The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(81)

I owe her this one night, don’t I? Don’t I owe us both? We love and care for each other; we’re friends.

I don’t have to lean in that far to kiss the side of her face, pulling away when I find it stained with salt.

“Are you crying?” It’s too dark for me to tell, and I’m not about to start feeling up her cheeks.

“No.”

Liar.

She inches into my body, seeking my warmth, face buried in the crook of my neck. I bunch up her hair, kissing the column of her throat, in the tender spot behind her ear. Close my eyes and inhale her. The lotion and shampoo I used in the bathroom without telling her. The clean sheets that smell like her perfume.

Every nuance and sound from this girl—from the young woman having my child—I catalog, committing to memory.

For those nights when I’m alone in my apartment, listening not to the sounds of Anabelle’s quiet sighs, but to the loud asshole upstairs who keeps me awake. Doing what’s best for both of us by being at that school, in that shithole apartment.

God, why am I hesitating to touch her?

I love her.

When my hand grazes her hip, she sucks in a breath. When she doesn’t tell me to go fuck myself, I let it run the length of her leg, up the curve of her waist, and ribcage. Brushing the long hair off her shoulder, I let the silky strands lace through my fingers; it’s been forever since I’ve felt it.

“Do you remember,” I ask slowly, “that time you had me give you a backrub and you took your shirt off?” I’m still futzing with her hair.

“Yes.” I can hear her smiling. “Of course I remember.”

“You do know that ninety-five percent of all girl-guy massages lead to sex? That’s an actual statistic—I looked it up after that night.”

“Is that so?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing when you took your shirt off.”

She makes a humming sound, low in her throat. “Maybe, but it didn’t work on you, did it? You’re such a gentleman.”

“Trust me, I wanted you so bad—I remember exactly what you looked like lying on the bed, face down while I rubbed your back.”

“Yeah?” she whispers. “How did I look?”

“Your cheeks were flushed and your skin was so fucking smooth, and every time I got close to your ass your eyes would close and your mouth would fall open a little.”

“It felt good. I wanted you to go lower.”

“You kept wiggling your hips.”

“I was turned on.”

“And I was content to just look at you.” I take her jawline in my palm, caressing with the pads of my fingers. “I’m always content to just look at you.”

I see her in my dreams, and I’ll continue seeing her there.

“I was so excited to come home,” I intone quietly. “I couldn’t wait to see you. It was like a rush.”

“Do you regret coming home?”

“No.” I just wish I’d done it sooner.

“Elliot, I wouldn’t blame you for being pissed at me…for getting pregnant.”

“You didn’t get yourself pregnant, Anabelle. You had some help.”

“I know, but—”

I silence her with a kiss, pressing my mouth over her parted lips. They’re warm, fuller than I remember, and quickly intake a breath when I finally give in, giving my hand permission to travel south. Down the porcelain column of her slim neck. Across her clavicle.

Cup her breast.

Weigh it in my palm before plucking at the nipple. Stroke it with my thumb before moving on.

No more words are spoken, not when she leans into me, melting into my arms. Not when we peel off our clothes, one piece at a time, throwing them to the cold floor. Not when I’m sliding into her, long and hard and throbbing with fucking need.

I need her.

We need each other desperately after the last twenty-four emotional hours we’ve had after she gave me the shock of my goddamn life. Pretty face and crying eyes, soft lips and smooth hands.

I need her.

She needs me.

I slide between her spread legs, wanton. More wanton than I’ve been in an age, horny and hallow and scared. There are so many unknowns and impending choices I have no control over.

But I have control over this moment; I have control over how I make Anabelle feel.

Our mouths fuse, dragging drunkenly open, tongues get reacquainted. Hips rolling, pelvis unhurriedly thrusting. Leisurely in and out.

My fingers plant themselves in her long hair, stroking the silky locks as I stroke inside her. Kiss her forehead and temples.

Kiss away a tear, pumping my hips.

Her hands grip my ass, digging. Arches her back. Crying.

Kissing.

Anabelle buries her face in my neck. “I love you.”

I love you, too.

I love you.

More than you’ll know.





Dear Elliot,



I’m back to writing in my diary.

Since I’m not going to see you until your winter break, I thought I would keep you in the loop by journaling. You’re busy and the last thing you need is me burdening you every day with baby updates.

So I will write them here.

Someday, when you’re ready, I’ll share these letters with you. Until then, they will go here where only my eyes can see them.