Play with Me (With Me in Seattle, #3)(65)

“No he won’t.” I shake my head. “He says he never f*cks me. Even when he f*cks me.”

“What does that mean?” she asks with a frown as the guys up front share a glance.

“I dunno.” We pull up to Jules’ building. “Go get your apagasms.”

“Okay.” She smiles widely at the tall, devastatingly handsome man walking out to the curb to claim her. “See you Saturday.”

Nate lifts her in his arms and waves at us before carrying her back inside out of the cold. They’re so pretty together. Their babies will be knock outs.

I snort.

Knock outs. Nate used to fight. Why this is so funny to me, I’m not sure, other than it’s still the alcohol talking.

I must fall asleep because suddenly the van door opens again and Will leans in, smiling gently at me. “Hey, lazy girl. Let’s get you inside.”

He lifts me easily out of the van and I wrap myself around him, so happy to be cradled in his strong arms.

“Thanks guys. Have a good night.”

“No problem, man. Good luck with her.”

My eyes are closed, but I can hear Caleb’s grin.

“Good night, boys. Go find some orgasms,” I instruct them and can’t help but smile at their laughter.

I love these guys.

Will carries me inside and sets me on the kitchen counter. I brace my hands on the edges of the dark granite and dangle my feet, watching him move about, pouring a glass of water and grabbing pills out of a drawer.

“Here, take these and drink the whole glass and you won’t be hung over tomorrow.”

“Did you win tonight?” I ask and do as I’m told.

“Yes.” His eyes are happy as he watches me follow his directions. When the glass is empty, I wipe my mouth with my arm and lick my lips.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He puts the glass in the sink and then stands between my legs, his arms wrapped around my ass, and nose even with mine.

“Did you get tackled a lot?” I ask with a frown.

“No, not much,” he responds with a soft smile.

“I don’t like it when you get bagged.”

“That’s sacked, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “I’m fine.”

“You’re so tall.”

He just smiles at me. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Nah, I’m just a normal girl. Your groupies are beautiful.”

“They’re not my groupies. And they’re not beautiful. You are. I love your hazel eyes and soft auburn hair. I love your soft skin.” He wraps his arms tightly around me and nuzzles my nose with his. “I love you, Megan.”

I sigh and wrap myself around him, legs around his hips, arms around his neck, and bury my face in his neck. He lifts me and carries me upstairs like this, and helps me out of my clothes, then tucks me into the bed.

He’s standing at the side of the bed, looking down at me with humor and love. I hold my arms out. “Come to bed.”

He strips down, and I’m reminded of that first night in my townhouse when he took me home from the engagement party, and how far we’ve come since then. He slips in behind me and pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around my middle. My eyes are heavy from the alcohol and the dancing.

“Sleep,” Will whispers to me.

“But I wanted orgasms,” I whisper back. Will chuckles softly and brushes my hair back off my face.

“I’ll give you lots of orgasms tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I sigh and link my fingers with his. “Love you, too,” I whisper so softly, just before I drift to sleep, and don’t hear Will’s gasp of surprise, or feel the wide smile spread across his face.



*



I wake to sunshine and the smell of bacon.

Oh, sweet God, bacon. I lay in the bed, flat on my back, and take stock. Stomach isn’t rolling. Room isn’t spinning. Head doesn’t hurt.

I sit up and run through the same list. All systems are a go. And the bacon is making my mouth water.

I love Monday mornings. Will usually has the day off, which means I get to spend the morning with him.

I hurry to the shower and scrub last night off my body. Face, hair and body are all buffed and washed and scrubbed until I’m squeaky clean and feeling ten times better. I brush the hell out of my teeth, comb my wet hair, pull on one of Will’s old jerseys and his boxer-briefs and go hunt him down.

He’s in the kitchen, adding fruit to two small bowls. He’s made pancakes and bacon and he looks delicious himself in faded, torn blue jeans and an old black t-shirt. The arms of the shirt hug the muscles in his biceps and I can’t stop myself from walking over and kissing him there, just below the hemline.

“Good morning,” I murmur.

“Good morning.” He smiles down at me and kisses me chastely. “How do you feel?”

“Better than I expected to.”

“No hangover?”

“No. I feel good. The shower helped too.”

“Good.” He hands me the fruit bowls, grabs the plates and leads me to the dining table where he’s set up coffee and juice.

“This is fantastic. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” We dig in and oh my God, it tastes like heaven.