All the Way Page 2

  Fuck it. I’m already going to hell anyway, so I might as well fast-track this ride. I shove the shorts the rest of the way down until gravity does the rest and they drop to my ankles.

  Thank fucking God I’m soft.

  It’s not a wish I’ve ever made in the presence of a beautiful woman before, but right now, I’m extremely thankful that my cock is, well, mostly soft. Our conversation over the past few minutes excited me for reasons unknown, but I managed to contain myself, for the most part. My dick hangs heavily beside my thigh, only slightly swollen in interest.

  Becca leans closer. “Oh. That’s . . .” She swallows, her gaze still glued to my crotch, and I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking. “That’s interesting,” she finally says.

  Interesting? My eyebrows shoot up. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. “Interesting?” I echo.

  She nods, leaning closer. “It’s just not what I was expecting.”

  I can’t ask her what she was expecting, because the words lodge in my throat as she moves closer to the edge of the bed where I’m standing.

  “May I?”

  When she reaches toward me, I freeze. She isn’t serious, is she?

  “I can’t see the whole thing.”

  Confused, I glance at myself to see it’s lying down, covering my balls. I have no fucking idea what she intends to do, but I find myself nodding.

  What.

  The.

  Actual.

  Fuck.

  Owen.

  Carefully, like she’s cradling a newborn puppy and not a dick—the dick attached to one of her best friends, mind you—Becca lifts it in her hand.

  The second I feel her warm palm against me, I start hardening, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. She’s touching me, and my body doesn’t seem to know the difference. It’s game fucking on.

  I count backward from a hundred and pinch the bridge of my nose with two fingers, inhaling a huge shuddering breath. “Hurry up. Your ten seconds are almost done,” I hiss out.

  The warmth of her delicate hand is shattering my self-control. I know this should feel weird and wrong, but it doesn’t. Not at all. I hate that it doesn’t. I need to put a stop to this, but apparently I suck at saying no to her.

  I dare a glance down at Becca, and she’s looking at me in wonder. “Oh, it’s, um . . .” She lets out a nervous chuckle, her hand still gingerly wrapped around me. “It’s getting harder.”

  I release a slow exhale, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Yeah, there’s a woman touching it, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, right.” She drops me immediately and holds up both hands, her palms facing me. “Sorry. I’m done now.”

  I tug up my shorts and tuck my now fully erect dick behind the waistband. Just fucking fantastic.

  I pull back the sheet on my bed and gesture for her to climb in. When she does, I pull the blankets up over her, tucking her in securely like my mom used to do to me when I was little.

  “Get some sleep.” I turn off the lamp beside my bed, leaving only a small sliver of light peeking in under the door from the hallway.

  As I make my way to the door, she yawns and then whispers, “Thanks, Owen. You’re the best. That didn’t even freak me out, so I think you definitely helped me.”

  My heart squeezes again, and I nod in her direction. “Good night, angel.”

  Outside in the hall, I close the door to my bedroom and lean up against it. My head falls back with a thud, and I close my eyes.

  Fucking hell.

  I can’t believe that just happened. I can’t believe I let that happen. I can’t believe how fucking good her hand felt. Fuck.

  Voices come from Justin’s bedroom, and I realize that he and Elise are talking. The door is open, so I stop as I walk past, leaning against the door frame to peer in at them.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  Elise looks at me and apparently reads something in my expression. “What’s wrong? Is Becca okay?”

  Define okay? I rake one hand through my hair and blow out a sigh. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure,” my younger sister says, her voice a little uneasy like she already knows something’s wrong. She’s too damn perceptive for her own good.

  She follows me out into the hall but I keep going, heading toward the media room, which thankfully is now empty. I doubt Becca would want anyone to overhear this conversation, and I intend to make sure we have privacy. We enter, and I take a seat on the couch while Elise remains standing.

  I search for the right words to say as she looks down at me expectantly.

  So, Becca just touched my dick . . .

  Yeah, that’s not going to work.

  “What happened? You’re freaking me out,” Elise snaps.

  Stalling, I lick my lips, still in complete shock about what just happened in my room. God, I can still feel the warmth of Becca’s hand if I close my eyes.

  “If you touched her, Owen, so help me God . . .” Elise plants one hand firmly on her hip.

  “I didn’t touch her,” I croak out, shaking my head.

  “Then what happened?”

  “She wanted to . . .” I swallow. Nope. Can’t say that either. “She touched me—but just for a second.” Well, ten to be exact.

  Elise lets out a noise of angry surprise. “What the hell? Why would you let her do that?”

  “I know. Fuck. I shouldn’t have. But she said something about not wanting to be afraid anymore, and that she trusts me.”

  Elise frowns and then sighs. “Oh, Becca.”

  “It’ll be okay. Hopefully, she won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

  At least, that’s what I’m banking on.

  2

  * * *

  Tequila = Truth Serum

  Becca

  After getting a lift home, I’m now at one of my favorite parks in Seattle. A place I hoped might calm me. Sadly, I have no such luck. Instead, I’m going through the motions, forcing myself to do my usual five-mile run.

  And judging by the way the contents of my stomach are sloshing around and rebelling at that fact, I’m about to puke. Either from drinking an obscene amount of tequila last night or from the memory of molesting my bestie. Take your pick.

  My lungs burn and my heart is in my throat, but I press on, pushing my legs faster, even though I know I can’t outrun the memory of what I did last night. Adele sings in my ears about lost love, and my chest heaves as I suck in painful gasps.

  I haven’t been loved and experienced bone-crushing heartbreak like Adele, so I don’t know the agony of her loss, but I’ve been trying to put myself out there and date. I’m twenty-five years old, and while I don’t mind being single and have a great group of friends and a job I love, of course I’d like to find someone who makes me weak in the knees. Someone who makes me want to sing at the top of my lungs about love, just like Adele does.

  I’m too old to be this inexperienced with love and relationships, and far too young to be so jaded about both. Apparently, I’m quite the freaking mess.

  As I run, my mind wanders to Tom from Tinder and Sam from Soul Mates Inc.

  Okay, those aren’t really their names, but it makes it sound more fun.

  Their actual names are Bryce and Alec. I’ve been seeing both casually for a couple of weeks now. Coffee dates and cocktails and a walk in the park, benign things like that. They’re both perfectly nice, capable men with real jobs and kind eyes, guys I wouldn’t mind taking home to meet my mother. And yet I freeze up like a garden hose in a Minnesota winter when they so much as lean in for a kiss or try to initiate any kind of physical contact.

  I keep telling myself that I’m normal, that I’ve healed and moved on . . . but that lie is getting harder and harder to believe since the idea of physical intimacy with a man scares the living daylights out of me.

  Enter last night’s drunken escapades, brought to you by tequila and her best friend, poor judgment.

  My cheeks burn at the memo
ry of the things I said to Owen. Fucking Owen, who gets more ass than a toilet seat. One of my best friends in the entire city of Seattle who just so happens to be a pro athlete with endless patience and a stockpile of dirty jokes. As the goalie for the Ice Hawks team, he also has nerves of steel. And to his credit, when I started talking all kinds of crazy, he barely even flinched.

  “If you wanted to take a break from all the hookups and help me get back in the saddle . . .”

  He probably thought I was kidding. A girl can hope.

  Yes, he’s attractive, and worst of all, he knows it. He’s a playboy extraordinaire, and I had no business risking our friendship by asking him to whip out his junk—and for what? Some stupid little experiment?

  I’m not going to let myself think about his man parts right now. My despair doesn’t deserve to take a back seat to all that miraculous manhood in his pants. But, holy hell, it really was spectacular.

  Deep breaths, Becs.

  I crank my music louder, pressing my earbuds tightly into my ears as I push myself faster along the asphalt path. I don’t even like to run. Yet here I am every weekend, counting down the miles until I can be done.

  Okay, maybe I like it a little bit. At least, I like the fact that my five-mile runs afford me a doughnut on occasion and all the Chinese food my pocketbook can handle. And those little heart-shaped cookies with the frosting sold in the bakery by my office. Those little bastards are why I run.

  That and the chance to clear my head, apparently.

  My running app announces that I’ve passed mile two, at an embarrassing pace of 12:06 per mile, but whatever, at least I haven’t thrown up my coffee yet. I’m counting that as a win. Possibly my only win on this dark and awful day.

  A shadow of someone coming up behind me catches my attention. The bulky shadow grows larger and I edge to the right, making room to be passed—it’s not like my pace will be hard to overtake. Any serious runner would whiz right by me. But the shadow slows, falling into step next to me. I glance over and stop in midstride.

  “Owen?” Breathless, I pant out his name in complete shock.

  He’s never run with me before, so he’s literally the last person I expected to see. I assumed he’d be sleeping off his own hangover at best, or at worst, ignoring me until the zombie apocalypse hits.

  “Hey.” He stops next to me, his expression is neutral, his cool gray eyes appraising me. “Thought I’d find you here.”

  I place my hands on my knees, bending over to draw deep lungfuls of air as my heart beats uncomfortably fast. “What are you doing here?”

  I dare a glance up at him, thankful my eyes are covered with sunglasses.

  He’s in a pair of black athletic joggers, a white T-shirt, and a black baseball cap, which is pulled down low. He hasn’t shaved in at least a week, and the stubble covering his jaw is dark, at least a shade darker than his messy brown hair.

  Owen turns to face me, his expression relaxed, not giving anything away. “The better question is, how the hell are you running after all that tequila?”

  “I really don’t know.” I huff out a sigh.

  I sneaked out of his place early this morning when I woke with a pounding headache and a constant reel of flashbacks playing in my head of the night before. All I could see was myself having way too much tequila, Owen being a gentleman and taking me to his room and offering me his bed, and then me throwing myself at him and practically mauling the poor guy.

  Not practically—I did maul him. I held his penis in my hand.

  Not my finest moment.

  “Can we talk?” he asks, his voice much softer than normal. “About last night.”

  I groan and push a stray strand of hair that’s escaped my ponytail behind my ear. “I was kind of hoping we didn’t have to.”

  Owen chuckles, but something about it seems forced. “Come on. It won’t be that bad. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  I nod, choosing to ditch the rest of my run and face last night head on. We walk in silence to a coffee shop on Bryant and sit at a round table for two after purchasing a large ice water and a muffin for me, and a coffee for Owen.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a latte? I know they’re you’re favorite,” he says, lifting his cup to his lips for a small sip.

  I shake my head, grabbing my water. “I think I need to rehydrate. But thanks.”

  He wouldn’t let me order just a water, and insisted I get something to eat too. I love the banana muffins here, but my stomach is still rebelling. At what, I’ve yet to pinpoint.

  “So, listen, the things that happened last night. Can we just . . . clear the air?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I mutter with a squeak, then stuff a bite of muffin in my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Breathe. Act normal. You’ve got this.

  “Okay, cool. Because I couldn’t sleep at all last night. If I did anything to fuck up our friendship . . .”

  He thought he fucked up our friendship?

  I hold up one hand, stopping him. “Owen, you didn’t. At all.”

  Positioning the straw to my lips, I take a long sip while my brain scrambles in sixteen different directions as I consider how to play this.

  Pretend like I don’t remember last night?

  Then why would I have rushed out of there this morning like my ass was on fire?

  Admit I do need some help overcoming my fears, and it wasn’t the tequila talking?

  I’d rather die by a thousand paper cuts.

  A third option emerges, and before it’s even fully formed in my brain, I latch onto it like a newborn to a nipple.

  “Owen Parrish?” a female voice calls out from across the coffee shop.

  Both of our heads turn at the same time to take in the petite blonde headed for our table with her eyes locked firmly on Owen.

  She stops beside Owen, peering down at him, oblivious to the fact that he’s here with someone else. “Why didn’t you call me back?” she asks, pouting out her lower lip like a lost puppy.

  “Uhhh . . .” Owen makes a noise of surprise in his throat, his gaze darting to mine.

  I grin at him. If he thinks I’m going to help him out of this situation, he’s crazy. I sit back and get ready to enjoy the show.

  “It’s Melanie, right?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Melissa.”

  “Right. I’m sorry about not calling. I just thought it was kind of a . . . one-time thing.”

  The crease in her forehead deepens as she looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “We had sex three times. I’m not great at math, but to me, that’s not a one-time thing.”

  Owen clears his throat, clearly a little uncomfortable. And obviously thinking he slept with her two times too many. “I’m sorry if I led you to believe something was going to happen between us. I’m not really a relationship kinda guy.”

  Without another word, the blonde grabs my ice water from the table, dumps the entire thing into Owen’s lap, and then storms away.

  I snicker into my fist as he stands, sending ice and water running from his crotch onto the floor. A barista hurries over with a push mop and tells him not to worry.

  Owen looks down at me, frowning. “Fuck, I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

  Shrugging, I stand and grab my earbuds from the table. “I think I still have one of your sweatshirts at my apartment. You want to come change?”

  “Please.”

  I lead the way out of the coffee shop, chuckling at Owen, who waddles like a duck as he follows me. Watching a man who’s six foot four and two hundred twenty pounds of muscle waddle is rather hilarious, and I can’t help but grin.

  “That was quite a show back there.”

  “Ha-ha,” he says dryly, flashing me a dark, mocking look. Then he nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “Stop. It’s fine. She’s probably just some psycho fan.” I wave him off.

  He doesn’t need to apologize. I’ve hung around Owen long enough to know this is how things go. He
’s not an asshole, but he is a celebrity. He’s young and wealthy and talented, and on one of the best teams in the entire league. Everyone wants a piece of him.

  I know he garners a lot of female attention. It’s never bothered me before, and I’m not going to let it bother me now. Especially not when we have bigger things to worry about. Like, oh, I don’t know, the entire weight of our friendship hanging in the balance.

  We reach my building and climb the stairs to the second floor. When I unlock the door, Owen steps in behind me, stripping his T-shirt off over his head.

  I reach for it, trying hard not to notice his eight-pack abs or deliciously firm, sculpted chest. “I’ll put it in the dryer while I find the sweatshirt. You want me to throw your pants in too?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

  I make a noise of disagreement. “You can’t walk around in wet clothes. Just give them to me.”

  “Trying to get me out of my pants again, huh?” He smirks at me, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

  I chuckle, even though my cheeks grow warm. “Just come on.”

  “I’m, uh, not wearing any boxers.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  And we’re right back to where we started—me trying desperately not to picture his dick.

  This is ridiculous. It’s Owen. One drunken mistake isn’t going to come between us. I won’t let it. Even if I’m now blushing furiously over the fact that he goes commando. Come to think of it, I realize there were no boxers to contend with last night either.

  Composing myself, I swallow. “They need to be dried. Go change into my robe. It’s clean and hanging on the back of my bedroom door.” I shoo him toward my room, and he goes without complaint.

  A moment later, he emerges dressed in a pink terrycloth robe, and I erupt into a fit of giggles.

  “My, my.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “Pink really suits you. It brings out your—”

  “Fuck you.” He coughs into his fist, his signature playful smirk on full display.

  I shake my head, still laughing. “No, you look . . . so pretty. Adorable even.”