Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“I do, Ban,” he says roughly, tenderly. “I’ve seen you. I know you’ve lost weight, but I’m more impressed with how you’ve grown than by what you’ve lost. You’re more confident, more compassionate, more clever, more driven. You’re more of all the things that drew me to you in the first place.”

I blink back tears at the rightness of that. It’s not that Zo didn’t see me clearly. I know he did, and that he loved me for who I was under my skin. But I tried to feel this for him, tried to want him the way I want Jared, and I never could. I don’t know when thinking of him while I’m with Jared and thinking of Jared when I’m with Zo won’t feel disloyal to them both. Right now it does, and I clear my mind of everything but the man standing in front of me.

Ten years ago, I demanded he kill the lights before we went any further. I wrapped layers of clothing around myself then to camouflage my flaws. To hide myself. Now I’m standing under bright, unforgiving lights in the bathroom, only a thin robe between Jared and my imperfections.

And I’m not concerned about the pounds I still need to lose.

I’m not wondering if anything will jiggle when he makes love to me.

I don’t care about the last of the dimples in my thighs or if my hips are too wide.

I’m captivated by the acceptance in his eyes.

Seduced by the care in every touch, even more because I know he doesn’t always care about people, can’t tolerate everyone. But he said he likes me more than any other girl. I never imagined I’d fall for someone like Jared, so opposite of me. We both play by certain rules and are both each other’s exception.

Whatever it is that binds us and has endured even through the hostility and deception compels me to do something I’ve never done with anyone else.

Eyes never leaving his, I completely loosen the belt of the robe. I shrug my left shoulder until one panel falls away, revealing my naked breast and glimpses of my waist and thigh. Jared inhales sharply though his nose and clenches a fist at his side. I shrug my right shoulder and the robe surrenders completely, falling to the ground in a white heap of clouds at my feet.

The tiny network of stretch marks at my waist and thighs, etched in my skin from the weight I’ve gained and lost . . . he sees those.

The discrepancy between my breasts—one slightly larger than the other—he sees that, I’m sure.

The stomach that never seems quite flat enough and pokes out if I even look at bread . . . he must see that. My eyes zero in on it every morning.

I’m sure he sees all my imperfections. I want him to see them and to want me anyway.

And he does.

“Can I tou

ch you now?” His voice is scraped raw with hunger for me. The girl with the pencil in freshman orientation. The one he didn’t see or even recall. That girl stands here showing him everything, trusts him with everything.

And feels completely seen.

I nod jerkily, breasts rising and falling with my choppy breaths.

His hands . . . God, his hands are so reverent when he strokes the curve of my jaw and then traces my face. He wanders down my neck, caressing the skin slowly like he’s savoring every inch. He’s watching the path his hands take, narrowing his eyes on my breasts cupped in his big hands. He bends and takes one nipple into the warmth of his mouth, stroking the other with his thumb.

I clutch the nearby counter, gripping it tightly and trying to stay on my feet while his mouth widens over my breast, sucking aggressively, and his other hand swipes down my side and palms my butt.

“This ass,” he breathes over the dampened tip of my breast and moves his hand between my legs, palming me and sliding three eager fingers inside me without delay. He runs his finger to my ass and strokes the sensitive aperture, surprising me, overtaking me with unexpected sensations as he freely explores my body.

“Have you ever been fucked in the ass?” he asks, running his thumb over the tiny hole, eyes burning with curiosity and lust.

“Yes,” I breathe, realizing that I shed my inhibitions along with my robe. “I love anal.”

His thumb stills, lingering then probing the tiniest bit at the puckered hole but not delving inside. The look suspended between us spins a web of soon-to-be unindulged fantasies.

“We’re gonna get along just fine.” He resumes the seeking, the stroking, the torture above the waist and below until I’m panting, desperate, quivering. Our breaths mingle. Our foreheads press together and he rubs my back, my spine a conduit for the electric charge transmitted from his fingertips to the delicate column of nerves and muscles.

“It would be a shame if a bed is actually here this time,” he says. “And we still don’t use it.”

He kisses me, our tongues parrying and thrusting, our moans meeting in the middle. I barely notice that he’s slowly walking me backward into his bedroom. By the time the backs of my knees hit the firm mattress, I’m nearly delirious, twisting his hair in my fingers, scraping my nails down his back. There’s a savagery in our kisses born of desire long denied. There’s nothing sweet or gentle in it. A starving stroke of tongues, the sharp snap of teeth. Bared. Biting. The taste of blood mingles in the kiss, making it ferrous, feral. It’s more than a kiss. It’s a clash of titans.

“Wait.” He grabs my hair, pulling my head back when I press into him, seeking more. “I want this slower.”

“Jared.” I reach between us and fist his cock. “We can do slower later.”