All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(42)

I chuckle. “Yeah, it was nice, wasn’t it?” The couple of times I woke up, I was happy to realize I wasn’t alone—that she was still in my bed, softly breathing beside me.

Running my palm over her hip, I bring my lips to the back of her neck, planting a soft kiss there. She curls into me, pressing her hips back, and I wonder if she can tell I’m hard.

I want her again, of course I do. But I’m not going to push my luck. This isn’t about me and my desires; it’s about Becca getting comfortable with sex again. So unless she initiates it, I’m certainly not going to.

My stomach rumbles, and she chuckles.

“Are you ever not hungry?”

“I could always eat. How do you feel about trying my epic scrambled eggs?” I ask.

“How could a girl possibly say no to that?”

We get dressed and then share coffee and scrambled eggs at the kitchen island. Since I’ve made plans to play a game of pickup basketball with some of the guys at the training facility later, Becca says she’ll be heading out shortly after we finish breakfast.

“Thank you for the eggs,” she says pressing a kiss to my cheek as I load the dishwasher. “I’m going to get out of your hair. I just need to grab my bag.”

“You sure?” I ask, wiping my hands on a dish towel. I don’t want her to think she has to rush off, don’t want this morning after to be awkward.

She nods, biting her lip, then pauses, her mouth curling up in a lazy smile. “Last night was . . .”

“Last night was mind blowing,” I say. “You are incredible. And so sexy.”

Her smile grows even bigger. “I was talking about the stir-fry.”

I let out a deep laugh. “You brat.”

I follow her into my bedroom, and Becca grabs her tote bag from the chair. Then she freezes, gazing down the stack of books balanced on the edge of my desk. They sport titles like Surviving Sexual Trauma, How to Cope, Faith to Move Forward, and Healing and Hope.

Oh. Yeah. I’d kinda forgotten about those.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there, her bag dangling from her hands as she stares at the books. “What’s all this?” she asks, voice quiet and unsure.

“Uh, just some books I picked up.”

She scans the titles for a moment longer as though she’s committing them to memory, and when she looks up at me her eyes are filled with questions. “For you or for me?”

“Me,” I say quickly. “...And you, I guess.”

Shifting her weight, Becca lets out an uneasy breath. “I’m not broken, you know? These textbooks won’t tell you how to fix me.”

I grab the stack of books and shove them in a desk drawer where they land with a loud thud before I slide it closed. “I know that.”

I mean, logically speaking, I do know that. But when I agreed to help her, it was a proposition I took seriously. I figured a little research would be in order, but now I can see how insensitive that seems to Becca. Like there’s some playbook I could read, a manual about how to help her. She’s not a robot, or a part that needs re-tooling. She’s human with complex feelings and emotions.

Turning to face her, I take her shoulders in my hands, giving them a soft squeeze. “Hey. I’m sorry. There’s not a damn thing wrong with you. I just wanted a little reassurance that I wasn’t going to mess up and do something wrong.”

Her expression softens. “You’re not. You won’t.”

I nod once, hoping I haven’t already.

Without another word, Becca exits my room and I follow. Once she’s slipped her shoes on, we linger by the front door like neither of us is quite ready to say good-bye.

She gives me one last look that I can’t read as she opens the door. “Call me later?”

“Sure. Talk to you then.”

I watch her walk away, hoping that I haven’t messed anything up. Because last night? Was fucking incredible.

? ? ?

Throughout the entire game, I’m distracted and consumed by thoughts of my night with Becca.

She was right, the stir-fry was pretty good, but the sex? It was fucking amazing.

The misstep with the self-help books aside, I’m pretty damn happy about everything we accomplished last night. I can’t stop picturing the way she gazed up at me with those wide blue eyes, almost like she was asking for permission to enjoy herself. And once I gave her a little bit of encouragement, it was like all her walls came tumbling down. I’m not going to lie—I’m feeling more than a little proud of myself today.

“I’m open!” Justin shouts from across the court, and I duck out of the way just in time to avoid getting nailed in the head with a pass.

Shit. I guess I need to start paying better attention.

By the time we finish the game forty-five minutes later, I’m tired, drenched in sweat, and fucking starving. At the sidelines, I grab a bottle of water and down half of it in a single gulp.

“Hey,” Teddy says, watching me from across the bench, almost like he’s trying to read my expression. “How did everything go last night?”

I can’t help the way my mouth lifts in an immediate smile.

“That good, huh?” He chuckles.

“Yeah. It was . . . good.” Good feels like the wrong word entirely. It’s like calling a win against Toronto good, or saying the surface of the sun is warm.