“No,” he answered honestly, and I appreciated it. I didn’t want to be lied to or have my feelings protected. “But I did, and I’d do it again, and that’s what matters.”
His words twisted me up. I wanted to ask him to say them again, wanted to ask him why. Wanted to tell him his work needed to come first, that we were just hooking up, that maybe we should reconsider the whole thing. But I didn’t say any of that.
It shouldn’t—couldn’t—be, but this was more than a hookup to me. When he said things like that, it made me wonder if it was more for him too, but how could it be? Not even because of the obstacles between us. It made sense for me. I was new at this. West was the only man I’d been with, and maybe that’s why I clung to him, but he had men all the time. Guys who weren’t in the closet and with whom he didn’t have to go slow, whom he would have already fucked.
A low growl vibrated through my chest at the thought of him with someone else, and West cocked a brow as though he could read my mind. I stood up, walked to him, held his face in my hands, felt his stubble against my palms, and leaned in to take his mouth. I tried to show him with my kiss the things I couldn’t say—that I wanted to be his and wanted him to be mine; that none of the other shit mattered, not my career or what anyone thought; that I was willing to risk it all for him if he’d have me. Yet even as I thought those things, as I wanted them, I knew they would never happen. This was reality, not whatever fucking fairy tale I was trying to spin in my head.
The truth was, while West liked being with me, he might not want me that way, and all that shit did matter, and we would be doomed from the start. Maybe I was all caught up in my head and my feels because he represented the one thing I never thought I’d have, even if it was temporary. Maybe I wasn’t feeling more for him like I thought I was.
I put all those questions into the kiss, into the way my tongue swept his mouth and my body moved against his, as I savored his hard edges and muscles.
For the first time in my life, I wished I’d never started playing football at all. But if I hadn’t, I never would have met him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Weston
I wrapped my arms around Anson, dug my fingers into his hips, and pulled him closer, as close as he could possibly get. He ravaged my mouth, and I let him, enjoying the feel of the hard ridge of his cock against mine.
We walked backward toward the bed. I wanted inside him so bad, wanted him inside me. Whatever he wanted, as long as I got to claim him in that way, because that’s exactly what it would be—a claiming.
I leaned back and went for the jersey to pull it over my head.
“No,” Anson ordered, and I raised a brow. “I want you to wear it. I like seeing my name and number on you.”
“That’s kind of hot.”
“Only kinda?” he asked.
“Next time add a possessive growl like you did earlier.”
He chuckled. “So damn bossy.”
Since I wasn’t allowed to take off my shirt, I went for his, tugging the T-shirt up. As I pushed the fabric up to expose skin, I revealed huge purple and blue bruises. “Jesus, Anson.”
“What? Oh, the bruises? It’s fine. That’s normal.”
It sure as shit wasn’t normal to me. “Isn’t your gear supposed to protect you?” It was the first time I really considered how hard what he did was on his body. Sure, I winced and got pissed when someone tackled him, but seeing what was left over after a game, one where none of this was considered abnormal or an injury, was jarring.
“It does. Can you imagine if I didn’t wear anything?”
I didn’t want to. The thought of his body taking that sort of abuse day in and day out twisted me up, even if it was part of the game, part of his job. So I kept going, pulled the shirt off, then leaned forward and pressed my lips to one of the bruises. Anson sucked in a breath.
“Don’t be gentle with me, West. I like it when you’re not.”
“Can I do both?” I asked, but I got it. I liked things a little rougher myself, but I wanted to be tender with him, wanted to cherish him.
Being careful where I touched so I didn’t hit any visible injuries, I shoved him to the bed. Anson fell down onto it, then pulled his shoes off. I stepped between his legs, pushed him again so he went down onto his back, and I swore that simple contact made his eyes roll back. His bulge was prominent behind the zipper of his jeans. I rubbed my hand over it. “Fuck, you need it, don’t you, Bashful.”