Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(38)

Her face went as red as my damn Tide jersey, and she admitted, “It was awkward, fumbled, and not everything it was hyped up to be.”

“Olly just didn’t do it right.”

Meeting her eyes, I said, “I imagine with you, Shakespeare, it’d be like nothing else. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my damned life—to taste you, feel you… hear you scream my name.” The pulse in her neck set off thumping like a drum and that pull we both felt began drawing us back in.

“Romeo—” She edged away, but I pulled on her arm to keep her close.

“I’ll stop, but I won’t hide the fact that I want it real bad, Shakespeare. Real f*ckin’ bad.”

I watched as her thighs clenched together and my cock slammed against my fly. Things were too tense, but Molly managed to diffuse the moment by thrusting a pillow over her head, warning, “We need to find something to do, Rome. I really need distracting right now!”

Pulling back the pillow, holding in my laughter, I said, “You’ve stolen my line, Shakespeare. Ain’t I the one that’s meant to say that to you?”

“Probably, but I’m about ready to jump your bones and would prefer not to tonight if it could be helped. I’d like it if I didn’t go from near-virgin to slut after one night in your friggin’ company!”

Unable to stop laughing this time, I creased up, falling on my back and pulled her to drape over my chest. “What should we do, then, near-virgin, just so you don’t give in and jump my bones? Although, it’s mighty tempting for me to just let you do your thing.”

“I have just the thing, if you’re game?”

She put on friggin’ Monty Python.



We watched the movie. I actually watched a movie with a girl and made no move to seduce her… much. I still caught a kiss and the occasional feel, but most surprising, I liked just chilling with Mol. It kind of felt like I was twelve again, on some first date that I’d never had, but it was good… It made me feel kinda normal.

That was until I f*cked up by taking offense at her joke.

I was just tipping the last of the popcorn in my mouth when Molly ripped the bowl from my hands. “You’re meant to be an athlete! Isn’t that an overload of starchy-carby crappiness for you or something? You’ve polished it all off, you greedy bugger!”

Snorting out a laugh, I flexed my bicep, catching Mol’s small, impressed gasp, and said, “I’m a f*cking machine, Shakespeare. Popcorn’s no match for me!”

“Sorry, I forgot I was talking to the Bullet!” she quipped, but her words felt like a cold bucket of water being dumped on my head.

“Don’t,” I hissed, losing all humor.

“Allaaabbbaaammmmaaa!!! Get to your feet for your hometown quarterback, Romeo… ‘Bullet’… Prince! ‘There’s a bullet in the gun. There’s a fire in your heart. You will move all mountains that stand in your path…’” Molly was laughing as she sang that damn song the IT guys always played in Bryant-Denny whenever I was on the big screen, but all I felt was annoyed. She wasn’t getting the hint that I was serious.

Taking hold of her wrists, I pulled her forward until her eyes met mine and growled, “Quit it, Shakespeare. Fuck!”

Almost choking on her words, she sat back. “I’m only kidding. You don’t have to be so bloody grumpy with me.”

Shit. I hadn’t meant to be, but I hated that bastard name. Bullet, it was almost as bad as Romeo. I hated the football hype so damn much; it’d always just made shit at home that much worse.

Taking another look at Molly’s hurt face, I sighed. “I know, sorry, but I f*cking hate all that shit. You don’t know how much. I don’t want to be the Bullet to you. You’re the first person to ever not be affected by all the football fame. To you… I just want to be Rome.”

Molly got me. She got I didn’t want to go into why the football fame bothered me so much, and moving us away from that uncomfortable topic, she asked, “So… MVP?”

“Yeah. Crazy considering I couldn’t hit a truck for the first half.”

How did I tell her that seeing her in the stands changed everything, without revealing too much about my feelings? How could I tell her she was the first person to ever pull through for me without having to explain my past and my folks?

I just couldn’t find the words. So instead, I just filled her in on the locker room talk. “The fans and team are pumped, saying it’s because of you. That you’re my good luck charm, all from that one sweet kiss.”

And then she flipped the f*ck out, shooting to sitting position, fighting for breath and rubbing at her chest. It looked like she was having a damn heart attack.

“What? What’s wrong? What did I say?” I asked frantically.

Her eyes were as big as the f*cking moon and she tried to speak but nothing came out. My heart took off beating too fast, so I held her hand, and watched as she calmed the heck down, color coming back to her pale face. I stared down at our joined hands in confusion, wondering what the f*ck had just happened?

“What is it, Mol? Tell me.” I pushed, needing some explanation of why she just nearly collapsed.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m sorry, it’s just something my Grandma used to say to me. It took me back to those days. I panicked. I-I just… I was just surprised when you said it. Of all the ways to say what you did, you quoted her word for word.”