If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

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. Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

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.”

My breath catches. Maybe I can have this. Here in the dark. Just once, before he returns to his new life

and forgets about me. “I’m not asleep now.”

“Neither am I.” His voice is as rough as the fingers slipping over my sleep shirt and between my

breasts. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

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

the darkness.

His mouth finds mine, and my whole body clenches at the electricity in the contact. It starts with a brush

of lips, then a hand in my hair and his tongue touching mine. I swallow a moan and inch closer, parting

my lips farther.

His kiss is nothing like I imagined it. It’s better. Every stroke of his tongue stokes the fire inside me,

tightens that sweet ache between my thighs.

When he breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard and my lips feel swollen. “I wanted to do that last

spring. I wanted to be your first kiss.”

“You were,” I admit. “That was, I mean.”

His breath leaves him in a rush. “I’m not sure I trust myself with you.”

I wish I’d lied—that I told him I was more experienced than I am just so he wouldn’t be scared away.

But this is Easton, and between us, honesty has always been the only choice. “I trust you. Completely.”

He groans, and the sound is temptation and agony and pleasure all wrapped in one. “That’s why I

should keep my hands to myself.” He cups my breast, his thumb grazing across my nipple. I swear his

breath catches in tandem with mine. “Tell me what you want. I’m not trusting my judgment here. I need

you to tell me this is okay.” Even as he says it, he rolls me to my back and crawls over me, bracing

himself on one elbow and using his free hand to toy with my breast. He lowers his mouth to my

collarbone, explores with his tongue and nipping teeth before kissing his way up my neck and

whispering into my ear. “You’re in the driver’s seat.”

“I want everything.”

“Shay.” My name is the most erotic sound when he’s breathless. “I should stop.”

I whimper. “Please don’t.” Maybe I should be embarrassed by the desperate plea. Maybe I will be later.

But right now, all I care about is getting more of him. “Easton, I need you.”

He shifts over me, pressing the heat and weight of his powerful thigh between my legs. “Can I make

you come?”

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.”

“You might be the death of me.”

I rub myself against his thigh again, and he hisses.

“Tell me you want me to touch you, Shay. Tell me I can put my hand between your legs and you’ll still

talk to me tomorrow.” He shifts his thigh, putting pressure just where I need it. “Christ, I can feel how

wet you are through your shorts.”

“Sorry.” But God, I’m not really. Any embarrassment I feel about my reaction to him is overridden by my

need for friction. My only chance of keeping my hips still is if I glue them to the bed.

He chokes out a low laugh. “Don’t ever apologize for that. It’s so hot.” He sucks my earlobe between

his teeth. “Feeling you grind against me is hot as fuck too. Don’t fight it.”

“Easton . . .” I slide my fingers into his hair and tug. “I want this.”

A shudder rocks through him. “Me too.” He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me slowly—a long,

lingering kiss that scatters all thoughts from my brain. When he pulls back, I swear he’s looking at me.

Maybe my body is better in the dark. Maybe he won’t notice the extra weight I carry in my waist or how

chubby my thighs are. He traces my lips with his finger. I catch it between my teeth, and he groans

before withdrawing. He traces a wet path down between my breasts, over my stomach, and tucks his

finger beneath the waistband of my panties. “I want to touch you here,” he says, kissing my neck. “I

want to feel you.”

I lift my hips off the bed and toward his hand. “Easton, please.”

He nips at the tender skin beneath my ear. He slips his hand under the cotton and grazes a knuckle

over my clit.

“Shit!” I gasp.

I almost expect him to laugh at my outburst. Instead, he groans. “You’re already so damn wet. Did you

wake up like this?”

“Yes.” Because it’s you, I want to say. Because I’ve wanted you for so long.

He slides his fingers over me. “I fucking love the feel of you on my fingers.”

My body winds tighter, tighter, tighter with every word he speaks. He’s barely touched me, and I already

feel close. “East.”

He pinches my clit between two fingers, and I gasp. “Shh,” he whispers, his mouth over mine. “I want to

hear you moan, but I need you to be quiet.” He sweeps his lips along my jaw again then slides a finger

into me.

My body locks up, clenching tight around him. A single finger, but he’s stretching me so much.

“Relax,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re wet. Are you okay?”

“I’ve never . . .” I draw in a breath, because my body has already adjusted to the stretch of his thick

finger, and pleasure has chased away the discomfort. “Not this.”

“Not even with your own fingers?”

“No. Just . . .” I can’t speak. Can’t think. His hand has found a delicious rhythm, pumping in and out of

me, stretching me. Every time he plunges in, I want more—deeper—and every time he pulls out, I feel

like part of me is missing.

“Good,” he growls against my neck. “I have no right, Shay, but I wanted it to be me. I want everything to

be me.”

I barely register his words as pleasure knots in my gut and ratchets up my spine. He presses his thumb

against my clit, and my body jerks. That thumb strokes, and my whole body shakes as I climb, climb,

climb.

“Don’t fight it. Just let yourself feel good.”

I tug his hair. I’m clinging to him, to this moment, to the edge of a mountain I’m sure I’ve never seen

before. His finger pumps faster and he presses his mouth to mine, swallowing my moans as I give in to

the pleasure and let my orgasm pull me apart. I cling to him, shaking and boneless.

Even when I’m nothing but trembling aftershocks, he’s still kissing me, his hand moving in soothing,

gentle strokes between my legs as I come down.

“I think I lied,” I say when he finally frees my mouth.

“About what?”

“I thought I’d given myself orgasms, but they were never like that.”

He groans, a long, low, tortured sound. “It’s different with a partner. Better. More intense.”

“I guess I should return the favor.” I roll to my side and reach for him, pressing the flat of my palm to his

hard length. He stops me with a hand on my wrist. “What’s wrong?”

He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?”

He blows out a breath. “I want so much. But not tonight, Shayleigh. Not when I have to leave

tomorrow.” He pulls me into his arms and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “I don’t deserve you.”