Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)(81)
I turned to his palm and pressed my lips there, accepting his kindness.
“You don’t owe your mom anything. You can’t carry that burden. Do it for you.”
I let my head fall back and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the lights in the gym twinkled like gaudy costume jewelry through my tears, and my mother’s diamond necklace flashed into my memory. It was the one nice thing she’d held on to over the years. She’d kept it in a tiny broken jewelry box on the dresser in our bedroom. I remembered opening the top of the box as a young child, fingering the diamond hanging on the end.
“That was a present from your grandmother before she passed away,” my mother told me one time, after she’d caught me snooping. She smiled and pulled it out of the box, laying it flat across my chest. The diamond glimmered in the light and my eyes grew wide.
It was the most beautiful thing we’d ever owned and she’d hawked it at a pawn shop so she could pay overdue gymnastics fees. I’d found the jewelry box empty, and when I’d asked her about it, I’d seen a glint of sadness in her eye for the first time—but of course she never admitted she was sad to part with the necklace.
“Oh, that thing was old and silly. When would I even need to wear a thing like that? I’m not Cinderella.” She laughed as she stood in front of our stove, opening up a can of tuna fish.
My heart broke all over again, thinking of her parting with the one reminder of her old life.
“I just want to give her back everything she gave me.”
“Brie.” He bent low and gripped my neck in his hand, enveloping me in a soul-crushing hug. “You already have,” he said, trying to ease my gaze back to him. I squeezed my eyes shut and crushed my face into his chest. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. I didn’t want to give him this piece of me, this piece I’d never given anyone before.
He didn’t fight me; he squeezed me against him and for a few moments, all I had to focus on was the steady sound of his breathing, his warm breath spilling down my neck.
He surrounded me, enveloping me in the tenderness I craved from him. He was usually so closed off, and this soft side of him was fleeting; I knew that, and I wanted to steal as much of his sweetness as I could.
I let my grips slip from my fingers and fall to the floor as my hands dragged down his back, bringing my entire body flush with his. He stilled, knowing what I was doing.
“Please,” I begged, skimming my hands down his back, feeling his muscles tense beneath his soft t-shirt. He was solid against my curves, a hard mass of tension I wanted to smooth out. His hands reached down to grip my hips, as if he were trying to anchor himself. The pads of his fingers brushed my bare upper thigh and a soft moan escaped my lips before I could contain it.
His grip tightened, branding me.
“Please,” I begged, skimming my hand down his abs. “Give me five minutes where I don’t have to think about it. Give me this.”
He knew the truth; he knew why tomorrow wasn’t just a competition for me, it was a lifeline for my mother and me.
I pressed up onto my tiptoes and brushed my lips across his sharp jawline. It was shaved clean and felt soft beneath my lips. I inhaled the scent of his body wash, that masculine smell that unwound me.
He kept his hands on my hips, tight and secure, not quite sure if he wanted to give in. My hand moved up, slipping beneath his t-shirt and gliding across his hard muscles. He flexed beneath my hand, trying to keep his composure. I knew I could make him crumble, make him give in to this, this thing we were so f*cking good at.
My leotard was made of a dark blue velvet-blend, and every time the soft material brushed against my skin, I nearly buckled under the sensation.
“I’m begging you,” I said, drawing my lips up to his ear and biting down gently.
“Brie,” he said, his voice broken and dark.
“Touch me.”
I moved his hand from my hip and pushed it lower, brushing his fingers over the velvety material barring me from him. I wasn’t wearing any panties. If he wanted to, he could brush my leotard aside and slip right into me.
The moment the palm of his hand hit the center of my thighs, a low groan slipped out of his lips. In that moment, I was no longer in control. He picked me up off the floor and carried me back to the row of beams in the corner of the room. The door wasn’t locked—another gymnast or coach could walk in at any time—but the sun was setting and the competition was tomorrow. No one wanted to be in that room but us.
My back hit the beam and he lifted me up until I was sitting on the worn leather. He stepped between my legs and wound his hands up around my neck, crashing his lips to mine.
His kisses stole my breath and I tried to keep up, running my hands up his arms to balance myself on the beam, but it was no use. His mouth was on me, in me, stealing me. His tongue glided over mine and I tilted my hips forward to brush myself against the front of his pants.
He backed up, knowing exactly what I was doing. An inch away and suddenly I had nothing, no heat to ease the desire threatening to swallow me whole.
His lips left mine and I fluttered my eyes open to see him taking another step back, then another. He was still close enough to reach out and grab, but he was putting space between us, raking his gaze down my body. My chest rose and fell. My breasts strained against the top of my leotard as I waited for his next move. I’d put myself out there. I’d danced for him the night before and now I was baring my soul for him.