The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(43)

All my pleasure points stir. “Yeah.”

I hear him sigh, and his voice lowers. “I want to look at that pic you sent me. I want that so badly my dick hurts. But I know if I do, it’ll hurt more. I can’t beat off to thoughts of you anymore, Fi.”

My breath hitches. “Why?”

“I’ve had the real thing. Imagination no longer cuts it.”

“Have you… You used to think of me when you touched yourself?”

I swear I hear him swallow down a groan. “You know I did.”

“We could…” I sidestep a woman running toward the subway. “We could talk through it.”

Another groan from Dex. “No,” he says. “It’ll kill me, Cherry. Not being able to touch you.”

“I can touch myself. Pretend it’s you.” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. I’m in the middle of Manhattan and can’t do a thing. But teasing Dex is fast becoming one of my favorite things. Only because I know he likes it. Even more, he needs it. Dex is too closed off. Which wouldn’t really matter, but I’ve seen that spark of life in him that’s aching to come out and play.

I can hear it now when he gives me a dark chuckle. “Babe, the thought of you touching yourself is even worse. That’s something I need to see, not hear.”

“We could Skype.”

“Fi.”

“Ethan.”

The smile in his voice remains, but he sounds tight. “I don’t have smooth words. I’d f*ck it up by saying the wrong thing. You don’t need to hear how today I thought of backing you into a quiet corner of my locker room so I could shove my hand up your skirt and f*ck you with my fingers, knowing my guys walked around a few feet away. I’d tell you to be nice and quiet while I did it, not make a sound, even though you were dying to.

“Of how I’d pinch one of your perky little pink nipples with my other hand. Nice and firm the way you like it.”

I’ve slowed to a complete stop, my skin on fire, my breath short and rasping, as the world passes me by. Jesus. My nipple throbs as if he were here now, tweaking it with a rough touch; my sex aches, the ghost of Dex’s thick, long fingers pumping into it.

I clear my throat. “I think you got the talking down pat, Big Guy.”

He pauses and takes an audible breath. “I never got to taste you, Fi. I regret that. I have no idea what a * tastes like, and all I can think about is yours. God, I want to spread you wide and take my time, savor every inch, see if your flavor changes when you come.”

“Ethan,” my voice cracks.

“See? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Somehow I manage to laugh. “Any more and I’m going to spontaneously combust right here on Fifth Avenue.”

“Yeah?” He sounds surprised. Poor, deluded, sexy center.

“I think you’re right,” I say, forcing myself to walk again. “No more sex talk. It’s killing me too.”

A sad sort of half-chuckle rumbles through my phone. “I know. So…” His voice strains as if he’s reaching for lightness. “Tell me something else to take my mind out from under your skirt. How’s work?”

Yeah, right there is an immediate buzz kill.

Fuck, my throat hurts again. I want to tell him everything, right down to the bone-deep agony I feel in failing once again. But I don’t want him to see that side of me. Flighty Fi who can’t keep her shit together. I can’t stand the thought of being diminished in his eyes.

“It’s fine.”

He’s silent for a moment, and for the first time, I’m grateful for the physical distance between us. He can’t see my face.

“I thought you had to leave because of a work issue,” he says carefully.

Great. Either I’m lying about work or I lied about why I left him. Silently cursing, I grind my teeth and search for an answer. “It’s all settled. Not as big a deal as I’d thought.”

“Well,” he says. “That’s good.”

He doesn’t sound like he buys my story. God, I’m f*cking up already, building this house-of-cards relationship on a shifty set of lies. But I can’t tell him. I can’t. I’ll start crying here and now.

“I’m at the bar,” I tell him with false levity. “Call you later?”

“Always, Cherry,” he says softly. I hear him take a breath. “Fi?”

My heart pounds as I grip the phone like a life line. “Yeah?”

“Just know I’m with you. Even when I’m far away, I’m with you.”

It’s all I can do not to sob. I stand on the corner of 5th and 25th, the world flowing by me like rippling water, and feel such loneliness I have to hug myself around my middle. “Thank you, Ethan.”

I hang up then, because I can’t say anything more without breaking my heart wide open.





Chapter Twenty





Fiona



Anna and I end up not drinking but buying sandwiches at Eataly and claiming a table in the Flatiron Plaza, the little pedestrian triangle of concrete between Broadway and 5th. The weather is gorgeous in the way of New York in the fall—crisp breezes cutting through sun-warmed air.

I don’t talk about my job issues. I’d rather enjoy the evening than ruin my appetite.