The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1)(63)
“No, but it’s because I’m…”
“What?”
“I can’t have the one I want.”
“Blair.”
“No.”
“Ah, and here we are again, full circle. Who is she?”
“Moving on,” he declares adamantly. “My suggestion is you ditch this revenge idea and wait for the right guy. Maybe you’ll meet him at some book event or at law school, or maybe you’ll be at the grocery store one day and he’ll bump your cart with his and it will be love at first sight. Don’t rush it.”
“My, my, don’t you sound like a little goody-goody. Who are you? And no, I’m definitely going to find a guy, and he doesn’t have to be Mr. Right.”
Do you want a taste of my revenge, River? Just a little nibble?
“What’s your ultimate fantasy?” I ask.
“Have you smoked a joint?”
I giggle. “No. I’ve only done that twice in my life. Growing up, I saw drugs. My parents have, um, experimental friends.”
“Yet you remain sweet.”
“Sometimes sugar looks like salt, and I’m feeling salty. I need pointers, and I won’t let you try to change the subject. Help me, River.”
“You are relentless.” A huff comes from him. “Fine. Fantasy: I walk into a room and my girl, she’s there waiting for me, wearing nothing but my hoodie or a shirt. ‘Iris’ by The Goo Goo Dolls plays in the background. She takes it off real slow, makes a striptease out of it—”
“Not much to strip with one piece of clothing.”
“My fantasy, so shut it. She doesn’t need much. She’s different and beautiful with no makeup, and her hair…it’s like silk, long and straight and thick, down her back. I want to wrap my hands in it—” He stops abruptly.
“That’s it?” I say softly. “Where’s the glitz and glam? Where’s the handcuffs and whips and lacey underthings? Or even some whipped cream? Are all dudes this basic?”
He growls into the phone and a shiver goes through me.
I laugh. “Details. Must. Have. Them.”
“Diabolical.”
“Spill your secrets. Please.” In my mind, it’s me in River’s varsity jacket, and I take it off slowly, revealing my nakedness. His hand curls in my hair and pulls me to my knees in front of him…
“Did you just groan?” he asks.
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“You’re mistaken. Finish the fantasy. It’s a rule. I just made it. Getting my revenge requires you telling me how to be sexy.”
“You don’t need any help in that department.”
I touch my nipples and my thighs clench.
“You’re breathing hard, Anastasia.”
“Were you touching yourself before?”
“No.”
“Eye twitch, I bet. Look, I haven’t had…” sex in a while. Didn’t want to.
“Haven’t had what?” he asks.
Wait.
I stop and frown as I sit up on the bed and think about my relationship with Donovan. I can point fingers at him all day long, and I have—he pushed me away because of his parents, he was too busy, I had work—but…
Clarity trickles in and I gasp. It was me too. I helped dig our grave. Since the summer at his parents’ place, I avoided sex, recoiled from intimacy, took extra shifts, spent more time studying. I never protested when he drove to Atlanta to see his family on the weekends, never protested when he spent time with the frat, never confided about Bryson, didn’t tell him about Harvard until I had to, and deep down I dreaded the idea of spending the holidays with his family or him.
Yet he was that little piece of security I didn’t want to let go of. I loved the frat house, the home it represented…
“I…” My voice trails off.
“What?”
I don’t want to say Donovan’s name. It’s a wall between us, and River—he’s slowly stacking more bricks onto it.
“Never mind.”
“Were you thinking about Donovan?”
I bite my lip. “Not like you think.”
“Are you okay? I mean, are you sad?”
Am I sad? I was betrayed by a friend, by a man I thought I might share a future with, so yes. But there’s part of me that feels relief. I know his true colors now.
“It’s a weird kind of feeling, I guess,” I say, toying with the quilt on my bed.
“You miss him.”
My jaw tightens. “Hard to miss him when he did what he did.”
There’s a long silence. “Fine. What’s your fantasy?”
I lean back on the pillows. “Shower sex. I’ve never done it.”
“So. Basic.”
“Shut up.” I laugh.
“Well, tell me already, woman.”
I smile. “He’s taking a shower and doesn’t know I’m there. I get in and get on my knees for him. His hands are on my head, guiding me. He says my name over and over, but he doesn’t come. Not yet. He wants me for that. I’ve never had sex without a condom, but with him, it’s bareback. He picks me up, presses me against the tile. He can’t stop looking at my face. He tells me he’s never wanted anyone like he does me, that I complete him. His irises are a furnace of need. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and I see his. I am his everything.”