Things Liars Say (#ThreeLittleLies #1)(17)

“That depends.” I cross my arms, one hand fisting the Starbucks, noting with satisfaction that my biceps are bulging nicely. “What is it?”

Grey notices too.

“See, remember how I told you no one knows I made you up? Well, it wouldn’t seem natural for me to just walk away right now. You know, without…” Her sentence trails off, and she stares me down.

I’m not following. “Without what?”

“A good-bye kiss, you idiot.”

It takes me a few to realize she’s being serious. She actually wants me to kiss her. This gorgeous, smart, funny girl wants me to kiss her.

“You’re asking me to kiss you.” It’s a statement, not a question. “I have stitches in my lip.”

“Do the stitches bother you? It doesn’t have to be real—just one for show. If you can stand to put your lips near me.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. I think I can manage.”

Her eyes shine. “Put the cup down.”

The air crackles around us like unharnessed electricity. Bending slowly, I do as I’m told, setting the green tea lemonade on the playing field.

“Well? Get closer, you shameless hussy. Unless you’re afraid to get dirty.”

“I’m not afraid to get dirty if you’re not.”

“Would you stop saying shit like that? Jesus.” I grasp her arm, tugging her into my damp, mud-stained rugby jersey, trailing my calloused hands up her smooth arms. Grey sighs and leans into me, returning the favor. The tips of her fingers start at my wrists, tracing their way up the sensitive skin of my underarms. She flattens her palms and closes them around the corded muscles of my flexed biceps.

Her breasts press against my sweat-soaked chest.

My cock gets harder, and any intentions of a chaste good-bye kiss go up in smoke as my hormones rage inside me like a wildfire.

I gently cup her neck in my large palms, kneading the nape and cradling her jaw when her head lists to one side with a moan.

My fingers find themselves threaded through her thick, silk-spun hair.

Bodies drawn together as if by necessity, our hot lips press together, softly at first. Tentatively. I hesitate a few seconds, inhaling to harness my raging testosterone levels, and begin pulling away.

“Wait.” Grey’s delicate hands gently glide up my biceps to my shoulders, her index finger tracing my square jawline, then the lobe of an ear. “Don’t back away yet. Please.”

Without thinking, I grab her wrist and roll my head, bringing her palm to my mouth and planting a wet kiss there. I kiss the tips of her fingers and her palm, running my nose along the velvety skin of her wrist and inhaling the musky smell of her perfume.

Her lips part as she watches me, her pupils dilated.

“God, Grey.”

Our foreheads touch. The tips of our noses follow.

A few millimeters closer and our lips part. Mouths touch. Tongues meet.

“Kiss me, Cal,” Grey begs against my mouth, her voice a whisper in the breeze. “Kiss me.”

Fuck it. I’m going all in.

I snake my arms around her waist and haul her in, so flush with her body that I’m cradled in between her legs. I groan. She moans, and her hands travel south, down over my firm ass, squeezing it through my thin shorts.

Holy shit, yes.

I lose half my brain cells in that moment—then the rest—when she sucks my tongue farther into her mouth, like she’s actually enjoying herself. Her tongue darts out, licking along the deep cut on my lip.

I give her a few more kisses before I tighten my grip on her arms and, regretfully, give her a small push to create some space between us.

“Shit, Grey, we have to stop.” My breathing is labored, but so is hers. “Jesus. This is nuts.”

“I don’t want to,” she pouts against my lips.

“I don’t either, but my dick is hard as a rock and I’m wearing f*cking spandex. People are watching.”

As if on cue, my teammates begin cat-calling from the field house. Assholes.

She huffs; it’s adorable. “Okay, fine. But only because I don’t want to be called any more nasty names ‘cause I can’t keep my hands to myself.”

“Trust me, it’s no hardship,” I feebly joke, my voice catching when Grey runs her palms up the front of my jersey, tracing the outline of the team name screen printed there. I reach my hand between our bodies, adjusting my groin and jockstrap before capturing her hands to hold them still. “I’m going to be walking crooked for a week.”

Grey takes a step back, giving me a once-over and pausing on the bulge in my shorts before averting her eyes and glancing up into the bleachers as her hands fall to her sides. She swallows hard and clears her throat. “You played great tonight, Cal. I’m proud of you.”

“Grey, why…”

“Yes?”

“…are you here?”

We stare at one another, and I know by the expression on her face that she’s doing what I’m doing: memorizing every line in my face, every curve of my body.

Just in case we… just in case this is the last time.

And there goes that crack and sizzle.

Grey closes the gap between us. Slowly, her soft lips press against my mouth, tenderly resting there. “You know why I’m here, Cal Thompson.”