Into Your Arms by Chelsea M. Cameron
Coach yells at us and does give us laps, which my legs are not happy about. I hate running even more today. My limbs are all loose, like I’ve been unscrewed. By being screwed.
God, my brain needs a timeout.
“You okay?” Rhett asks when Coach splits us up to work on our partner stunts.
“Fine,” I say. I’m determined to keep things professional between us. Or as professional as we can make them? Seriously, less than ten hours ago I had my legs by my ears and he was fucking my brains out.
Yeah, no thinking about banging during practice. I can feel my face getting hot and my lady parts tingling with the memories.
Rhett Miller is not just good at kissing. He’s just . . . oh, he is good at everything. I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life. I had to check my body for injuries afterward. I thought I’d sprained something.
Sex with Rhett was on a completely different level than anything else physical I’d done with another person. I decided halfway through the first orgasm (of many) that I couldn’t let this be the only time we were together. Sex is good. Sex is healthy. And Rhett and I are two responsible adults (he wrapped it every time). What’s wrong with us using each other to get a little bit of relief? Nothing at all.
“Freya?” he says and I realize I’ve totally checked out.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“You need to count.” Oh, right. Stunting. That thing we’re doing.
Right now Rhett and I are working on a new partner stunt sequence that Coach wants to put front and center of our routine. She’s also been dropping hints about the two of us competing as individuals, but I’m definitely not ready to commit to something like that yet. Not with everything else I have going on.
My stomach sours when I think about what I’m ignoring and what I promised myself just the other day. That I wouldn’t let Rhett get between me and my quest to find my birth mother.
I won’t. I just won’t. I can juggle multiple things. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this. I can.
My first stunt with Rhett doesn’t even make it all the way up. My sloppy knees betray me and I end up coming down, but he’s there to catch me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he says after he sets me down.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Again.” I’m not going to let sex with Rhett affect cheer. That is not fucking happening. Cheer before amazing sex.
It takes me two more tries before I get the hang of things and then I’m fine. We even add more to the sequence, which now includes a tick tock, where Rhett tosses me just high enough so I can switch my standing leg, to heel stretch that I flip to a scorpion and then a kick twist dismount at the end. It’s the most difficult stunt I’ve done in a while, and it feels good to hit it.
When I come down after nailing it, Rhett immediately grabs me up and swings me around.
“That was fucking awesome!” he sets me down and we share a high five. I have flashbacks from last night. From the look on his face, he does too.
“Yeah, it was,” I say and I’m not just talking about the stunt. He grins at me and then winks and I nearly swoon to the floor.
He’s so good at that. So charming and confident, but he’s sweet and vulnerable too. It’s a heady combination and I can’t seem to get enough of it.
“You coming over for a cooking lesson tonight?” he says in my ear. I’m not sure if he really means cooking if he’s just using it as a euphemism for sex. I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to us doing both? Probably the sex before the cooking. And sex after the cooking.
“Maybe,” I say. “What are you making?” I know I’m being flirty, but whatever. I’m in a flirty mood.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he says, that boyish grin on his face. How he can go from fuck-hot to boy next door is beyond me, but I don’t want him to stop.
“I guess I’ll have to come over and find out,” I say in a low voice, looking around to make sure no one is watching us. There’s only one. Tobi. She’s just grinning and shaking her head at me.
I subtly give her the finger without Rhett noticing.
“I have to go home and shower and then I’ll be over. I’ll bring dessert.” I mean that literally. I got some ice cream the other day that’s hanging out in my freezer waiting to be eaten. I also figure I’ll eat less if I’m sharing it with someone else.
“Can’t wait,” he says, flashing me a dimpled smile before heading out the door.
“You are in trouble,” Tobi sings as we walk out together.
“Just shut up.”
* * *
Somehow the hanging and banging becomes part of my regular routine. Not every night, obviously, because Rhett and I need sleep, but on the weekends and at least once or twice during the week. I come over after practice and we fuck, sometimes not even making it to the bedroom. We recover and then head to the kitchen, usually just wearing our underwear and Rhett takes me through the basics of cooking. My skills have always been utilitarian. I can make just enough stuff to stay alive. When I was growing up, my parents would often go out to dinner and leave me to fend for myself. On the nights I didn’t go over to Mia’s, I made my own food. A lot of grilled cheese. A lot of canned soup.
It’s no wonder Rhett is good with kids, because the man has patience to spare. I feel like an idiot for burning something or measuring wrong, but he just laughs and tells me to try again. We make all kinds of things from chicken and dumplings to curried rice to pizza. I learn, we both eat and then we head back to the bedroom, usually with our dessert. The night with the ice cream was . . . interesting.
After sex we talk for a little while then I get dressed and drive myself home. He never asks me to stay, but the look on his face when I walk out of his bedroom is so sad that I want to run and dive back into bed with him.
I would love to stay the night with him and be his little spoon, but I need to draw a line somewhere. I have to have some differentiation between hanging and banging and dating. Sure, I know things are a little blurry looking from the outside, but it works for us. Sort of.
Two weeks into our arrangement, he asks if maybe we could fuck at my place. Well, he doesn’t put it like that, but that’s the implication.
“Uh, I don’t know. I just assumed you liked staying here.” I don’t want him to come over. I don’t want him invading my space. I like coming to this separate place so when I leave it, I don’t have the echoes of orgasms pounding in my brain constantly.
“I do. But I’d like to see your place. And then you wouldn’t have to be the one dragging your ass home. You could stay and throw me out.” He gives me that smile that’s been doing a lot of things to me. I mean, his smile has always done things to me, but lately it’s something . . . more. More than butterflies. His smile makes my toes curl and my skin tingle and my brain slow down. Sometimes I completely forget what the hell I was saying and have to cough, or pretend that I got distracted by something else so it isn’t too obvious.
Honestly, I want to say yes to literally anything he asks me when he’s wearing that smile. Shit. If he told me to jump off a bridge, I’d get flutters in my belly and then do it with heart-eyes.
“I . . . I guess?” I say. Dammit, I meant to tell him no. But I don’t have a good reason to not let him come over. It’s not as if I have a roommate or something. That would have been convenient. I guess I could always tell him I’m a hoarder and my house is condemned or I have 20 cats that don’t like strangers, but whatever. I’m tired and it would be nice not to have to drag my butt out of bed and drive home post-banging.
“You sure?” That’s another thing about Rhett that’s just . . . oh, it just gets to me. He’s always asking me if I’m okay with everything. If I want to slow down. He gets my opinion and he values it. And when I talk, I know he’s listening. Not like I don’t have that relationship with my friends and with Mia’s parents, but it’s a whole different thing when you have that with the person you’re having sex with.
“Y
“That’s fine. I’ll figure out something from what you’ve got.” I’m skeptical, but I’ve seen his culinary skills. He should have his own show or something. Like, the Pioneer Man instead of the Pioneer Woman. The set would be a rustic log cabin and he’d wear a different shade of flannel for every show. Something tells me it would be a big hit and would spawn many cookbooks.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “You’re going to have to give me a head start so I can do a quick clean before you get there.” Thankfully, my place isn’t a total disaster since I haven’t spent much time in it lately. Just to sleep and shower and then head out again. I do want to put away all of the pictures I have of my Texas life so he won’t ask any questions that I don’t want to answer. I don’t need that during our hang and bang.
“Sure thing,” he says and gives me a little wave as I try to walk and run at the same time to my car so I can get home as fast as possible.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later I’m showered, wearing a T-shirt and shorts (why get dressed fully if I’m only going to take my clothes off?), and all of my pictures are stashed in the absolute back of my closet. I think everything’s good. My place looks boring and empty now, but who the fuck cares? He’s not going to be focusing on the decor. And if he does, I’ll just squeeze his dick and he’ll focus on that instead. I always have that backup plan. Or dickup plan.
Rhett knocks and I open the door for him. It’s weird being on this side of things.
“Hey,” I say. His hair is still a little damp from his shower, and it’s flopping over his forehead in the most attractive way. It would be so much easier to say no to him if he wasn’t so damn attractive.
Bastard.
I grin and pull him in, and he picks me up. My legs automatically wrap around him as he walks us to the couch and sets me down. We’ve fucked nearly everywhere in his apartment, so I’m used to not being in a bed. Who needs a bed? Then you just have to wash the sheets a lot.
He lies down and pulls me on top. Another thing I managed to do was stash condoms everywhere. Like a dirty Easter egg hunt. Never know where you might need one, right? I pull one out from between the cushions and he grins up at me.
Rhett lets me roll it on and then I get on. Sometimes I think about the way our bodies move when we’re stunting and how that seems to carry over to sex. Sure, we’ve had our awkward moments here and there, but for the most part, we just work together. Fortunately, we seem to be on the same level as far as what we like, which is another very good thing. Sometimes he pulls my hair and sometimes I dig my nails into his back and we both like that. He’s also a dirty talker, which I never thought I’d enjoy, but him doing it? Makes everything so much hotter.
I brace myself on his chest and start grinding my hips on him. He tries to thrust up into me, but I’m making him wait because I’m mean that way.
“Fuck, Luna.” That’s another thing. When we’re together like this, he sometimes calls me Freya, but most of the time it’s “Luna.” Neither of us has talked about it, but I like that too. The nickname is sweet and intimate and makes me feel cherished.
This is just sex for us, but that little bit of connection works for me. I know it shouldn’t. The first time he said it, I should have made a new rule about no cute nicknames, but now it’s too late. If he stopped doing it, I’d probably be upset and ask him why.
Shut up, brain. Focus on the fucking.
* * *
After we fucked on the couch and then he went down on me and I came three times, we stumbled to the kitchen.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m kind of excited,” I say as he starts going through my pantry and pulling out boxes and jars.
“I hope I haven’t raised your expectations. It’s always different cooking in someone else’s kitchen with different appliances.” Rhett moves to the fridge and I pull on the hem of his shirt that I’m wearing with nothing under it. I know it’s totally a cliché for the girl to wear the guy’s shirt, but it’s a cliché for a reason. He smells good, and I like the way he looks at me when I’m wearing his clothes. That look usually leads to me getting off, so why wouldn’t I encourage that? I’d have to be an idiot.
When he’s done, there are quite a few things on my counter.
“What’s happening here?” I ask.
“Soup. That’s my go-to when I don’t know what else to make.” I look at what he got out. Some frozen tortellini, two cans of tomato soup, some fresh spinach, shredded carrots, frozen chicken that I don’t remember buying and a can of white beans. It sounds like it could be good, but we’ll see.
This recipe doesn’t involve a whole lot of prep, so there isn’t much of a cooking lesson, but that doesn’t matter.
“Do you have any herbs?” I rummage around in a few drawers and find a bottle of generic Italian spices and a bottle of poultry seasoning.
“Excellent. Just what we need.” He walks me through grilling the chicken, which I can pretty much handle, and then putting everything else in the pot to simmer. Then we chop the chicken, throw it in, and he puts a lid on the pot.
“Just a few more minutes and it will be done,” he says, washing his hands.
“I wonder what we could do with a few minutes,” I say, tapping my chin. He grabs the hem of my shirt and uses it to pull me into his chest.
“I can think of a few things,” he says, leaning down and tipping my face up. Sometimes I wish I could grow a few inches at will so our faces will be closer when we kiss. And then there’s something wonderful about the way we have to both reach to meet each other in the middle.
“Mmm, what might those be?” I ask and his answer is to pick me up and put me on the counter.
“Having you as an appetizer,” he says, pushing my legs open and getting on his knees. I pull the shirt up, and he makes a noise when he sees that I have nothing on under it.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says, running his hands up the outside of my thighs. I’m already shaking with anticipation of having his face between my legs. I want to make him sign a contract in blood that he will never shave his beard as long as we’re hanging and banging. Because it’s a whole other experience.
Rhett licks up the inside of my thighs and I know he wants to take his time because he usually does, but we only have a few minutes and I fully expect him to deliver in the time we have.
He figured out what pushes my buttons real fast and holy hell is he good at pushing all of them at once. He’s a master with his fingers and tongue and lips. Seriously, he must have done exercises because it seems like he can go forever. I want to give him a trophy or something. I think payback blow jobs are probably good enough, though.
I dig my fingers into his hair, and I know he doesn’t mind a few scalp scratches. He goes hard, sucking on my clit, thrusting his fingers in and out of me and not letting up. I come hard just before the timer dings.
“Beautiful Luna,” he whispers.
“Fucking fuck,” I pant, and he smirks up at me. I love how I’m all over his face and in his beard. He kisses me once and then goes to take care of the soup. I’m still not ready to move yet. Rhett takes care of getting the soup into bowls, and we head back to the living room and eat on the couch. I tremble with little aftershocks and I keep having to shift myself around.
“You okay there?” he asks.
“Yup, fine,” I say and he laughs darkly. And that makes it even worse because that laugh gets me every time.
“You’re a terrible person,” I say.
“Why, thank you.” Nothing gets him down. Nothing seems to upset him and I find it both odd and intriguing. Everyone has something that makes them upset, or several things, but I haven’t figured out Rhett Miller yet. It almost makes me suspicious. That secretly he’s a serial ki
“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” I ask, setting my bowl down.
“Shhhh,” he says, putting one finger to his lips and giving me a wink. Honestly.
“That explains it. Just make sure you shower before you come over. And I’m not helping you hide any bodies,” I say and he laughs.
“Deal.” After the soup we hang on the couch a little and I scoot closer to him. We’re not really big on cuddling, mostly because I inch away from him whenever he tries after we have sex.
But the combination of the soup and the orgasm he gave me earlier has me in a warm and snuggly mood.
He puts his arm around me, and we flip through the channels on the TV, arguing about what we’re going to watch. We finally settle on reruns of an old nineties show that I’ve already seen a million times, but is still just as funny. His fingers slowly slide through my hair. I know I should tell him to stop because he’s blurring the lines of hang and bang, but it feels really nice. I can’t remember the last time a person just played with my hair like that. Mia’s mom used to when we were kids. She always did my hair for cheer too, since my own mother couldn’t be bothered to make bows or help me curl or braid it.
I sigh and realize that this is one of those perfect moments you remember when everything turns to shit and you think about the good times. Rhett surrounds me in this bubble where I feel . . . protected. I’m not used to it. Even when Mia’s parents were helping take care of me, I tried not to rely on them too much. I’ve always been fiercely independent. I had to be.
Turning my head just a little, I watch Rhett out of the corner of my eye. I don’t even know if he realizes he’s playing with my hair. So I lean a little closer and put my head on his shoulder. He stiffens the tiniest bit and then I feel him relax again. I see the beginnings of a smile on his face, but he tries to hide it.
* * *
I have to admit, it’s nice being the one kicking Rhett out. I should have had him over here sooner. We agree that from now on we’ll alternate between our houses to make things fair. Then we’ll both be buying food and things will even out.