The Games We Play - Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Wes has me perched up on the vanity, my back resting against the mirror, legs swinging as he stands between my thighs with a toothbrush in hand.
He moves the toothbrush toward my mouth.
It's the fifteenth time—maybe sixteenth—he's tried to get it anywhere near me, and at this point, I'm convinced he's got the patience of a saint.
"Wait, wait, wait." I push his hand away, my voice insistent. "Even if I was hitting on him—why the fuck would I spill his drink all over him?"
"Every girl has a different method," Wes says evenly, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying his amusement. "Now brush your teeth."
I twist my head, avoiding the brush.
"Yeah, but why would I need a method? When I've got these?" I scoff, grabbing my boobs through the soft cotton of the massive T-shirt I'm wearing. My fingers squeeze them together, pushing them up for emphasis.
Wes freezes.
His gaze drops immediately, his eyes darkening as they track the movement. His jaw clenches, his grip on the toothbrush tightening just slightly. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything—just stares like I've knocked every coherent thought out of his head.
"These babies," I continue, because clearly, he needs more convincing, "do all the flirting for me. They're huge and—and did you see how they looked tonight? Wore one of my best bras too. Ugh—fuck, I don't know..."
When I let go, they bounce back into place, and I swear I hear Wes exhale a little too sharply.
"Jesus, Cam," he mutters.
"I mean—it's clearly mental illness. Imagine hating me, and I literally have no idea what's going on. Fucking wild." I scoff, my legs swinging back and forth as Wes rests his spare hand on the skin of my thigh.
His golden skin against my bronze-olive? Cute. The way his entire hand swamps my not-exactly-small thigh? Fucking hot.
Wes tries to angle the toothbrush toward my mouth again, but I twist my head away with a scowl.
"I kind of feel bad for her. Like, she needs to heal. Go to therapy or something."
"Cam," Wes says, his voice low, a thread of exasperation sneaking in. "Teeth."
"Oh my god!" I gasp, waving him off again, my expression lighting up with sudden, drunken clarity. "What if it was him? What if he bumped into me on purpose? That could've been his method—because he doesn't have tits like mine, which is just... so sad."
Wes exhales sharply, his lips twitching like he's fighting a grin. "Cameron—"
My eyes light up. "Oh, shit—you should've heard what Jude called him back at Sticky's!"
Wes arches an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Yeah?"
I open my mouth to answer, but my thoughts stalls. There's nothing in my brain except for Baby Mike Wazowski and the recipe for Gigi Hadid's Vodka Pasta. Two braincells just bouncing around inside my skull like a damn pinball machine.
My brow furrows, and I tilt my head with a frustrated little pout. "Shit, I can't remember. It was so good, though."
That does it. Wes's face lights up with a laugh—low, warm, and genuine—and my stomach bubbles.
And it ain't because of the tequila shots that's for sure.
"Alright," he says, shaking his head as the laughter lingers in his eyes. "You done now, baby?"
I blink at him for a second, then grin cheekily. "Yes, sir."
I open my mouth obediently, and he finally gets the toothbrush in, his thumb tilting my chin up as he brushes carefully, his touch steady and infuriatingly gentle.
The taste of cheap mint fills my mouth, and for once, I don't fight it. Wes's thumb brushes against the corner of my mouth as he tilts my jaw, his touch almost pissing me off because it's so damn gentle.
He's so close now, his focus sharp as his hand angles my chin just right, moving the toothbrush with deliberate care. His brows furrow slightly and his jaw tight.
The Joker's voice joins Mike and Gigi in my head. Why so serious?
My lips curve into a smile around the brush, and when his eyes flick up to meet mine, he freezes for half a second.
The tension in his face softens, that serious, concentrated look giving way to something quieter—a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he realises I'm watching him.
His eyes dart back down to my mouth as he continues, his movements steady but slower now, like he's suddenly hyper-aware of the moment. I watch him, unabashed, because honestly, it's not every day I get to see this version of Wes—calm, careful, and just a little unsure of himself in the best way.
His fingers linger against my jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing the soft skin there as he holds me still and the heat radiating from him is crazy. The faint scent of cedarwood and soap fills the air, warm and clean, and I have to fight the urge to close my eyes and mush my face against those glorious titties of his behind tight white cotton.
Ever since Wes pulled into the driveway, he's been so... gentle.
Makes me wonder why the fuck I even argued against him being my designated driver in the first place.
From the moment he shifted into park and ran around to open my door, his hands had been steady on my waist, pulling me down from the cab and guiding me inside like I might tip over without him.
He'd hushed my giggles in the entryway as he helped me out of my boots, tugging me close when we passed the living room, worried Rome might hear us.
But apparently he's completely passed out. Having crashed the second they got home from the game. Wes had to drive him home cos the mans couldn't keep his eyes open for more than five seconds.
Then, instead of the usual tearing off our clothes and tumbling into bed, Wes had tugged out a pair of his boxer shorts and a T-shirt for me to wear.
He undressed me—and then redressed me.
He stared—of course, he fucking stare, the guy's obsessed with my tits—but just ordered me to lift my arms so he could pull a big, baggy, vintage Carolina Panthers tee down over my naked body. Then he crouched down to roll the waistband of the boxers three times so they wouldn't fall off me.
Everything about it had been so gentle, so... natural.
Now, as Wes pulls the toothbrush away, his gaze flicks up, catching mine. His blue eyes hold something unreadable for a second, his lips parting like he might say something, but instead, he clears his throat and steps back slightly.
"All done," he mutters, his voice a touch rougher than usual as he hands me the glass of water to rinse.
I take it from him, swishing the water around in my mouth. Carefully, I lean to the side, bending over the sink as I sweep my hair back from my neck with one hand to keep it out of the way.
After spitting into the basin, I sit back up, beaming at Wes with the biggest, most foam-covered smile imaginable.
"You should get drunk more often. I think I like this Cam better," he snorts softly, shaking his head as he grabs a small hand towel from the rack and wets it under the sink.
"Yeah? You'd like looking after me and cleaning up my drunk messes?" I tease as he steps closer, gently wiping at the corners of my mouth.
His movements are calm and soft, the towel lukewarm as he cleans the foam from my lips and chin.
Wes chuckles, low and warm, as he turns and rinses the towel under running water. "Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."
"Aww. So sweet tonight, Reed." I say, reaching up to pat his cheek.
He laughs, tossing the towel onto the counter before turning back to me, his hands braced on either side of my thighs. "I'm always sweet, Cole."
Then he's scooping me up off the counter with so much ease it startles me and carries me out of the bathroom.
The house is dim, faint streaks of light from the street lamps outside filtering through the slats of the blinds, casting soft lines across the walls and floors. Each step Wes takes creaks faintly against the hardwood, the sound echoing in the quiet stillness.
His bedroom door swings open with a soft creak, and the warm glow of the bedside lamp spills into the hallway before he carries me inside. The golden light stretches across the room, chasing away the shadows and making everything feel so cozy.
Wes sets me down on the bed gently, his movements slow and careful as he pulls the comforter up over me. His sheets are so soft, an inky black with a white and slate blue pinstripe comforter—all with a thread count high enough to get me horny.
What? I'm an interior design major to my core.
I blink up at him, the warmth of the comforter wrapping around me like a hug. But then I stretch my hands out toward him with an exaggerated whine. "Again."
He steps back, tucking me in tight. "You need to sleep, Cam."
I pout, crossing my arms in protest and mumbling, "You need to sleep."
"Real mature," Wes chuckles softly, and I glare at him as he rounds the base of the bed.
When he reaches his side, his hands drop to the hem of his white T-shirt.
My breath catches as he pulls it up and over his head in one smooth motion.
The golden light of the bedside lamp cascades over his bare skin, highlighting every ridge of muscle and sharp plane of his body. His chest is broad, his skin golden and smooth, and his abs are taut and defined, each dip catching the soft glow like a masterpiece under a spotlight.
Lower, my eyes follow the faint trail of golden hair starting beneath his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his grey sweatpants. They hang low on his hips, clinging to the deep cut of his v-line.
The faint veins leading from his stomach down into the fabric draw my gaze, and my breath catches when I notice the way his cock presses lightly against the material and the outline has my mouth running dry.
Oh be so fucking for real right now—how can someone's body be that damn beautiful?
It just confirms my growing suspicions: I must have slipped and fallen during my hurried race out of Connor's apartment months ago and landed in a forever coma, hooked up to wires and a feeding tube.
This is all one big, fucked-up coma dream.
I sink further into the bed, heat crawling up my neck as I pull the covers higher, hiding my face beneath them.
Wes notices. Of course, he fucking notices.
"You good?" Wes asks, his voice light and teasing as he tosses his shirt onto his desk chair.
"I should've just gone home with Samuel," I grunt, turning my gaze toward the closed blinds. "He's my new best friend."
Wes mumbles while pulling back the sheets on his side, "So I've heard."
"My only friend," I insist, turning back to face him.
He pauses, one knee on the bed, blinking at me.
Then he laughs softly. "I'm your friend too, Cam."
"No." I shake my head, poking at his shoulder once he's sitting with his back to the wall. "You're my fuck buddy. It's different."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I push myself up onto my elbows, narrowing my eyes at him like he's grown a second head. "Friends share things with each other. They don't hide things. They don't bottle shit up. They don't keep secrets and then decide to drop them like grenades in the middle of a fucking Colts meet-n-greet."
He chuckles and lifts a hand, "Whoa, baby, why you takin' it out on me?"
"Because you're here, and she's in Smoochland with your Captain."
"Smoochland?"
I huff and flip onto my side with my back to him, tucking both hands under my pillow. "I'm going to sleep."
I settle in, my face scrunched up in a frown as I stare across the darkness of his room. The windows is opposite me, blinds pulled and light shining through and I glare at it while I try to unlock some part of my brain that can set it on fire without a match.
The air between us feels heavy, the silence stretching out like a rubber band about to snap.
I hear Wes sigh behind me. "My pre-game hype playlist is just girl anthems."
I pause, blinking repeatedly in to the darkness, completely thrown.
Then I turn slightly, looking over my shoulder at him. "What?"
He doesn't look at me as he explains, his tone matter-of-fact. "I have two playlists. There's the one I show the guys—Travis Scott, A$AP, all the usual. And then there's my real one. The one I actually listen to before games."
I fully turn myself around now, lying on my back and prop myself up on my elbows. "A girl boss playlist?"
"Yup." Wes's lips twitch into a small smile as he finally meets my gaze. "I'm doing the Colt Trot into the Iron Pasture, and Firework by Katy Perry is playing through my headphones."
My mouth drops open, and I stare at him in disbelief. "No fucking way."
"It's true." Wes laughs as I fight to keep a straight face. "And I'm telling you that because I'm your friend. And I trust you. What else do you want to know? My favorite ice cream flavor is mint-chocolate chip. My favorite color is Carolina blue. My favorite Spice Girl is Scary Spice. I know all the lyrics to Dolly Parton's 9 to 5. And my middle name is Beau."
"I knew that last one already."
He smirks. "Researched me, have you?"
"It's on your file that Charlotte Tutors keeps. I just happened to see it." I hum calmly as I turn onto my side and face away from him.
I settle on the pillow and exhale, sinking further and further into a mattress made of dreams and clouds and fin
"Sure..." Wes's bedside lamp clicks off, the room plunging into comfortable darkness, and the bed moves as he settles in. "Now go to sleep, Cameron."
"Fine." My eyes flutter closed. "And thanks—for sharing that with me. I guess you can be my next best friend after Samuel."
"I'm putting that in my bio: Cameron Cole's second best friend." Wes's voice carries through the dark, and we both laugh softly together.
He pauses. "But Scarlett is still your best best friend. You just need to talk to her, that's all. See where her head's at."
I huff into the pillow. "God, it pisses me off when you're right."
"I know. It's great."
"And you need to find a new favorite color. Carolina blue is mine."
"Is it now?" Wes says, and before I can answer, I feel his hands on my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. His mouth hovers by my ear. "You're the only one who can have that favorite color?"
I turn and look over my shoulder. "Get your own, Golden Boy."
"Only you? In the entire world?" Wes's devilish smirk is impossible to miss, even in the dark. His fingers flex on my waist.
"Yeah," I insist.
"Yeah?" Wes says just before his fingers attack my waist—where I'm so fucking ticklish—and I let out an undignified shriek.
"Wesley Reed!" I squeal, laughter bursting out uncontrollably.
I twist away, but Wes is relentless, his hands moving with lethal precision, finding every spot that makes me yelp and buck beneath him.
"Wes—stop!" I gasp, kicking out wildly, my heels catching the mattress as I try to wriggle free.
He doesn't let up, laughing softly as he chases me down, his body following mine as I collapse onto my back. His weight pins me to the bed, his legs slipping between mine, keeping me in place as his fingers torment my ribs, my sides, the sensitive spot just above my hips.
I wheeze between fits of uncontrollable laughter, "Your roommate—"
His grin is wicked, his blue eyes lit with mischief as he leans closer.
"Let 'em hear that beautiful laugh, baby," he says, his voice low and teasing.
God. Fuck. Too much.
I gasp for breath, twisting and squirming as his hands move up to my ribs again. My shirt has ridden up, the hem now sitting just below my boobs, leaving my skin bare to the cool air and the heat of his touch.
My laugh bursts out louder this time, unrestrained and helpless as I thrash beneath him. "White flag! White flag!"
The tickling slows to a stop, but Wes doesn't move away.
I'm left on my back, panting and gasping for breath, my chest heaving beneath the T-shirt that's completely gathered under my tits, and my shorts having slipped impossibly low on my hips. His hands are splayed across my bare ribs and stomach, his palms warm against my skin, and his legs are tangled with mine, his weight still pinning me to the mattress.
The room feels heavy, the air thick and electric as the laughter dies out, leaving only the sound of our breathing.
Wes hovers above me, his face close—so close I can see every line, every detail, even in the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. The golden light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, his chin, the way his mouth is parted just enough to show his teeth as he breathes.
We're close.
I mean—we've been close before. He's literally been inside me.
But this... this is different.
His blue eyes lock on mine, and the look in them makes something deep in my chest tighten.
It's impossible to look away, to pull away from him. He's so beautiful... and kind. And so fucking funny—even though it pisses me off. He's wicked smart, both on and off the field. He's friendly as hell too, always the first to start up a conversation, even if it's the most mundane topic.
And a good person. A really good person.
The Golden Boy with a golden heart.
Without thinking, I reach up, my fingers brushing against the strands of blonde hair hanging in front of his forehead.
I play with the ends, combing them back gently from his face.
Wes doesn't say anything. He just stays there, his gaze heavy and warm, locked on me like I'm the only thing in the world, the only thing that matters.
"I guess we can both have Carolina blue as our favorite color," I mumble, catching the slight twitch of his lips. "I'll allow it."
Wes chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, rumbling between us.
"That's so generous of you," he murmurs, his voice teasing but quiet, like he's afraid to break the moment entirely.
I shrug, my fingers still combing through his hair. "I know."
His laugh fades, and the space between us grows quieter, heavier.
Wes shifts slightly, lowering himself just a little more.
His lips hover above mine, so close I can feel his breath, warm and steady, brushing against me. His blue eyes search mine, peeling me apart piece by piece with just a glance.
"We should get some shut-eye," he says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
My heart stutters as my chin tilts up on its own, my gaze flicking to his mouth. "We really should."
It's a small kiss.
It's not like the other times—not rushed or messy or wild.
It's soft, deliberate, and achingly tender, like he's trying to say something with the kiss and means it. His lips move against mine with care, slow and steady, drawing me in like he has all the time in the world.
My arms wrap around his neck instinctively, my fingers threading through his hair. His hands slide to my waist, gripping firmly as he draws me flush against him, so close I can feel the heat of his chest seeping into mine.
His fingers flex, pressing into my sides as he exhales sharply, like he's trying to ground himself.
I hear him inhale deeply as he breathes in—breathes me in.
The kiss deepens, but not in a frantic way. It's patient, like he's savoring it, relishing in my taste and touch. It makes my chest ache in a way I don't quite understand, and for the first time tonight, I don't give a fuck.
Wes tilts his head slightly, his mouth coaxing mine to follow his lead, and I do—melting into him as his tongue gently parts my lips.
The first brush of his tongue against mine sends a jolt through me, hot and electric, and a soft noise escapes my throat. Wes groans in response, low and rough, the sound vibrating against my lips as his grip tightens.
His tongue strokes against mine, slow and deliberate, sending sparks of heat pooling low in my stomach. Every shift of his body against mine, every faint scrape of his stubble against my skin, makes the air between us burn hotter.
I'm sinking into him, into the kiss, my body softening as his hardens against me. I can feel every inch of him—the ridges of his chest, the taut lines of his abs pressing against my softer curves, and lower, the unmistakable hardness of his cock pressing against the front of his sweats.
His hair is soft between my fingers, slightly damp from the warmth of the room. I can feel the faint tremble in his body, like he's holding himself back.
The heat radiating off him is overwhelming, and my body responds without thought, a soft ache blooming between my thighs. I shift slightly beneath him, the friction sending a wave of need through me that I can't ignore.
I whimper. I fucking whimper because of a kiss.
And Wes sure as hell hears it because I feel him smile against my mouth and tongue.
His hand slides up my side, his fingers brushing the curve of my ribs as his thumb skims the fleshy underside of my breast. The motion sends a shiver racing down my spine, my breath hitching as my thighs clench together, desperate for relief.
He groans again, his body taut with restraint, and I swear I hear the faint creak of his fist clenching into the mattress beside my head. His tongue moves against mine again, slower this time, like he's trying to savor every second.
I don't know how long we kiss—seconds, minutes, hours. Time feels slippery, bending around us, holding us here, for this moment.
When we finally pull back, I'm breathless, my lips swollen and slick with his saliva, my heart hammering in my chest. Wes doesn't move far, his forehead brushing mine as his eyes search my face.
"Not bad," I murmur, my voice teasing but unsteady as I try to catch my breath. "Probably the best goodnight kiss I've ever had."
Wes huffs out a low laugh, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "Probably?"
I shrug, pretending to consider it as my fingers brush his hair again, smoothing it back from his forehead. "Yeah. Though there was the one at seventh-grade summer camp..."
"Little shit," Wes chuckles softly, dipping down to give me one last peck—which, of course, turns into more.
It's meant to be quick, but his lips linger, brushing against mine just long enough to make my heart skip. And then he kisses me again, this time with more weight, more depth, like he can't help himself. It's still brief, but the way his lips move against mine makes me ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and he lets out a quiet laugh, low and rough, like he's fighting himself.
"Fuck," he mutters with a dark chuckle. "Good night, Cam."
It's clear he wants to continue, the frustration dripping from his husky voice, but he doesn't.
Instead, Wes shifts and settles down half-on, half-off me. His weight presses into me as his arm wraps tightly around my waist, pulling me snug against him.
His head tucks into the curve of my neck, his breath warm against my skin, and his leg slips between mine, his thigh heavy and solid where it rests against me. The heat of him seeps into every damn inch of me. It's warm and so fucking cozy and I can already feel sleep pulling at the backs of my eyes.
I'm drunk. I'm tired. And I don't have the strength to fight this.
So I let one of my hands settle on his forearm thrown across my stomach, brushing lightly over the nice yummy corded muscle there, while the other reaches up to tangle in the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. So damn soft—I'm stealing his shampoo in the morning.
"Night Wesley."
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of his breathing as it slows, his body relaxing into mine as he burrows his face more against me. His nose deeply etched against my skin as and he takes big inhale of scent before his body calms.
Within moments, my eyelids grow heavy and sleep is pulling me under.