If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 4

Shay

December 31st, eight months later

Easton’s home.

I’ve never felt shy around him, but tonight I watch him play cards at the kitchen table with my brothers and feel weird about saying a simple hello. The sound of laughter and clinking of beer bottles fills my family’s vacation cabin. A fire roars in the living room. As far as New Year’s Eve parties go, this one is pretty tame. My brothers and a handful of their friends from school, Easton, and as of ten minutes ago . . . me. I’m standing just outside the kitchen, fidgeting with my purse, and wondering if I should have come at all. I don’t think anyone’s noticed I’m here. I’m sure Easton hasn’t, not when there’s a girl with big boobs, blond hair, and a tiny waist standing behind him and giggle-whispering in his ear.

I don’t know why the idea of being in the same room as him is making my heart race. I haven’t seen him since draft night, when he gave me my first shot of tequila and fell asleep next to me, but we text sometimes. Well, my brothers text him all the time, and I’m in that loop, but sometimes he checks in with me. A message on my eighteenth birthday, a check-in at midterms, a goofy story about a guy on his team. Nothing profound or incredibly meaningful, but every time I get a message from him that isn’t also sent to my brothers, hope swells so big in my chest that I can hardly breathe.

Everything and nothing has changed since he left. His whole life is different. He’s living in L.A. and wrapping up his first season in the NFL. He even dated an underwear model for a few weeks last fall. But I’m still the same girl he fell asleep next to. The one who’s never been kissed and can’t get over her childhood crush, even though she knows he’s entirely out of her league.

It’s twenty minutes until midnight, but I’m suddenly too tired and too self-conscious to announce my arrival. I slip up the stairs and head to my bedroom, changing into flannel pajamas before sliding into bed and cracking open Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I’ve already read it three times, but there’s something about returning to a favorite that is as comforting as a well-worn blanket.

It’s not long before I hear the sounds of everyone downstairs counting down to the new year. I wonder if Easton’s kissing that pretty blond girl. I wish I didn’t care.

I close my book, roll to my back, and stare at the ceiling. I could have gone to a party with kids from my high school tonight. There’s a cute boy in my honors English class that asked if I’d be there. His name is Steve, and the way he smiled when he said he hoped to see me made me blush. But I came here instead, and I don’t even bother lying to myself about why. I wanted to see Easton.

There’s a knock on my door, and I roll my eyes. I bet one of my brothers is checking to see if this room is empty so he can hook up with someone. “I’m in here,” I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

The door cracks. “That’s what I was hoping.”

Easton. My heart sprints, stumbles, falls flat on its face.

He steps into my room, grinning, and shuts the door behind him. “Why weren’t you downstairs?”

Because I realized I’ll never be pretty enough, and I hated myself for thinking that way. Even if it’s true. I sit up in bed and lean against the headboard. “I didn’t want to be around so many people.”

This is a ridiculous explanation when I could have stayed home tonight, but he nods as if it makes perfect sense. “I kind of feel the same. Do you mind if I hide in here with you?”

“Won’t your date be disappointed?”

He arches a brow. “My date?”

I’m making a fool of myself. “The blond girl who was rubbing herself all over you?”

He lifts his chin. “Ah. I think her name’s Sasha, but I’m not interested. I’d rather hang out with you . . . if you don’t care?” The question is laced with enough doubt that the shield around my clumsy heart falls.

I swallow and will my pulse to slow. I don’t want to be so desperate for his attention, but here I am. “Sure. I’m just reading.”

Grinning, he crosses the room and studies the books on my shelf before grabbing my copy of The Stand.

“King,” I say, nodding. “Good choice.”

Easton toes off his tennis shoes and stretches out in bed beside me—him on top of the covers, me beneath, just like on draft night when he was having an anxiety attack. He opens his book and I open mine.

“Happy New Year, Short Stack,” he says softly.

The old nickname makes me smile. “Happy New Year.”

***

I wake up to the feel of a calloused hand on my stomach, fingertips sweeping underneath my shorts. My body is awake—every nerve ending at full attention—but my mind is foggy and I have to blink into the darkness a few times before I remember where I am and who I’m with.

Easton.

Easton is touching me.

His fingers sweep across the waistband of my panties, and I gasp, arching instinctively. I must’ve fallen asleep while reading. The lights are off and he’s spooning me, his front flush to my back, and when I shift, the hard length of him presses along my ass. “Easton?” My thighs clench, and it’s all I can do not to tuck my hips and lead that hand to where I want it—where I’ve imagined it a thousand times before. “Are you awake?”

He moans into my neck and grips my hip, holding me against him.

The instinct to arch into his touch is so strong, but I have to know if this is real. “Easton?” My mind is foggy from sleep, but my body is more alert than ever. Every inch of my skin is aware of every movement he makes.

Suddenly he releases my hip and pulls away. My body goes cold everywhere he was touching me. “Shay?”

I drag in a ragged breath. Shit, shit, shit. “Yeah?”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I was dreaming and . . .” I hear his swallow in the darkness.

I roll to face him, but I can barely make out his silhouette in the inky blackness. “What were you dreaming about?”

He releases a raspy chuckle. “Isn’t that obvious?”

I bite my bottom lip. “So who were you dreaming about, then?”

He lifts his hand to my face, tracing the line of my jaw. I wish I could see his eyes, his expression, anything that might hint at his thoughts. “I thought that might be obvious too,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. You fell asleep, and I didn’t want to leave, but I never meant to—”

“It’s fine,” I blurt. Please don’t stop. Please don’t tell me you don’t want this.

His hand stills on my jaw. “It’s not. Touching you while you’re sleeping. That’s . . . It’s not cool.”

“I . . . liked it.”

He’s silent for a long beat. Is he sorry I stole his easy out, or is he reconsidering his decision to throw the brakes on what we started in our sleep? “Yeah?”

“Do you want to . . .” I swallow hard. I want his hands on me again. I would trade all my pride for the relief of his touch. “Do you want to keep going?” As soon as the question is out, I wish I could snatch it back. Too needy, too desperate.

His fingers slip from my jaw and run down my neck—so slowly that the speed of the touch itself is a seduction. Rough fingertips graze my collarbone, and I bite back a moan. I never would’ve imagined my collarbone could be an erogenous zone. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Please. I’m shaking. I barely trust myself to speak, so I nod and hope he can make out my consent in the darkness.

I arch into that pressure, and my cheeks heat when I realize how easy it would be to rub against him—how much I want to. “Please.”