inside of me, and I clench around him, numb in every other area of my body. My back arches, moving against his touch, and he groans.

“You like that?” he asks, kissing my neck, but I can’t answer him with anything other than the rocking motion of my hips.

“More?” Slowly he slides another finger inside of me, an exquisite stretching that makes me gasp, and I raise my fingertips to balance on the glass window.

A breathless beat is trapped inside of me as his fingers tease. “Preston…I…I’m so…ready.” My voice carries a plea, but there’s something else I’m feeling, too—it’s the lingering worry that he doesn’t want this to end the same way I do. He hasn’t let me touch him yet, and even though what happened between us at Thanksgiving was amazing, I want more. I want all of him. I don’t want to feel like he’s holding something back. I stiffen and stop moving against his fingers as the invasion of emotion caves in on me. He slows then stops, reading my body and turning me in his arms.

Concern laces his heady expression. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow and hesitate. Can I really ask him this? How desperate will I sound? But I am desperate. I feel desperate, and in the minute I’ve paused to question the politically correct way to ask, the concern in his expression has doubled.

“Are we going to…are you going to…to fuck me?” I whisper, as heat burns my cheeks.

His brows shoot high, and a slow grin grows behind the shock. “Well, I thought I might,” he responds. I narrow my eyes, unable to shake the feeling and he reaches for my arms. “Jesus, Priscilla, of course I’m going to fuck you.”

“Then why aren’t you letting me touch you?”

The humor disappears, replaced by a serious expression as he considers me. He raises one of my hands and kisses my curled fingers, moving my palm to his bare chest and holding it against his hot skin. Without shifting his gaze from mine, his other hand works over his waist, unbuttoning his jeans and loosening them on his hips. He guides my touch slowly down his chest, over the ridges of abdominal muscle, and into his jeans. He’s warm and smooth, thick and long, and he shudders when my hand moves on its own, closing around him.

Sliding a hand to the back of my neck and pulling me close, he leans over my ear. “I’m going to fuck you, Priscilla. Not with my fingers. Not with my tongue. I’m going to bury every inch of my cock inside of you.” His words send a tingling wave up my body and a breath releases from my mouth. “I’m trying to go slow because you’re small and tight, and I’m…well, because I’m me,” he says, flashing the hint of a dimple. “I want to make sure you’re ready.”

His explanation douses one worry but plants another tendril of anxiety. If he’s worried, should I be worried? I take a breath and push the thought away, knowing I can trust him. I tighten my grip and stroke him, tugging his jeans lower on his hips and pushing him against the glass window. His shoulders ease, and he drops his head, leaning back. “That’s it, baby,” he says, as I explore, gripping and sliding my fingers over the hard, silky skin. I love the way that his body reacts to my touch and the low sensual sounds rumbling from the back of his throat. He hisses in a breath then exhales a low growl and moves quickly.

He kicks his jeans off, then bends and picks me up, settling my legs around his waist and holding my thighs with two big hands. I moan and tighten my arms around his shoulders as he slides against me. I squeeze my legs around him, trying to ease the pressure building as he carries me to the bed and lowers my body, kneeling over me. Goose bumps fan over my skin.

“Preston…” My voice is a whimper at the sight of his head lowering between my legs.

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing my inner thighs and moving lower until he’s caressing the sensitive skin with torturous strokes, the ends of his soft curls brushing against me. My whole body is tingling, running hot and cold at the same time and I’m lost in a haze of bliss.