Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I am absolutely living to drive Colt crazy. He doesn’t want to want me? Fuck that. I’m going to make sure he can’t resist me by the end of the night.

Actually, never mind, I know exactly what’s wrong with me—this is the liquid courage of four margaritas. Will I regret this in the morning? Possibly. Do I care? Not in the least.

Leaning back against him while he bends over me to help line up the pool cue, I revel in the feel of his hard length where he’s cradled in the crevice between the pockets of my jeans. He shifts his weight forward, pressing his rock-hard dick into me. He wasn’t lying. I’m absolutely convinced that no woman has ever thought she needed something longer when she was with Colt. I should probably be scared of the size of his dick. Instead, I’m trying to encourage him to use it to deflower me.

“What are you laughing about?” he asks, his voice extra-husky and quiet, even though his face is next to mine.

It’s then that I realize my chest is shaking as I try to hold in the giggles. “The word ‘deflower.’ It’s such a bizarre word. Like, who thought of using that word to describe taking someone’s virginity?”

Colt’s sigh is so forceful it engulfs me in his margarita-scented breath, then he stands. I miss his body heat immediately, so I stand too. Turning toward him, it’s hard to miss the tortured look on his face—the way his eyes focus in on me with longing, but his jaw ticks with the effort of restraint. Good.

“What’s wrong, Colt?” My voice is the kind of teasing that borders on mocking. “Does it bother you that I’m a virgin?”

“It only bothers me that you keep bringing it up.”

I take my fingertips and trail them down the front placket of his shirt, over the ridges of the small buttons, and stop when I reach the buckle of his belt.

“Why shouldn’t I bring it up? It’s not something I’m ashamed of.” Tilting my chin up defiantly, I meet his heated gaze. In the low light, his eyes are practically black, and they’re so focused on me that I almost shrink back and admit that it’s a lie. That I am ashamed—not of my status as a virgin, but of my inability to be trusting and open enough with another person to give myself over in that way. But I could, with him.

He grips my jaw, tilting my head up so I’m forced to look at him. “Why do you really keep telling me you’re a virgin?” His hand slips down my throat until he’s got his fingers resting along the side of my neck. I’m certain he can feel the way my heart is racing, pumping blood through me so fast that I can feel my pulse pounding beneath his fingertips.

“Because you can solve this problem for me.”

“Wrong. Answer,” he grits out, his voice low and growly.

“What do you want me to say, Colt?” I ask, already knowing the answer. He wants the truth. He wants to know why I’m asking him.

“Why me, Jules?”

“I already told you this morning.” I feel myself sway as I look up at him. He’s not gripping my neck hard enough for me to lack oxygen, so this dizziness must be the alcohol. I think the fact that I can deduce this means I’m not that drunk? “You’re the one person who, I think, wants to sleep with me, and who I also trust.”

“That might be the start of it,” he says, his eyes searching mine, “but that’s not the whole reason.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the whole reason, then?” My tone is back to mocking him.

“When you figure it out, you let me know.”

“Colt,” I say, letting my body slump back against the pool table. “You are the ultimate tease. You know I’m willing, and I know you want me. Why are you making this so hard?”

“Trust me, Jules. One day, you’ll be glad I did.”

“And why’s that?” I ask, crossing one foot over the other as I lean back farther.

“Because when we finally have sex, it’s going to mean something.” He steps up close, spreading his legs so one of his feet is on either side of mine. “And no amount of begging me for my cock is going to convince me to sleep with you before then.”

My laugh is a bark. “I’m not begging you for your cock!” I reach one hand behind me to steady myself on the pool table, but my palm lands on one of the balls, it moves under my weight, and I fall backward onto the table.

Lying there across the hard felt table, with a ball under one of my shoulders and Colt looming above me, I can’t stop laughing. Of course that would happen, and of course he looks mad about it. To everyone else, he’s the happy-go-lucky goalie, but apparently I bring out this always-glowering side of him. Lucky me.

Actually, it is kind of lucky, I think to myself, because annoyed Colt is HOT. He always has been, which is probably why I’ve always taunted him.

“Alright, then,” my sister says, stepping up next to him. With the darkness behind her and her fair skin lit up by the light above the table, she looks like an angel. A mad angel, who God would send down to punish the wicked.

I must say as much, because she rolls her eyes and says, “I’m not an angel, Jules, and I’m not mad.” Then she looks at Colt. “How much did you let her drink?”

“Like three and a half drinks.”

“Well, she’s clearly had enough.” Audrey reaches her hand out to me, and I grab hold, letting her pull me up to a sitting position. When we’re face to face, I realize that she looks like she could use a hug. So I wrap my arms around her and give her the biggest bear hug possible.

“You’re very huggable,” I tell her.

“You’re very drunk.” She’s using her I am not amused voice that she uses on Graham when he’s done something she finds funny but shouldn’t, like when he sticks French fries up his nose and claims they’re extra-long boogers.

“I’m only a little drunk. Trust me, I know the difference.” I let go of her then, and almost lose my balance again because my butt is perched on that narrow wooden ledge around the table, but she and Colt both reach out for me, each grabbing a different arm. “And I’m not going to do anything stupid this time. Colt promised he wouldn’t let me,” I tell her, then look at him. “Right?”

“Right. But I am taking you home because that third drink hit you harder than I thought.”

“It was probably the fourth.”

“What? I took the fourth away from you after you had like two sips.”

“Yeah, but you set it on the counter there,” I say, pointing to the empty glass where it sits on a ledge along the wall. “And I drank it when you weren’t looking.” I sound so damn pleased with myself.

“Oh my god, are you a fucking child?” Audrey asks with a laugh. Of course she’s laughing—alcohol makes me funny.

“Don’t know.” I shrug and look down at my body, which appears fully grown to me. “I don’t think so. I think I’m too big to be a child.”

“Jesus,” Audrey laughs. Then she turns to Colt. “I hope you’re planning to walk home. She needs the fresh air and some movement to help sober her up.”

“Yep, walking all the way,” he confirms with a nod.

“But we’re a long way from our house,” I whine.

“No, we’re not. We can be there in twenty minutes. Provided you can walk in a straight line.”

“I totally can.” My head bobs in agreement like I’m reassuring both of us, even though I have no idea if that’s true. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy. But the thought of walking home with Colt’s arm around me opens up the possibility, in my mind at least, that I’ll be able to convince him to sleep with me. Surely, he needs to do something about that massive erection he was grinding against me a few minutes ago, just as much as I need him to do something about the painful ache between my thighs.

I hop off the ledge of the table, but the ground’s closer than I expect, and so when my feet hit it, I topple toward him. Wrapping my arms around him, I’m hoping to pass it off as intentional, and say, “Let’s go!”

He tucks me under his arm, and turns me toward the table of our friends, but then I realize if we’re walking home, I need to use the bathroom first. Audrey offers to go with me because she seems to think I’m not capable of peeing alone while tipsy, and when we come out of the bathroom, Colt’s over at the table.

There are two additional women there now, and I’m not sure when they arrived, but I don’t like the familiar way one of them is resting her hand on Colt’s arm while she leans into him and whispers something in his ear.

“Who’s that?” I ask Audrey, nodding my chin toward Colt.

“Oh, do you remember my roommate from college? Jasmine?”

“From senior year? The one who basically ghosted you after you got pregnant and couldn’t go out partying with her?”

“Yeah, the very one. I haven’t seen her in years, but when she showed up here tonight and I invited her to sit with us, I regretted it almost immediately. Apparently, she’s . . . familiar . . . with a lot of the guys on the team.”

“Looks like she knows Colt pretty well.” I hate the acidity of my tone. He’s been with other people; it’s not like I don’t know that about him. At least he hasn’t been with anyone else in a long time.

Audrey grasps my forearm and gives me what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay if he has a past. It’s only the present and future that matter. Don’t let that get to you.”

I wonder for a second if my brother would feel the same way. He knows Colt in a way neither of us do. He’s seen him living his wild ways. And it makes even more sense to me now why he’d make Colt promise not to touch me. It doesn’t change how I feel, or what I want, but it helps me understand Jameson’s insistence.

We walk up behind Colt and Jasmine as he slides her hand off his arm and says, “I’ve told you I’m not interested.” There’s a hard edge in his voice that even drunk me doesn’t miss. I wonder if he’s slept with her in the past. I wonder if I’ll have to ask that question about every woman he knows?

You’re not actually engaged, I remind myself. Who he’s slept with in the past is none of your business. Still, I hate that he’s been with so many women, whether it meant anything to him or not.

He glances over his shoulder like he senses me standing there, and his face is nothing but happy and grateful to find me standing there. Pushing back his chair, he steps toward me, asking, “You ready?”

“You’re not going to introduce me to your friend?” I ask, giving him a little wink so he’ll know I’m giving him shit. To be honest, I just want this chick to meet his fiancée, because either she doesn’t know he’s engaged, or more likely, she knows and doesn’t even care.

“Jasmine,” he says, glancing down at her, “this is my fiancée, Jules. Jules, this is Jasmine.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, but I don’t even bother extending my hand. Instead, I wrap my arm around Colt’s waist and say, “Let’s go home, babe.”

We head straight toward the door of the bar, and on the way there, he says, “Babe, huh?” with a laugh.

“Felt appropriate in the moment. I’ve never seen you needing to be rescued before.”

“I didn’t need to be rescued, but I’m glad you were there, anyway.”

The steep hills and uneven sidewalks of Beacon Hill are more of a challenge than I expect, but finally we arrive at the Boston Common, where the streets give way to wide, more modern sidewalks. They don’t have the charm of Beacon Hill, but they’re a hell of a lot more practical.

“Are you really going to make me walk the whole way home?” I ask.

“Yes, I am,” he says, sounding very proud of himself.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you need to sober up a bit, and I’m taking good care of you.”

I laugh and give his chest a light smack. “You’re barely putting up with me.”

He comes to a stop, his arm around my shoulders making me stop as well. “What are you talking about? I enjoy taking care of you. You’re one of my favorite people.”

“Yeah, well, you like everyone, so that isn’t saying much.”

“No, I tolerate everyone. You, I actually like.”

I wake up feeling like I’m both suffocating and incredibly turned on—neither is a normal morning occurrence for me. Opening my eyes, I find my face pressed into Colt’s bare chest. One of my legs is wrapped over his hip, and my center is right up against the hot, hard cock he’s pressing into me. The slow drag of him along my clit has my eyes rolling back in my head, but when I tilt my head back to ask him what he’s doing in my bed, not to mention why he’s dry humping me in my sleep, I realize that he’s still asleep.

Shit, did I wrap myself around him and start this? Ewww, I am such a creep. One who clearly needs to take care of some business that obviously wasn’t taken care of last night.

Despite my many attempts to convince him we should have sex, Colt was resolute that we were “only making good decisions.” Which makes me wonder if that means that sex with me is a bad decision? Or if it’s just drunk sex that would be a bad decision?

I try to lift my leg off him and roll onto my back as discreetly as possible, so maybe I can hop in the shower without waking him. My mouth is dry, my head has a dull ache, and I might be sweating out tequila at this point. Still, I don’t feel that bad—nothing like last time. And I didn’t do anything crazy like go and marry some asshole hockey player. Wait . . . I hold out my left hand and look at my ring finger just to make sure, and sure enough, there’s a five-carat ring sitting there. At least I know why this time.

Next to me, I hear Colt chuckle. “Did you forget you were wearing that?”

I glance over at him. “Yeah. I had had this moment where I was like ‘at least I didn’t get married,’ and then I saw the ring and . . . you know . . .”

“I promised I’d take good take care of you.” His voice has a small undercurrent of hurt, like he thinks I didn’t trust him.

“I know, and you did. It’s just . . .” I pause, and he waits patiently for me to tell him what it is. “. . . I’m used to being the one who’s in control of my decision-making. I like feeling strong and safe, and knowing that it’s because of me and not because I’m relying on someone else.”

“Sometimes, strength is knowing when to let other people help you. You don’t have to do everything yourself, Jules.”

My laugh is muffled because I’m pressing my lips together to stop the scoff from escaping. Taking care of others has been my entire life. It’s my love language, but sometimes I do wonder: who’s taking care of me?

“You don’t,” he insists. “You’re always so busy helping everyone else, doing things for other people, sharing your strength so they can be strong too. It’s okay to let people help you, too. Not because you can’t do things yourself, but so that you don’t always have to.”

His words remind me of what he said after my confrontation with my dad a few mornings ago. It brings tears to my eyes, making me feel uncomfortably vulnerable. I’m way too keyed up sexually to be having an emotional or meaningful conversation like this. So I do what I always do, I deflect. “Right now, the only thing I need help with is an orgasm to take the edge off.”

“Wow,” he says, barking out a laugh. “Way to slow roll right into the whole using me for sex thing this morning.”

“Listen, I have to leave for work in”—I raise my head to look at my alarm clock, which is on the other side of him. Shit, I still have well over an hour, which is way more time than I actually need—“not too long. So if you’re not going to help me take care of this problem right now, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

“By all means,” he says with a smirk.

“Awesome.” It’s spoken with all hard edges and bitterness. Of all the things he wants to help me with, why can’t this be one of them? “I’m hopping in the shower. I’ll leave the door unlocked, in case you change your mind.” I roll out of bed and pad toward the bathroom.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” he calls out. And just for that, I leave the door open a crack. He can listen to the fucking orgasm that I have to give myself because he’s being obstinate about us having sex, or he can leave. Either way, I’m going to prioritize taking care of myself.