The Games We Play - Chapter 20: Chapter 20

It's Sunday afternoon, and Jetton Park is quiet.
Overcast clouds stretch lazily across the sky and cast the world in all shades of soft, muted light.
The air is warm but fresh—summer's gone, and winter is sure as hell on its way.
Pink azaleas dot the edges of the grass, the color bright against the dark greens of the pine trees framing the view of Lake Norman. Frank Ocean's Pink + White plays softly from Wes' Bluetooth speaker, and the melody floats around the empty clearing.
Wes is proud—so proud—when he pulls his truck into a little clearing at the edge of the park, a spot he claims no one else knows about.
He comes here a lot to think, he told me, which, y'know, is always a dangerous game.
Men thinking is how we got all those damn wars and taxes.
I woke up practically glued to Wes like a needy koala bear.
My cheek was pressed against his chest, my leg thrown over his waist, my body all but draped across him like some kind of human blanket. He was wide awake, his hand slowly dragging up and down my back, his touch lazy and unhurried.
Wes had bunched my T-shirt all the way up at my neck and shoulders, exposing my bare skin to him. His fingers traced patterns there, his fingertips gliding over my spine like he was memorizing every bump, every groove.
And he was quiet. That's what got me. No teasing, no commentary, just this steady, grounding presence beneath me. His chest rose and fell under my cheek, his heartbeat strong and even.
It was cozy. Too fucking cozy. The kind of comfort that makes you consider skipping life entirely just to stay there.
I stirred and shifted, my head lifting up to look at him, and he hit me with that stupid grin of his.
His cock was hard. Rock-hard.
Right against my thigh.
It's not like it was new—Wes waking up with morning wood was practically a given. He was grinning at me like a boy on Christmas, happy that I was awake and he could finally unwrap his present.
And then the nausea hit.
Wes laughed at me as I rolled off him and onto the floor, all but crawling to the bathroom on my hands and knees.
I needed a few moments alone in the bathroom, trying to find my dignity at the bottom of the bowl. For a group of jocks, their amenities were fucking sparkling.
Breakfast with Wes and Rome was a blur of sarcastic teasing and Rice Krispies—which, apparently, Rome doesn't share with anyone except me now.
He didn't even hesitate to pass it to me when I sat down, though Wes had been visibly offended by the gesture.
Wes had set a plate of eggs and toast in front of me, the smirk on his face far too proud for someone who'd just made breakfast. I sat with them and ate both. It was an odd breakfast, but it filled the pitiful hole that had become my stomach.
Rome did have a hand in making my hangover slightly better with his smooth charm and pickup lines. He's probably one of the few guys who can make me laugh—and not just because I feel sorry for their lame, borderline misogynistic jokes.
Soon after, Wes was driving me across town—still in my shameful outfit of boxers and his baggy Panthers tee, with my outfit from last night in a damn Colts tote bag like a prize.
Thankfully, Scarlett wasn't home—I wasn't ready to confront her yet because my silly little anxiety issues make me fully believe she's going to ask to break up and move out.
While Wes made himself comfy in the living room, I showered, pulled on some denim cut-off shorts, white tank top and a chunky cream cardigan, and we were back in the truck, heading to Jetton Park for an outdoor study session.
He'd apparently planned the whole thing while I was clearing out my stomach lining earlier in the morning.
The clearing at Jetton Park is private, separated from the main park by a thick wall of tall oaks and hickories, only accessible by a hidden gravel road.
It's quiet here—just the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the occasional splash of water lapping against the rocky shore of Lake Norman.
The back of the truck is parked right up on the water's edge. The ground near the lake is uneven, a mix of gravel and smooth rocks.
Wes' Ram is massive, all shiny blue paint and polished chrome, but the bed itself feels more like a nest than a truck.
Foam mattresses, pillows, and blankets create a beautiful, cozy cloud. There's a green plaid sherpa, a cozy gray fleece, a creamy knitted blanket, and a navy quilt with tiny little stars. The pillows are just as mismatched—some plain white, others in soft velvets and chunky knits, and one with a cheesy "Home Sweet Home" print that looks suspiciously like it came from a bargain bin.
Apparently, it's just leftovers from when they've had football guys stay over and shit. But it's a suspicious amount, and along with the playlist playing through the speaker that sounds oddly sensual and the private clearing, it's all the information I need to understand exactly why he brought us here.
Golden Boy thinks he's so slick...
But I wasn't entirely against it.
The moment we settle in, the overcast sky, soft breeze, and gentle lapping of water start working on my hangover and pulsing head like a salve.
I'm lying on my stomach, legs stretched out behind me, trying—really trying—to focus on the laptop propped up on a pillow in front of me. The soft breeze rolling off Lake Norman brushes cool against my bare legs, a stark contrast to the weight of Wes's gaze, which is practically burning into my skin.
I shift slightly, tucking one ankle over the other, bending my knees and kicking my feet idly in the air, but it doesn't help.
I can still feel it—the heat of his stare, heavy and unrelenting, like he's tracing every inch of me with his eyes.
Finally, I glance over my shoulder.
He's leaned back against the cab of the truck, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out lazily in front of him. His laptop sits forgotten on the blanket beside him, abandoned in favor of what I can only assume is his favorite pastime—staring at me like I hung the damn moon.
His head is tilted slightly, blonde hair catching faintly in the soft light filtering through the clouds. But his gaze? His blue eyes are locked unapologetically on the backs of my thighs, where my denim shorts has ridden up just a little too close to my asscheeks.
I grumble, "You're not even reading."
He doesn't look even a little guilty.
Instead, his lips curve into the kind of lazy smirk that makes my stomach do this stupid little flip. "You wear those shorts and expect me to focus?"
"It's like you've never seen legs before," I deadpan, turning back to my laptop and doing my best to ignore the way my cheeks are starting to heat.
"Not like this," Wes murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, all smooth and low. "Not those thighs."
I roll my eyes so hard I'm pretty sure I see stars, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back at him. He wants to be a distraction? Fine. But I'm not letting him win.
Clearing my throat, I refocus on the screen and pick up where I left off, reading aloud from the week's assigned chapter.
It's Week 5 of Wes's art history course, and the focus is on Mannerism—or at least it's meant to be.
What started as him half-heartedly scrolling through a required online journal article has somehow turned into me reading it out loud while he lounges in the truck bed like a king surveying his kingdom.
Asshole.
I drop my legs back down, prop myself higher up on my elbows, and let my voice fill the space between us, determined to finish the reading despite his complete lack of effort.
"Mannerism, emerging in the late 1520s, is characterized by its rejection of the naturalism and balance of the High Renaissance."
Behind me, I can feel Wes's gaze—hot and heavy, dragging along the bare skin of my thighs.
"Mannerist artists such as Parmigianino," I continue, my voice straining for calm, "rejected the harmonious ideals of artists like Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci. Instead, they leaned into exaggerated forms, dynamic tension, and unnatural proportions to create works that were—"
Wes's hand grazes my ankle.
I stop mid-sentence, my breath catching as his thumb brushes lazily against the curve of bone there.
"Wes," I warn, twisting slightly to glance back at him.
He's leaned back against the cab of the truck, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him.
His head is tilted as he watches me with that maddeningly cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes glint with mischief, but there's something darker in them too.
"I'm listening, baby," he says, his voice low and casual, like his hand isn't trailing from my ankle to my calf with slow, deliberate intent.
"Are you?" I mutter, trying—and failing—to keep my tone steady as his fingers continue their path upward, tracing slow circles over my skin.
"'Parmigianino's Madonna with the Long Neck,'" I force myself to read on, even as his hand creeps higher, "'is one of the most iconic examples of Mannerism, with its elongated proportions and—'"
His fingers slip just above my knee, pressing lightly into the soft skin there, and my voice falters.
I'm determined to stay focused. I will not let a man best me.
"'The Madonna's exaggerated elegance and the cramped, unfinished background,'" I continue, my voice sharper now, "'create a tension that exemplifies the Mannerist rejection of—'"
Wes's hand slides higher, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin on the inside of my thigh, and my breath stutters.
I snap the laptop shut, twisting onto my side to glare at him.
"Are you even trying to focus?" I demand.
Wes doesn't flinch. If anything, he looks amused, his gaze lazily sliding from my flushed face to my legs and back again.
"I am," he insists, completely unconvincing as his fingers trace slow, teasing patterns against my thigh. "It's just hard to concentrate when you're lying there all pretty like that."
"God, you're so annoying," I mutter, trying to sound exasperated, but it comes out breathless.
Wes pushes off the truck bed, his movements fluid and deliberate, and for a moment, I'm too stunned to react. He doesn't stop until he's on his knees, rolling forward until he's looming over me.
I barely have time to push myself up on my elbows before his hands are on me, one skimming up my bare leg, the other braced on the blanket beside my head.
He leans in close, the warmth of his breath fanning against my cheek, and I feel my back hit the plush layers of the truck bed as his body crowds into mine.
His eyes blaze with something darker now, heavy-lidded and locked on me like I'm the only thing he sees.
"Parmigianino," he murmurs, his lips curling into a slow smirk, "distorted anatomy to create tension, yeah? That tension you were talking about?"
"Of course you'd remember that." I hum playfully, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip and it's like a magnet for Wes' gaze. He zeros in on it, everything dirty little thing he's thinking of doing to me in the truck of his bed swirling so vividly in his eyes.
The silence between us settled again, warm and weighty, and for a moment, I let myself sink into it. Sink into him.
And then there was a loud thud.
I jump as Wes pulls away from me and turns around. "The hell—"
I peek around him, just catching a football on the roof of the Ram before it slowly rolls off, hitting the grassy ground below.
Wes is already moving. He pushes off the truck bed, swinging his legs over the side and dropping to the ground in one fluid motion.
Wes straightens up, holding the ball in one hand as he glances around, a frown tugging at his lips. And then the sound of footsteps—quick, frantic, and chaotic—breaks through the quiet clearing.
"Sorry, sir!" a young voice calls as three kids come barreling over.
The tallest one, maybe ten years old, has sandy blonde hair sticking out in wild tufts and a cocky grin that feels oddly familiar. The second boy, around the same age but shorter and stockier, has a mop of curly brown hair and slightly crooked glasses.
And the smallest of the group, no older than six, hangs back behind the other two, his big brown eyes wide and nervous, his tiny hands clutching the edge of his oversized jersey like it's a lifeline.
All three boys skid to a stop.
The tallest boy—the cocky one—is the first to speak.
"Didn't mean to hit your tru—holy crap!" he exclaims, his eyes going wide as he points at Wes. "You're Wesley Reed!"
"Wyatt!" the curly-haired boy hisses, elbowing him in the ribs. "You can't say that word!"
"Who cares, Leo? It's Wesley Reed!" the freckled boy blurts, his voice cracking with excitement. "You're the Colts quarterback! You're, like, famous!"
The smaller boy, probably six or seven, peers shyly up at Wes, clutching his brother's shirt like he's trying to decide if this is all real.
Wes's lips twitch, and I can tell he's fighting a grin.
"That's me," he says, his voice slipping into that warm, easy drawl that seems to win everyone over. "Y'all playin' football out here?"
"Yes, sir," the tallest boy—Wyatt—answers immediately, puffing out his chest like a proud little rooster. "Our mamas said we were getting too rowdy over by the picnic tables, so they told us to come play over here."
The curly-haired boy steps forward, adjusting his glasses nervously. "I'm really sorry about the ball, sir. That was my kick—it was an accident."
"No harm done," Wes says easily, tossing the ball lightly in his hand. "To kick it that far, you must have a good boot on you."
Leo grins bashfully.
The tallest boy recovers first, his grin spreading wide across his face.
"Oh man, you are so cool!" he shouts, his excitement spilling over. "I'm Wyatt, by the way." He gestures to the curly-haired boy beside him. "That's Leo. And—and he's Miles."
Miles, still clutching the edge of Wyatt's jersey, blinks up at Wes shyly but doesn't say a word.
Wes crouches slightly so he's eye level with them, his smile warm and easy. "Nice to meet y'all. You guys out here practicing plays?"
"Yes, sir," Leo says earnestly, straightening up. "We're trying to get better. Wanna play for the Colts one day. Wyatt's got a good arm, but sometimes he overthrows."
"Do not!" Wyatt protests, glaring at Leo.
"Do too!"
Wes chuckles, shaking his head at their back-and-forth. "Well, I guess there's only one way to settle this, huh?"
He spins the football casually in his hand, in a surprisingly attractive way, before tossing it back to Wyatt.
"Let's see that arm, QB. Prove your buddy wrong."
Wyatt catches the ball and puffs up his chest, practically vibrating with energy. "You mean, like—right now?"
Wes stands to his full height, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he smirks down at them. "Why not? Show me what you've got."
Leo's jaw drops. "No way. You really wanna play with us?"
Wes's smirk sharpens, his voice playful. "What, you scared?"
Wyatt immediately steps forward, his expression fierce. "No, sir. I'm not scared."
"Good," Wes replies, his grin widening. "'Cause I'm gonna need to see some big-time plays if you wanna impress me."
But then Wyatt's gaze flicks toward me, his face scrunching in confusion. "What about her?" he asks, pointing straight at me. "She playin' too?"
Wes doesn't even hesitate. He glances over his shoulder at me, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, before turning back to the boys.
"Oh, she's playin'," he says, his voice laced with teasing charm. "Cam's got a cannon for an arm. You boys don't stand a chance."
I glare at him, refusing to take his hand. "I'm not playing."
Wes turns back to the boys, clearly unfazed by my refusal. "Y'all think Cam should play?"
That's all it takes.
"Yeah!!!" Wyatt shouts, throwing his hands up as he tosses the football into the air and catches it again. He starts bouncing on his toes like he's ready for kickoff, the energy radiating off him in waves.
"She's gotta play!" Leo chimes in, his voice practically cracking with excitement. He cups his hands around his mouth like a megaphone and starts yelling, "C'mon, Miss Cam!"
Wyatt shouts, "Yeah, Miss Cam!"
Even Miles, the quietest of the three, is hopping on his toes now, his little voice chiming in shyly. "Play! Play! Play!"
"Let's gooooo!" Wyatt screams, holding the football up like it's a trophy. "Show us the cannon!"
"Oh my God," I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand down my face as the three of them keep yelling and bouncing around like they've had way too much sugar.
"They're waiting, Cole," Wes says, his voice full of smug amusement. He leans casually against the side of the truck, arms crossed, watching me with that stupid grin.
I throw him the dirtiest look I can muster, "I hate you."
"Sure you do." Wes just grins, his hand still hovering in the air. "Now come on. You can't leave them hanging—they'll cry."
I slide my cardigan off my arms.
Wes smirks, clearly amused, and sticks his tongue through his cheek as his eyes drop down my front, focused on where my tank top dips a little too low.
I pull it up while slicing a glare at him which only makes his grin grow wider.
And then I'm pushing myself up onto my knees and then to my feet, putting my hands on the sides of the truck before throwing my legs over. I rest on the metal as I glare down at him.
I roll my eyes but reach for his hand anyway, letting him steady me as I hop down from the truck.
"That's my girl," Wes teases, his palm settling against the small of my back as the boys erupt into another round of cheers.
I can't help it—a small grin tugs at my lips as I glance up at Wes.
"This better be fun," I mutter.
Wes leans in, his voice low and teasing. "Oh, it will be."
☆☆☆☆
Wes had gone full coach mode.
And the boys? They were eating it up.
"Alright, Wyatt, when you drop back, keep your eyes downfield. No looking at the ball—you've gotta trust Leo to catch the snap, alright? And Leo, plant your feet before you throw. No twisting off balance!"
"Yes, sir!" Wyatt shouted, giving an exaggerated salute, his grin splitting wide across his face.
"Sir, yes, sir!" Leo chimed in, mimicking Wyatt's salute and puffing his chest out like he was about to storm a battlefield.
Wes chuckled, shaking his head as he knelt down to their level, demonstrating how to grip the football. His tone was firm but patient, and he made even the simplest tips sound like nuggets of wisdom the boys would carry with them for life.
From where I stood on the field, Miles's tiny hand clutching mine, I couldn't help but watch Wes.
The way he crouched low, his golden skin glowing in the overcast light, his smile easy and encouraging as he hyped up the boys—it was magnetic.
It wasn't just that he looked good—which of course he fucking did. It was how naturally he handled them. How he seemed to know exactly what to say to get them to listen without ever raising his voice. How he didn't talk at them, but to them, like they were equals.
I just stood there, staring at him, a faint smile on my lips as I tried to ignore the fact that suddenly all I could think about was how great a dad Wes would be.
The thought hit me like a freight train.
A big, blond, broad-shouldered, charming-as-hell freight train.
Is it possible for ovaries to shiver? Like I can literally hear my biological clock ticking louder and louder as I watch Wes with the two boys.
"Cam?" Wes's voice called out from across the field, snapping me back to reality.
I blink rapidly, shooing away the thought with my lashes.
"You guys ready to keep going, or what?" Wes called from across the field, his voice carrying easily as he stood with Wyatt and Leo, who were deep in their huddle.
I crouched down in front of Miles, his small hand still wrapped tightly around mine. He looked up at me with those big, nervous eyes, like he wasn't entirely sure what he'd gotten himself into.
"You ready, baby?" I asked softly, cupping his cheek with my free hand.
He hesitated for a second before nodding, his little chin dipping as he clung to my hand like it was his lifeline.
"You sure? No need for a timeout?" I teased, tilting my head as I let my thumb brush over the apple of his cheek. "We could set up juice box stations and everything—hydration team on standby."
That earned me a giggle, soft and shy, and my chest tightened at how damn precious it sounded.
As Miles's smile widened, I glanced up—and froze.
Wes was watching me.
Even with Wyatt and Leo chattering away in their little huddle, pointing at the football and gesturing wildly, his focus was entirely on me.
There was something in his eyes I couldn't quite place, something that made my stomach twist in a way that felt equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. His grin was still there, soft and crooked, but his gaze...
It felt like he was seeing something more.
I swallowed hard, turning my attention back to Miles to keep my head from spinning.
"You good, little man?" I asked, my voice quieter now.
"Uh-huh," he said, nodding again as his small fingers squeezed mine.
"Good," I said, standing back up and giving him an encouraging smile. "We've got this."
I glanced back at Wes, who was still staring.
His lips twitched like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Wyatt let out a loud whoop, breaking the moment.
"Break!" Wyatt shouted, tossing the ball to Leo as the two of them sprinted back into position.
Wes lingered for a second longer, his gaze flicking down to Miles's small hand still wrapped in mine, before his attention shifted back to the game.
"All right, set it up!" Wes finally calls, breaking the moment as he claps his hands again. "Let's see some hustle, boys!"
Wyatt and Leo jogged back to the line of scrimmage, their faces lit with excitement as they strategized. Miles and I stood a few yards back on defense, and I crouched slightly, hands resting on my knees as I tried to look like I had the faintest idea of what I was doing.
I did not.
Wyatt claps back, his grin cocky. "You're going down, Miss Cam!"
"Oh yeah?" I shot back, planting my hands on my hips. "Big talk from someone who tripped over his own shoelace two plays ago."
Leo and Wes both howled with laughter, and Wyatt turned red, but his grin didn't falter. "I told y'all that was strategy!"
"Trash talk from the defense," Wes called, grinning as he tossed the ball to Wyatt. "That's how you know she's nervous."
"I'm not nervous!" I shot back, but the two boys were already lining up, their grins wide and challenging.
We all got into position before Wes lifted his fingers to his face, tips curling just inside his lips, and a sharp whistle splintered across the clearing.
Wyatt's grin widened as he crouched behind Leo, the football balanced lightly in his hands. "Blue 42! Set... hike!"
The ball snapped back to Wyatt, and suddenly it's chaos.
Wyatt darts to the left, Leo peeling off in the opposite direction to block, and Miles takes off like a rocket after them, his little legs pumping furiously.
"I'm coming for you!" Miles yells, his voice high-pitched and full of determination.
Wyatt squeals, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes as Miles closes the gap between them. "Oh no, you don't!"
But I can't stop to help him—not with Wyatt coming straight for me. I lock eyes with the little quarterback as he zigzags across the field like a certain someone I've seen before.
I match his movements, cutting him off at every turn, my focus laser-sharp despite the ridiculousness of the situation. I'm so close—so damn close—and just as I reach out to grab him—
Strong arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me off balance and spinning me away from the action.
"Foul on the defense!" Wes declares, his voice full of laughter as he lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing. "Illegal use of charm to distract the offense!"
I let out a shriek, flailing helplessly as he spins me in a circle. "What? That's not a thing!"
"Mr. Reed!" Miles's little voice pipes up from somewhere behind me, indignant and adorably pissed. "That's cheating!"
But it's too late.
Wyatt sprints past us, clutching the ball to his chest like it's a treasure, and barrels into the makeshift end zone. He slams the ball down with a triumphant yell, his grin so wide it practically takes up half his face.
"You teach them your bad dance moves too?" I ask over my shoulder, my hands gripping Wes's forearms, which are curled tightly around my bare stomach.
My white tank top has ridden up to just below my ribs, leaving his warm, calloused hands pressed against my skin.
"Thought that was you," Wes replies smoothly, his grin smug as he looks down at me.
I gasp. "You bitch."
"Shhh," Wes whispers, leaning closer so his breath brushes against my ear. "There are children present."
The heat of his voice sends a shiver down my spine, but before I can fire back, I feel a gentle tug on my shorts.
I glance down to see Miles staring up at me with those big brown eyes that make my heart ache in the best way.
"I almost stopped him, Miss Cam," he says quietly, his voice small and a little wobbly. "I really did."
"Oh, baby," I murmur, patting Wes's forearms as he reluctantly drops me.
I crouch down to his level and cup his cheek gently, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.
"You did so good. We'll get him next time, yeah?" I ask with a small tilt to my head.
When I glance back at Wes, he's watching us. His blue eyes are warm and focused, his grin softer now, something tender flickering there that makes my chest ache in a way that—I'd rather not think about, thanks.
"Alright!" Wes calls suddenly, breaking the moment as he claps his hands together. "Back to the line! One more play—same teams!"
Wyatt and Leo cheer, already jogging back to their positions. Miles tugs on my hand, pulling me toward ours with renewed determination, his little face set with fierce concentration.
Too fucking cute.
The game lasted a little longer—enough time for Wyatt to score another touchdown and for Miles to finally tackle Leo to the ground in what could only be described as an adorable triumph.
But eventually, the boys' mamas came calling from the edge of the clearing, their voices carrying over the soft rustle of the lake breeze.
As soon as the moms appeared, the boys abandoned the game entirely and ran straight for them, yelling excitedly about their plays. Wyatt was already miming his victory dance as Leo tried to reenact Miles's tackle. The moms, clearly charmed, turned their attention to Wes as soon as they realized who had been keeping their sons entertained.
"Oh my gosh," one of the moms gushed, pulling out her phone. "You're Wesley Reed, aren't you? My husband is obsessed with the Colts. He'll be so jealous!"
Wes grinned, his charm dialed up to eleven as he crouched down to pose with the boys for a quick photo. "Y'all did great today," he said, ruffling Wyatt's messy hair before standing back up and chatting with the moms.
They hung onto every word he said, completely entranced, as he patiently answered their questions about football and the team.
I, on the other hand, started packing up the truck bed.
The clearing seemed darker than before, the overcast skies growing heavier and angrier by the second. The breeze from earlier had turned cooler, ruffling the blankets still spread out across the makeshift mattress. I worked quickly, rolling up one of the patterned throws and tucking it into the storage bin we'd dragged along.
As I stacked pillows back into the cab, I glanced up just as Wes jogged over from the moms, a lazy grin on his face. He reached for the blankets in the back, but before he could say anything, the sky opened up with a sudden, deafening roar.
Complete. Fucking. Downpour.
No warning, no drizzle to ease us into it—just an absolute deluge of rain that immediately drenched every inch of us.
"Shit!" I yelped, grabbing the bin and shoving it into the truck bed as water streamed down my face.
Wes laughed—actually laughed—as he sprinted to help me.
"Get in the truck!" he called, his voice muffled by the rain.
I didn't need to be told twice.
I scrambled into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me just as a crack of thunder rumbled overhead. The air inside the cab was warm compared to the chill of the rain, but it didn't stop the goosebumps from rising along my skin.
I was completely soaked, my white tank top clinging to my body like a second skin. The fabric was sheer now, plastered to my curves in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. My baby blue bra was on full display, the lacy edges visible against my soaked olive skin.
My damp hair hung in dark waves around my face, water dripping steadily from the ends onto my shoulders.
I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror for a brief second and cringed. I looked like I'd just stepped out of a wet T-shirt contest for rodents.
Before I could adjust myself, the driver's side door opened, and Wes climbed in.
Holy fuck fuck fuck.
His backward cap was dripping, his golden curls curling out from the edges and sticking to his forehead. Rain streamed down his face, catching on his dark lashes as his blue eyes sparkled like they were lit from within.
His navy blue T-shirt was soaked through, plastered to his body and revealing every single inch of his hard, chiseled chest and abs beneath. The wet fabric clung to the taut lines of his shoulders, the definition in his biceps, the faint indentations of his obliques that disappeared beneath his soaked, loose blue jeans.
Water slid down his neck, tracing the ridge of his collarbone before disappearing into the fabric of his shirt, and I felt my pussy clench tightly between my legs.
Wes grabbed his cap, flipped it forward, and shook it out before settling it backward on his head again. His grin was crooked as he glanced over at me, rain dripping from his jaw.
He laughed quietly. "Shit—should've checked the weather forecast."
"You think?" I gestured to my drowned-rat appearance.
His grin grew wider as he took me in, his gaze trailing slowly down my soaked form. His blue eyes darkened, the playfulness in them giving way to something hotter, something heavier.
"You're soaked," he said, his voice dropping as his eyes lingered on the outline of my bra beneath my shirt.
"So are you," I shot back, even as my heart thudded in my chest.
The air between us thickened, the sound of the rain pelting against the truck the only thing breaking the silence. His gaze dragged back up to meet mine, and my breath hitched at the intensity in his eyes.
"We should probably head back," I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended.
"Yeah," Wes agreed, though he didn't move to start the truck.
"Yeah," I repeated, but neither of us made a move to break the moment.
My hands fidgeted in my lap as I tried to focus on something—anything—other than the way his shirt clung to him, the way his muscles shifted beneath the wet fabric every time he moved.
Finally, Wes reached for the ignition, his fingers brushing the keys as he gave me one last look.
"Buckle up, baby," he said, his voice soft but full of heat.
I turned toward the window, biting my lip as the truck rumbled to life and Wes pulled out of the clearing.
The rain hammered against the windshield as we drove, the air in the cab thick with unspoken tension.
Neither of us said a word, but I could feel it—the heat radiating off him, the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel whenever I shifted in my seat.
Wes ran at least two red lights and stayed well above the speed limit all the way back to my apartment.