The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(52)

I place both hands on her obliques. Her iliac crest, just above her ass.

“Here?”

“Yes. Oh God, that feels good.”

I can’t tell if she’s doing it on purpose—the moaning—but regardless, it’s turning me on. This whole massage is, from Anabelle’s bare flesh, to mine, to the little sounds she’s making as she lies motionless beneath me.

I have no idea how low to go or where I’m allowed to put my hands. So, I play it safe, staying above her waist. Gently caressing her teres major, her deltoids and trapezius, all the places I’m learning about in kinesiology, but this is different than practicing on another student or a prop.

This is a woman I’m growing desperately attracted to.

This is my bed.

My room.

Our house.

Her skin.

“Elliot?”

“Hmm?”

“Is everything okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You stopped.”

“Oh.” I move my hands to the base of her neck, kneading. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I can hear her smiling into the pillow. “Should we stop and watch a movie?”

“I can keep going if you want me to, it’s no big deal.”

She wiggles her ass. “You’re sweet, but I can tell you’re getting tired.”

I’m not tired; I’m turned on. Huge fucking difference.

“Sure, let’s watch a movie. I’m done with all my studying and you’re done with that ridiculous book you’re reading.”

Anabelle rolls to her side, taking my comforter along with her, covering her breasts. “It wouldn’t be ridiculous if it actually contained useful information.”

I’m on my side now, too. “Face facts, Donnelly, you don’t have the heart for revenge. You’re too kindhearted for that life.”

“That’s true enough.” Her hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair off my forehead, and I almost rear back in surprise.

I’ve noticed her doing that a lot lately—touching me. Taps, poking, teasing. Not wanting to read anything into it, I chalk it up to comfort in our growing friendship, evidence of her trust in me.

Christ, it sucks being the good guy all the fucking time.

“My dad texted me today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He wants me to come to a wrestling meet soon. They have a big one at home coming up.”

“Who are they wrestling?”

“I’m not sure, he didn’t say. I think either Penn State or UConn? Someone blue.” She laughs. “And I’d really rather not go alone.”

I swear she’s batting her fucking eyelashes at me. “What are you getting at, Donnelly?”

I haven’t been to a wrestling meet since Oz and Zeke graduated. Neither of them had their parents in the stands on Senior Night, so I went to represent, with bouquets of flowers for both miserable bastards, even though their girlfriends were in the audience.

“Want to come with me?”

“Yeah. I could probably do that.”

Anabelle’s blue eyes bore holes into my bare chest, pink lips parting. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I’m still not wearing a shirt.

She’s still not wearing a shirt.

We’re on my bed, in the middle of the evening, flirting like we have an interest in each other. A sexual attraction. Crazy chemistry.

“Would you be so kind as to turn your back so I can put my shirt back on?”

I swallow, too chicken-shit to make a move and kiss her.

“Sure. While you do that, want me to grab us ice waters?”

“Thanks, Elliot.” Her eyes sparkle. “You’re the best.”





Anabelle



Thanks, Elliot, you’re the best?

Ugh.

As I mentally face-palm myself for sounding like his little buddy, I grapple for my shirt, yanking it back down over my head, flushing. Remember his big, rough hands running over my skin. Over my naked flesh, not once touching me inappropriately. Not once skimming down to accidentally caress my side-boob or lower back. Not once trailing his fingers anywhere indecent.

Damn him.

I sigh, giving the rubber band in my hair a tug, loosening my top knot and letting the hair fall around my shoulders. Free, uninhibited, like I’ve resolved to be around him.

But he’s not getting the hints.

So, either I suck at flirting or he’s clueless, or we’re both just really scared to make the first move.

I’ve been touching him all week—little touches on the arm, bicep, chest. Teasing pokes, nudges. Laughing at all his dumb jokes. Following him around the soccer field, secretly admiring his masculine force. His speed, his skill. His calves and the back of his neck, wanting to lay my lips on the baby fine hairs there.

Last week at our soccer game when his friend Dev jogged up next to me and began peppering me with a million Elliot-related questions, I was taken aback by his direct approach. Was I attracted to Elliot? Did I want to be more than friends? Was it hard living in the same house with him and not having sex?

Yes, yes, and yes.

At an alarmingly increased pace.

I am attracted to Elliot.