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Authors: Diane Nelson
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bench, leaving me to bob upwards like a cork. Cellulite and a generous body mass index made for buoyancy and loss of contact with the seat. He used that to maneuver me onto his thigh, just the one.
Now I had his arm around my shoulder, bunched muscle under my ass and…
Crap. That wasn’t a gun. And yes, he was very glad to see me.
Whining, “Jack…” I managed to wriggle myself into even more of a situation.
I knew this because he gasped, or purred, or growled … or something expressing extreme pleasure in the moment.
Or maybe that was me.
Somehow that mass of muscle I now straddled gyrated sinfully, deliciously, as he gripped my hips, pressing me down onto his hardened flesh. Neck braced against his broad shoulder, my back arched in wanton disregard for posture.
We were playing a game, a very physical game. Not one I completely understood. With an outcome I’d only dreamed about, never achieved. Not with Robert.
It lurked, the big tah-dah, the release, the descent into emotional commitment and girlie yearnings.
Bigger than.
Better than.
Be the role model. The perfect wife. The companion, never the lover.
I wasn’t pretty enough, thin enough, outgoing enough to qualify as arm candy. But damn it, I was respectable. Dependable. That was my singular caché.
And the last thing I wanted to be with Jack Ryan.
But the price of freedom is never free. I didn’t understand these rules, if they even existed. With nothing to lose, suddenly everything mattered.
I slid off his lap and moved away, a single indentation in the fiberglass tub cradling my butt, another one his.
We might as well have been on different planets.
He sighed. I recognized frustration. Disappointment.
Turning his torso, his knee nudged my thigh but I resisted moving. To do so would lose me points. And respect.
Placing a finger on my chin, he drew my face around to look at him. Unless he propped my eyelids open with toothpicks, I wasn’t about to engage in a staring match with eyes that could sink ships.
“I’m sorry, Jes. I’m moving too fast, aren’t I?”
Mumbling, “Sort of,” I risked a quick peek.
He was staring at my breasts. And licking his lips.
Now that was empowering.
And dangerous.
“You, um, said you wouldn’t touch me.”
Looking genuinely surprised, he muttered, “You are a beautiful woman, Jessamine Cavanaugh.” And before I could make an arch reply, he stated coyly, “I lied.” The same way Tom Sawyer lied. Without malice.
Coach Jack Ryan did it on the deck, in the hot tub, with artful prevarication.
Ready to forgive, but not forget, I held my ring finger and the bondage under his nose and tapped it.
“Ninety days.”
“Eighty-five.”
My eyebrows shot to the skies. I liked a man who was good at math.
Before I could stop myself, I let slip, “Tomorrow it will be eighty-four.”
“I guess that means I should take you home.” He didn’t look too happy with that prospect. “Stay here. I’ll bring some towels and a robe.”
With that he stood, towering over me, water sluicing off his body in a torrent.
No, I am not that big a person.
I looked.
And then he was gone.
When he returned he laid some towels and an old fleece robe on the table, mumbled something about being in the bathroom and left me with my dignity mostly intact. Drying off, I confronted the choices offered: slip on my nylon workout outfit and wait by the door for my ride home, or … or slip the robe on and see what transpired.
Jack poked his head out the sliding glass door and asked, “You hungry?”
“Starved.”
Me and the old tatty fleece robe padded into the kitchen to see what the man had in mind.
Other than that…other thing.
“Uh, looks like eggs. That okay with you?”
If a man can count and cook … he had me at hello. There was no denying I had developed a strong case of like for Coach Ryan.
We sat and chowed down the evening breakfast, talking basketball, the pitfalls of recruiting,
Now I had his arm around my shoulder, bunched muscle under my ass and…
Crap. That wasn’t a gun. And yes, he was very glad to see me.
Whining, “Jack…” I managed to wriggle myself into even more of a situation.
I knew this because he gasped, or purred, or growled … or something expressing extreme pleasure in the moment.
Or maybe that was me.
Somehow that mass of muscle I now straddled gyrated sinfully, deliciously, as he gripped my hips, pressing me down onto his hardened flesh. Neck braced against his broad shoulder, my back arched in wanton disregard for posture.
We were playing a game, a very physical game. Not one I completely understood. With an outcome I’d only dreamed about, never achieved. Not with Robert.
It lurked, the big tah-dah, the release, the descent into emotional commitment and girlie yearnings.
Bigger than.
Better than.
Be the role model. The perfect wife. The companion, never the lover.
I wasn’t pretty enough, thin enough, outgoing enough to qualify as arm candy. But damn it, I was respectable. Dependable. That was my singular caché.
And the last thing I wanted to be with Jack Ryan.
But the price of freedom is never free. I didn’t understand these rules, if they even existed. With nothing to lose, suddenly everything mattered.
I slid off his lap and moved away, a single indentation in the fiberglass tub cradling my butt, another one his.
We might as well have been on different planets.
He sighed. I recognized frustration. Disappointment.
Turning his torso, his knee nudged my thigh but I resisted moving. To do so would lose me points. And respect.
Placing a finger on my chin, he drew my face around to look at him. Unless he propped my eyelids open with toothpicks, I wasn’t about to engage in a staring match with eyes that could sink ships.
“I’m sorry, Jes. I’m moving too fast, aren’t I?”
Mumbling, “Sort of,” I risked a quick peek.
He was staring at my breasts. And licking his lips.
Now that was empowering.
And dangerous.
“You, um, said you wouldn’t touch me.”
Looking genuinely surprised, he muttered, “You are a beautiful woman, Jessamine Cavanaugh.” And before I could make an arch reply, he stated coyly, “I lied.” The same way Tom Sawyer lied. Without malice.
Coach Jack Ryan did it on the deck, in the hot tub, with artful prevarication.
Ready to forgive, but not forget, I held my ring finger and the bondage under his nose and tapped it.
“Ninety days.”
“Eighty-five.”
My eyebrows shot to the skies. I liked a man who was good at math.
Before I could stop myself, I let slip, “Tomorrow it will be eighty-four.”
“I guess that means I should take you home.” He didn’t look too happy with that prospect. “Stay here. I’ll bring some towels and a robe.”
With that he stood, towering over me, water sluicing off his body in a torrent.
No, I am not that big a person.
I looked.
And then he was gone.
When he returned he laid some towels and an old fleece robe on the table, mumbled something about being in the bathroom and left me with my dignity mostly intact. Drying off, I confronted the choices offered: slip on my nylon workout outfit and wait by the door for my ride home, or … or slip the robe on and see what transpired.
Jack poked his head out the sliding glass door and asked, “You hungry?”
“Starved.”
Me and the old tatty fleece robe padded into the kitchen to see what the man had in mind.
Other than that…other thing.
“Uh, looks like eggs. That okay with you?”
If a man can count and cook … he had me at hello. There was no denying I had developed a strong case of like for Coach Ryan.
We sat and chowed down the evening breakfast, talking basketball, the pitfalls of recruiting,
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