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Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Five

Nick

Week 11

“How’s the thumb?” Coach Kittle, the offensive coordinator, asks as we settle in for our pre-game planning session.

“Hurts like hell,” I say cheerfully. During Sunday’s game, the damn thing got dislocated as a three hundred and eight pound lineman tried to pile drive me into the turf.

“Gotta remember to fall on your shoulder.” He pats me on the right side. “Not your throwing hand.”

“Yup.” I’d give him a thumbs-up but the thing’s taped to the side of my palm.

“Or the O-line could keep those linemen off his back,” Chip chirps up.

I toss him a disapproving glare. We’re on a playoff run here which means there’s no blame spreading. We stand, or fall, together as a team. Chip’s always looking out for his own skin though. The only downside to winning is that assholes like Chip get to keep their job. They get credit for the win, regardless of whether they have jackshit to do with it.

Lately, Chip’s “me first” attitude has really been grating on my nerves.

“O-line did a great job. We won down there in the trenches. They got us the first downs necessary to win the game,” I remind him.

His thin lips nearly disappear at my gentle admonition. He doesn’t like being challenged in front of a coach. On the flip side, Mike Breslin, the O-line coach, gives a grunt of approval.

Kittle’s chair scrapes the floor as he leans back and flips on the projector. “Next up is the San Fran Golds and Williams so we’re going to need to work extra hard in providing protection to Jackson. The game plan is going to be quick releases, short passes, and screens to take away some of the speed of Williams.” He points a finger at Breslin. “Double team on Williams at all times and you,” Kittle turns to me, “No heroics. Lay down in the backfield if you see him coming. Williams has already taken out two starting quarterbacks this year. We don’t need you to be his third casualty.”

I nod at Kittle, pretending that I’m taking his advice, but there’s no way in hell I’m laying down in the backfield to avoid Williams. Yes, he’s the best defensive end in the league and two-time Defensive Player of the Year, but you don’t win any kind of respect in this league unless you pass on that sucker’s ass. I know this and by the slight eye rolling of Moss, my backup, he knows it too. Hell, Kittle does as well, but his job is toast if I get injured, no disrespect to Mossy.

The quarterbacks’ meeting goes on for another two hours as we run over the new plays. Later today, we’ll run through them on the field with the wide receivers and running backs. But this morning, it’s all textbook stuff.

The one thing no one tells you in college about the pros is how many goddamned plays the NFL coaches think up. The playbook is enormous and every week, they try to think up something new to foil the other side.

I appreciate the distraction, though. I’ve spent way too much time looking at my phone, wondering whether Lainey is coming to the game this weekend. I haven’t heard squat from her since our night together a week ago other than one text yesterday that said, “Congrats.”

“Hey, your ticket for the Golds’ game, you still have that?” Chip asks as we exit the meeting room. It’s mid-morning, and I need a snack.

“No, gave it to a friend. Why?”

He makes a weird face. “Got an Insta-model on the line for the game, and I already gave my game tickets to Shanna and her mom.”

“Dude, that’s a dangerous game.” Shanna is a girl he’s been seeing the last couple of months. “How’re you going to handle both women?”

Chip laughs. “One at a time. I’d prefer both,” he waggles his eyebrows up and down, “But Shanna’s a little uptight, but fuck, what do you expect from a Junior Leaguer, right? Girl’s legs are fused together until you pop the question.”

That’s info I don’t really need about his girlfriend. “Good luck, dude. Maybe try Moxy? He doesn’t have any family out in Cali as far as I know.”

“Who you got going to the game? Chick?”

“Left a ticket for my bro.”

“Oh right, Navy Seal dude.” Chip winks. “Awesome. I bet he gets so much pussy, huh?”

It’d probably blow Chip’s mind to find out that Nathan has had only one woman in his life. Although, I wonder if he’d even believe me if I told him.

I settle for, “I haven’t heard him complain.”

“Between you and him, who do you think gets more play? NFL quarterback, right? Like I would’ve beat your brother in that department.”

I start walking because this is such a fucking ridiculous discussion. Chip follows right along, still flapping his jaw. “We should go out Friday, you, me, and your brother. We can hit some of his places. See what kind of talent there is. Is he drawing 9s and 10s? Let me show you this chick on Instagram. Look at this.” He holds his phone an inch away from my nose. The girl looks like any other girl on Instagram—big boobs, big lips, big ass.

“Looks good,” I say and push his hand away.

“Good?” he cries. “She’s at least a nine, other than her nose. Maybe her nose drops her down to an 8 or so. After I hit that, I might leave some extra cash for her to get her nose done. Anyway, I’m meeting with her Saturday night. Good thing for me, I don’t need the extra sleep for Sunday.”

If I have to listen to another word of Chip’s word vomit, I might end up slapping him, so I stop at the training room. “I’m going to get my hand re-taped before the throwing drills. I’ll see you out on the field.”

“I thought you wanted to get something to eat?” Chip says.

“Nah, lost my appetite.” I push open the door and leave him behind.

The most damning aspect of the Insta-model isn’t her features but that she has any interest in Chip at all. Any chick that’d let that asshole stick his dick in her has a screw, or ten, loose in her head.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Five appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Four

 

Lainey

Nick and I go back to my hotel and screw like rabbits. There are no more uncomfortable questions and no more evasive answers. We both agree—silently, because talking is fraught with problems—that if sex is all we have, we might as well give it our all.

And we have great sex. Nick is a generous lover. He declares that he could spend hours with his mouth between my legs. I reciprocate, of course, because Nick’s shaft is a glorious thing; soft and hard at the same time, thick and long and pulsing with life. Plus, when I have my mouth wrapped around him, I feel like I own him. Like I could say, “Go rope the moon, go sail the ocean, go quit football,” and he’d do it.

But I don’t ask any of those things because that’s not what it’s about between us.

It’s all purely physical. It’s hair pulling, headboard banging, toe curling but never touch-your-heart physical. So when he’s so deep inside me that I swear he’s touching my heart, I swallow all those sweet words and sink my teeth into his shoulder instead.

And maybe it’s the same for Nick because he spends a fair amount of time muffling his shouts in the pillow next to my head.

I don’t have anything to complain about. I get to run my fingers and tongue over his cut, ripped self. I get to twine my fingers through his as he thrusts into me deep and hard. A million women would give their left tit to be me.

I revel in the contrasts—the roughness of his thighs and the tenderness of his kiss; the bite of his fingers into my hips and the soft caress of his tongue along my collarbone. I close my eyes, even when he demands that I open them, so I can savor every touch, every sensation, until I’m so full of the pleasure, I die.

And then he brings me back to life.

Again and again, until I’m completely worn out. A shell of a human wrecked upon the shores of post-coital bliss.

Nick is the same. His chest heaves as he lies beside me. His entire body glistens with a sheen of sweat. The man puts as much energy into this as he does the game. And he’s a master of the game.

I reach out and grab his hand, telling myself that we can be friends and that this intimate connection I have with him is all I’ll ever need. It’s more than I ever imagined having. It’s the most I’ll let myself want.

In the morning, he’s gone.

The king bed seems cavernous without his body next to mine. On the nightstand is a piece of paper tucked under a cup of water.

I pull it out, barely noticing when the water spills onto the glass-topped surface, not realizing that my hand is trembling. Another slim rectangle falls from the paper.

This is yours, if you want it. I’d like to see you again. An away game seems like a good place to get together. I’ll text you my room number when we get to San Fran. Or you could hawk it. Probably worth a couple of bucks.

I lift the ticket up. Section 115, Row 24, Seat J. A seat like this? For the Mavs, who are riding a 6 game winning streak? It’d be worth a few hundred, if not more. I launch myself out of bed and prepare for home. Real life is here now. The fantasy night I shared with Nick is over. I tuck the ticket into my wallet. The game isn’t for two weeks.

I’ll decide later.

—————–

At home, everything’s the same. Grandmama is fussing over Mama, who can’t remember what day it is.

“You shouldn’t be playing those video games.” Mama tugs at my wrist in agitation. “Mami won’t like it.”

Mami and I share a look over my mother’s head. Grandma’s eyes are so sad. Mama’s forgetfulness, her illness, is hard on me but it’s so much harder on Grandma. But she’s a strong woman, so she straightens the blanket around Mama’s legs with her lips pressed tight so Mama doesn’t think anything is wrong. Then she walks over to the window and presses a hand against her back. The pain in her back isn’t from old age. It’s from grief.

“I know, Mama. I won’t play them anymore.” I lay a soothing hand over hers. The skin on her hand is hardly wrinkled. There aren’t any age spots. No real signs of decay there other than the thinness. Sometimes she’s so translucent, I feel like I can see straight through her.

“Good. I don’t want you to upset your Mami. Are you getting good grades? Staying away from the boys?”

Sort of. Is 50% a win? “Of course. All the boys are dingleberries.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” She coughs lightly. I wipe away a little blood, glad that Grandma has her back turned. “Wish I’d listened to Mami when she told me to stay away. I would’ve had a different life, you know? Maybe I wouldn’t have had you. Maybe I would’ve gone to college. Gotten a degree. My life would’ve been different.”

“Sure, Mama. I know. I’m going to be a good girl.” My heart absorbs the hit and slots it next to all the other zingers she sent my way when I was a girl.

“Good. Go get my remote. I wanna watch Days. Jack and Jennifer are my favorite couple, you know. I hate it when they’re separated.”

I nod and hand over the remote, flipping the channel to Days of Our Lives. The couple that Mama wants to see isn’t on the show anymore, but I hope she doesn’t notice.

After packing up the lunch tray, I head for the kitchen. I’ve a whole list of things to do for Charlotte, and I need to start earning my keep.

Grandma follows me in. “She doesn’t mean any of that.”

I busy myself with rinsing off the plates. “She’s never been more honest in her entire life.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“That may be true.”

“Don’t take it personal,” Grandma advises.

And that’s so easy, isn’t it? I drop my hand to the pocket where Nick’s ticket hides.

“Course not.” I finish putting away the dishes. “I have to go to California for work in a couple weeks. You going to be okay around here?”

Grandma’s eyes narrow. “What do you have going on in California?”

I launch into a big spiel about how Charlotte’s doing work out there. I have no idea if she is, but she might someday. I’m going, no matter how hard Grandma glares, because sometimes a girl has to have a bit of sunshine to make the gloomy days survivable.

 

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Four appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Three

 

Lainey

We shouldn’t be here. Anyone could see us, but there was no stopping Nick. Even across the parking lot, I could see the fire in his eyes. It made me weak. He made me weak.

He walked with a purpose that said he was going to have me no matter where we were and who was present. And that insatiable need was too exciting to resist.

So I let him take me right here, between a thin line of trees and Reese’s expensive vehicle. His hand grips my hair. The wool of his pants rubs against the backs of my thighs. I hear the slap of our bodies, the thin cries that leak out despite all my efforts to stay silent, and the harsh puffs of his breath at my ear.

He works me relentlessly until my orgasm overtakes me. I sob into his hand as he tries to muffle my sounds. My legs turn into jelly and if it wasn’t for his iron band of an arm around my waist, I’d collapse. I gasp for air, heartened that the unsteadiness of his breath matches my own.

“Shit,” he curses as he pulls out.

A warm trickle of his seed slides down my inner thigh. No condom. “I’m on the pill,” I sigh slumping against the car window and silently apologizing to Reese for the mess I’m making. “And there hasn’t been anyone else since you, remember?” We’d made those declarations inside, and I believed him. Hopefully, he believed me too.

He rests his forehead against the back of my head. “You make me crazy, Lainey.”

I laugh, although it’s with little humor. “Same.”

I give myself another moment to rest before pushing away from the car. I rearrange my clothes and then bend down to look for my purse. I dropped it at some point. I think about the time he kissed me.

By the time I locate the thing, halfway under the runner of Reese’s SUV, Nick has put himself to rights, as best he can. Even in the dim light of the lot, his suit coat looks wrinkled and his shirt looks like it was chewed on by a dog. I’d crumpled it in an effort to touch his skin.

“Sorry about your shirt,” I say quietly.

“I’m not.” He smooths a hand over the front but it doesn’t do any good.

I spot a dozen fingerprints on the window of Reese’s vehicle. Groaning, I try to rub an arm across the side of the glass, but I only serve to make it worse.

Nick snorts. “Reese would approve. I’ll take it to the car wash tomorrow.”

“All right.” I drop my arm. Now that the rush of passion has passed, I’m feeling uncomfortable and awkward. Restlessly, I shift from one foot to the other. My thighs are sticky, and I’d like nothing more than to go back to the hotel and take a shower.

Lifting a hand to swipe my hair away from my sweaty forehead, I search for the right words. Thank you? No, that’s kind of insulting. Good to see you? That’s marginally true. I can hardly be in your presence without wanting to tear your clothes off, and I’m not even supposed to be in Dallas so I’d better go? All true but nothing I can say out loud. I settle for, “You’re having a great season.”

Nick tilts his head and peers down at me like I’m some crazy person. And he’s not entirely wrong. Coming here to Dallas wasn’t entirely dangerous but going to the Maverick’s bar on Sunday night after the game? It’s like begging Chip to come after me. But Charlie swore Chip was gone for the week due to his grandmother dying.

“I’m having a great season? That’s all you’ve gotta say after this?” He waves an impatient hand toward the SUV.

“I don’t know. What do you want me to say? It was good. It’s always good.”

He makes an impatient sound and then grabs my elbow. “Where are you staying?”

“The Holiday Inn over in Arlington.” I have to trot to keep up with his long strides. “I’m calling an Uber.”

“The hell you are.”

We stop by Nick’s Porsche Spyder, a low slung sports car that he barely fits into. He likes his cars fast and sleek. Charlie told me the car was so expensive that she was afraid to breathe on it.

He pulls open the passenger door and shoves me inside. I debate fighting him on this, but I know I won’t win and haven’t I made enough of a spectacle of myself tonight?

Nick slides in next to me and guns the engine. The powerful motor sends a vibration through the entire vehicle and my extra-sensitive parts feel it everywhere. I can’t help but squirm in my seat which prompts Nick to shoot a dark, heated look in my direction.

Whatever our conflicts are—and they are many—neither of us can deny the attraction. His hand tightens around the shifting knob as he speeds up onto the highway.

“How’s Cassidy?” he asks, his cool tone at odds with the tenseness of his frame.

I force myself to sit still. “She’s doing okay. Thankfully, she’s young so it doesn’t matter where she goes to school. She’s happy to see Nana again.”

“We miss her.”

“She misses you too.”

“You should bring her to the city. I can set game tickets aside for you.”

I watch the city pass by in a blur as I search for a good way to tell Nick that can’t ever happen. “Maybe an away game.”

He sighs, and in that exhale, I hear his resignation and the tiredness in his voice. The pleasure has worn off, and he’s beginning to wonder why he’s making the hour-long trek across town. Tonight the traffic is light but tomorrow it’ll be a bear. And I’m difficult. I’m not doing what he wants and worse, I’m not giving him any explanation.

“Why’d you leave? You have a good support system here,” he asks, interrupting the quiet that had settled in the car.

My heart twists. Because I had to. Because I love my daughter and would do anything to protect her. Because I was young and foolish. “Because it was the right thing to do,” I settle on. “I know it seems wrong to you but for Cassidy and me, it made sense.”

“Is it your mom? You can’t move your mom here?”

“It’d be too expensive. I can get a couple young people to come and watch her and Cass for a fraction of what it’d cost in Dallas.”

“What’s her diagnosis?”

“We’re not sure. Docs have said she might have early onset dementia. She’s got signs of Alzheimer’s but she’s young for that.” I twist my fingers in my lap. “They just don’t know.”

“I wish you’d let us help you.”

“Do what? Pay for her care? It’d be so expensive.”

“Money isn’t a real problem. Not for Charlie or me.”

“I know. But I’m not that kind of person.” I could never take that kind of money from my friends. “She’s got a new prescription. Docs think that’ll help a lot.”

“So this is it? We have sex and you leave?”

His tone grates on my nerves. It’s not like he’s ever offered anything more to me besides his dick and his checkbook. Maybe that’d be enough for some girls, but it’s not for me. “Are you telling me you want something more?” I wait for a beat, and when he doesn’t speak up, I force myself to beat back a wave of disappointment. “It’s football for you, and it’s Cassidy and Mom for me.”

He grunts but doesn’t correct me. “So what’s left for us? This night?”

“I guess.”

 

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Three appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Two

 

Nick

“You’re thinking too hard,” Lainey says. Her hand lands on my knee.

I tilt my head to get a better look at her. “Is that right?” I drawl.

She nods. “We’re scratching an itch. Nothing more. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

Her fingers dance higher. Want spikes through my system, leaving me to deal with the dueling emotions of frustration at how she’s continuing to play this and the heavy need that always burns when she’s near.

“Seems to me if you were scratching an itch, it could’ve been done far closer to home.”

She rubs her glossy red lips together before answering. “Maybe I’ve learned that this particular itch can only be assuaged by one person.”

Her hand creeps so high on my thigh I nearly pass out from lack of blood to my brain. It’s all pooling in my jeans.

“I only have a few hours before I have to go back to being a mom again,” she continues. “You going to send me home hungry?”

Hell no. I jump up from my chair and throw a few bills on the table, not caring what denomination they are. We need to get out of here before I actually succumb to the thought that taking Lainey right here in the middle of Mavericks’ would be perfectly acceptable.

“We just had three drinks. It’s too early to go.” Plant objects.

Lainey halts in the process of rising but before I can go all caveman on everyone here, Charlie reaches over and taps Plant’s hand. “Tell me how you got past Demarco on that third quarter play. It was genius.”

“Yeah, those were some moves,” Reese chimes in.

I shoot them both a grateful look as Plant launches into a long explanation of route running and the pitiful slowness of corner backs.

Lainey mouths fifteen minutes and heads toward the back. I get it. This is a football bar, and it’s not a rare sight to see a player leave with a gorgeous woman on his arm. Lainey doesn’t want to be one of those women though—the ones who brag on Snapchat to their friends that they just fucked a star. But I don’t like seeing her walk away from me. I’m tired of that.

I do it anyway. As she disappears down the hallway, I force myself to the bar to wait. The conversation regarding the game, our playoff prospects, the potential for playing in the championship game, all flow around me. I’m not thinking about the Super Bowl. My thoughts are stuck on pealing off Lainey’s dress, tonguing her nipples, and drinking the honey between her legs. Those images tumble in my head as I stare blankly at the Dallas businessman in front of me. Fifteen excruciating minutes pass before I can extricate myself and escape out of the bar.

When I get outside, I don’t see her immediately. My hands fist at my side. Goddammit, I knew I should’ve—

But then I see her dark head leaning against the passenger window of Reese’s big-ass Mercedes SUV.

All this season, I’ve had a fire in me and I thought it was hunger for the game, a drive to win; but as my hand closes around her small waist, I realize the core of it was her.

She opens her mouth but I slam my own against hers before she can say another word. I’m not interested in explanations or excuses. I don’t want to hear hers or give mine. I just want this. Her. Now.

Lainey’s surprised at first but then she attacks me with the same fervor. In her desperate response, I taste her need, and her mad desire. My hands dig into her hair; hers reach for my belt.

I think about halting her, telling her we need to find a room. Getting caught having sex in public would result in a fine from the league. My team would be pissed off. It would become a distraction from our run toward the playoffs. None of that matters, not when her slender fingers delve inside my pants to wrap around my cock.

I drag my mouth away from hers. “You want it right here?” I thrust into her hands.

She looks up at me with glowing eyes. “No one has to know.”

She pulls me out and starts to lower herself, but I stop her. I’m close to coming and I’m going to be inside her when it happens.

“Turn around then and don’t make a sound.” I tug her skirt up over that fine ass of hers and slide a hand between her legs. Soaked.

I don’t even bother to remove her underwear. I shove the cotton aside and thrust into her, one swift, hard motion that propels her hard against the metal and glass. She pushes back, her wet channel hugging me tight.

The suction of her body, the feel of her warm flesh rubbing up against mine is driving me wild. I hammer into her, hard and fast. Her hands flatten against the side of the vehicle as she tries to brace herself. A high keening noise escapes her lips.

I clamp a hand over her mouth. “Shhh. I told you to be quiet.”

The reminder makes her shudder and convulse around me. She likes it when I’m rough with her; which is good because right now, I can’t be gentle. I shove two fingers into her mouth. “Suck my fingers like it’s my cock. Show me how much you want me in your mouth.”

Her mouth closes around my fingers like a vise, and she does exactly as she was ordered. She’s too good at it though. My orgasm is spiraling upward, and I need her to come with me.

I let go of her hip to reach around and find her clit. She moans against my hand when I pinch the little nub between my fingers. The walls of her cunt flutter against my cock signaling her own impending release.

Thank Christ.

I press my thumb against her clit and start fucking her with everything I have—my fingers, my cock, my body, my…heart.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Two appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-One

 

Nick

Because Charlie said you’d be here.

Lainey is here to get laid and I… I don’t know how I feel about that. Maybe this is my punishment for being a dog in high school and college. Maybe this is what I deserve for playing around with a single mom. For telling myself that Lainey’s too much for me to handle in a serious long-term relationship. I let my thoughts settle in my gut before answering lightly. “She was right. Here I am.”

Lainey’s face falls in disappointment. That wasn’t the answer she was looking for but she caught me off-guard. I wasn’t expecting her, and now I don’t know what to do other than finish my beer and ask for another.

I signal for a waitress.

“How have you been?” Lainey asks.

“I’ve been focusing on the game. Not much else,” I say as the waitress sets down another cold one in front of me. When Lainey sucks in a sharp breath, I realize what I’ve admitted to—that is, I haven’t slept with anyone since I was with her. And suddenly I want the same damn assurance. “And how about you? Been keeping busy?”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I have a five year old and a sick mom. I’m spending every night at home.”

So our cards are out on the table. Neither of us has hooked up with anyone else in the past nine weeks. Lainey’s here because she wants a repeat of what happened before she left.

The question is do I want that? I mean, yeah, objectively, having sex with Lainey is amazing but I’m not some teenager who can be led around by his dick. I stand and flip my chair around again and then re-settle myself. I don’t have to make any decisions now or in the next ten minutes. There are hours left before the bar closes.

“How long are you here for?” I ask.

“I leave tomorrow.”

“You’re good at that.”

She tilts her head away in annoyance. “You never indicated that you wanted me to stay.”

“And if I had?”

Lainey sighs. “I’d have left anyway.”

“Thought so.” The waitress stops by again. “Want another drink?” I ask Lainey.

She nods. “Mojito please.”

Charlie pokes her head out from the back of the bar and I wave her over. She doesn’t want to come but I give her a look until she and Reese drag their asses back to our table.

“You two are still here?” she asks in mock surprise.

“And we haven’t even killed each other.” Lainey jokes.

Reese takes a seat. “That’s not what we were worried about but I guess this is an adults only bar so they can handle a little nudity.” He takes a sip of Lainey’s mojito and then leans back to survey the rest of the crowded bar. “God, I love post-game night. So many fine asses in here.” He nudges Charlie. “What about Mr. Wide Receiver over there? He looks fine in his black pants.”

Charlie nods. “Not bad, but I think that guy’s ass is a lot better. Fills out his jeans better.”

“That’s the result of wearing denim,” Reese declares. “Denim is always going to look better on a man than wool.”

“No. I think he just has a better butt.” Charlie turns to Lainey. “What do you think?”

She squints. “I have to agree with Charlie here. I think jeans guy has a better ass.”

Reese leans over the table. “Nick, you gotta agree with me. A girl’s butt looks better in denim than anything else, right?”

Plant arrives before I have to answer. He shoves a chair against the table forcing us all to squeeze together. Lainey’s practically sitting on top of me, the heat of her leg against mine making me grab for my beer and gulp half of it down. “What’re we talking about?”

“Asses,” Reese says wickedly.

“I’m a good ass judger,” Plant says. “Point out the candidates.”

Reese gestures toward Angelo. “Mr. Wide Receiver and the guy in the denim.”

Plant follows Reese’s finger. “The guy in the jeans is one of our trainers, Kevin Clark, and there’s no way his ass is better than Angelo’s ass. I’ve slapped Angelo’s ass several times. It’s tight.”

Reese grins. “Plant, why can’t you be gay?”

“Dunno. Guess that’s not how God made me.”

“All the good ones play for the wrong team,” Reese laments.

“That’s our line,” Charlie protests, waving a finger between her and Lainey.

“I’m just glad you think I’m a good one,” Plant says.

“You are; and if you ever get bi-curious, come find me.” Reese grins invitingly.

Plant shakes his head. “You’re a good-looking guy, Reese, but I love pussy.” He turns to Charlie and Lainey. “Sorry, too graphic?”

Lainey waves her hand. “It’s fine as long as we get to talk about how much we love dick, and there are three of us and only two of you.”

“I’m completely okay with you three talking about how much you like dick, particularly mine. What about you, Rookie? Want to talk about my dick?” Plant smirks.

“Nah, I’ve seen it plenty, and it’s not something we could talk about for very long.”

“Ohhh,” the girls gasp in laughter.

Reese waggles his eyebrows. “I don’t care how long the topic is. A short convo can be interesting too.”

Plant flushes a little but he’s got more bravado, or maybe just plain ego, than most people. “It’s plenty long. We’ll be here for hours if we start discussing how awesome my dick is.”

Lainey shakes with laughter, and I realize why I’m so pissed off at her. It’s not just because we had awesome sex; it’s because I miss her company. She was always around—her and Cassidy. Now it’s just Charlie and me, and these days Charlie’s gone half the time, and when she is around…well, she ain’t happy.

I know sometimes she looks at me and wonders why I’m here and my brother, Nate, isn’t. Lainey was this buffer and I realize, after these nine weeks, that she’s an important part of my life. I had this idea she could go away and we’d be fine. That’s what I tell myself about Nate, too. That I don’t care that he left and joined the Navy. That I don’t care that he’s breaking Charlie’s heart into tiny, unfixable pieces. That he barely has any time for his family, let alone his own brother.

But I’m not fine without her in my life. The thing is… how am I going to balance football and Lainey?

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-One appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Delay of Game Chapter Four

Chapter Four

He slumps contentedly against my chest. “Give me a moment, and then I’ll get up and get you a towel.”

“I can’t move anyway,” I mumble.

Somewhere, Wyatt finds the strength to heave himself off me and stumble into the bathroom. As promised, he returns with a towel and a wet washcloth and proceeds to clean me up.

“Why have we waited so long to act on this?” It’s almost a rhetorical question because the answer is probably me and my unwillingness to change the status quo for so long.

“We were both afraid of losing something important. I realized as soon as I broke up with Heidi that you were the one for me. And despite you trying to get me to sleep with every single woman in a five-mile radius, I didn’t want anyone but you.” Wyatt tucks the towel under my ass. “You’re my best friend. When I think of home, I think of you. I can’t imagine growing old without you right by my side, but I never thought you wanted me for anything more than a friend.” He slides a strand of hair behind my ear. “And if friendship was all I’d ever have from you, then I’d take that because something was better than nothing at all.”

“But you never said anything.”

“I’ve tried to but you’d only tell me that you weren’t interested. That you didn’t want to be tied down. That marriage was for suckers. You bought a chair so you wouldn’t have to sit on the sofa next to me. You kept encouraging me to hit on other women.”

I wince because I did say and do all those things. “I said all that because I never believed I could get what I wanted.”

“And that is?” he asks with an arched brow.

“You, of course.” I twist his nipple to pay him back for making me say it.

He rolls me over and swats me on the ass.

“Tomorrow, we’re buying you a plug and you’re going to wear it all day.” He caresses my round cheeks.

“Why?” Not that I’m protesting. I’d do anything he suggests.

“Because I want to fuck you right here.” He provides delicious payback for my earlier exploration by shoving his thumb into the sensitive ring of tissue. I gasp into the pillows. “And the plug will prepare you. It will make you hot.”

“I dunno.”

“Tilt your hips up, baby.” He groans. “God, I wish you could appreciate what I’m seeing right now. Your glorious ass is so round and tight. Your pussy is dripping, you are so excited.” He positions himself at my opening and slides right in, his passage lubricated by my excitement and his. This time it’s much more leisurely.

He fondles my breasts and my clit almost absentmindedly. “We need to find a new place. Maybe over by your sister’s place. Big backyard. A pool would be nice,” he muses. “Our apartments are too small.”

“Why didn’t you move before?”

“Because I didn’t want to be away from you,” he says simply as if there is no other answer.

I slump against the mattress because his revelations are too much for me to take in. He’s loved me for so long. As long as I’ve loved him. But because we were afraid of losing each other, neither was willing to make a change. For a while, the half-life we’d been living was enough.

“I wouldn’t have moved either, you know,” I tell him. His arms tighten around me when I share that. “Even if I had looked at other places, none of them would have felt right because you weren’t there with me.”

He places a soft kiss on the crown of my head. “I think we should get married at Christmas. Your parents will be back. It’s six weeks away, and that’ll give you enough time to find everything you need.”

“Married?” The languid sensation that’s overtaken me because of his slow and measured dicking is making it difficult for me to process his words.

“You’re going to make an honest man out of me, aren’t you?” He teases. ”I won’t be able to look your Dad in the eye knowing how I’m defiling you on a regular basis without a ring around your finger.”

“I just didn’t realize you wanted to marry me,” I squeak.

“Yeah, because guys who aren’t in love with their best friends don’t have sex for five years all the time. That’s normal.” These words are followed by a few forceful thrusts.

“I haven’t had sex in longer,” I gasp out.

He reaches around and covers my mouth. “In my mind, I was your first. I can’t take hearing about Tim Grantland taking your virginity again. It was traumatizing the first time around.”

“For me too,” I say in protest. “He was terrible.”

“I wasn’t sure whether to beat him to a pulp for being bad, or feel grateful that you didn’t want to go back for seconds,” Wyatt licks the nape of my neck.

I shudder at the thought of being manhandled by Tim again. “It turned me off sex for a while, that’s for sure.”

“Which is a fucking shame,” Wyatt informs me. “Because you should always enjoy yourself.”

In the middle of a stroke, my stomach growls.

Wyatt sighs and slides out of me. I turn over and grab for him. “Don’t go.”

He squeezes my hand. “It’s okay. We’ve all night and the rest of our lives. Let’s go get some food.”

I lick my lips. Food does sound good. My stomach growls again, and I give up the pretense of not being hungry. Wyatt strolls nude into the kitchen but I throw on his t-shirt. It’s so domestic and wonderful that it’s hard not to break out in song and dance. I manage to control myself as we make up a huge cheese, cracker, and salami plate. I throw on some grapes, and we hustle back to the bedroom.

The clock says it’s nine, which means it’s half time. Instinctively, I turn on the game, causing Wyatt to laugh.

“What?”

“The guys are going to be so damn jealous.” He lifts a hank of my hair and presses a kiss against my shoulder but he doesn’t turn off the television.

As the game goes by, Wyatt fingers me. It’s not easy to pay attention or care about the game, even though one of our friends is on television, playing ball. I can hear how wet I am as Wyatt slides his fingers in and out of me.

“We’re never going to Mulligan’s again.”

“Why?” I gasp when he flicks his thumb against my clit.

“Because this is the best way to watch the game.” He reaches over and moves the tray from the bed to the side table. “You’re not in full control of your limbs right now so I’m going to move the cheese tray over here.” He doesn’t stop stroking me. His eyes are glued to the game but his fingers work me nonstop until I’m breathless and coming.

With a glint of heat in his eyes, he sticks his fingers in his mouth and sucks them dry. “Best late-night snack ever.”

The phone rings before I can attack him again.

Wyatt answers. “It’s Robert,” he tells me, covering the mouthpiece. “He said he’s been waiting at Mulligan’s for two hours and wants us to get our asses over there. The rest of the gang is there.”

I don’t mind. After all, I’ve come three times. My vagina could use a break. “Okay.”

———————————————

Mulligan’s is only two blocks away but Wyatt holds my hand the whole time. I lean against him, marveling at how beautiful everything looks tonight. The street lamps are shining bright. Even the garbage bags gleam shiny in the darkness.

I can’t stop smiling. Robert takes one look at us and knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows. He raises a fist in the air. “Who had five?” he yells.

A whistle goes up in the back. A Mulligan’s regular, Stan McCamp, rushes forward. “Me!” He pounds his fist against his chest. “I had five.”

“You lucky son of a bitch.” Robert slaps him on the back. The rest of the regulars and our friends crowd around, all handing Stan five-dollar bills. By the end, he has nearly $100.

“What the hell?” I ask.

“You two did it, right?” Robert asks, flicking a finger between Wyatt and me.

I press my lips together but a warm flush creeps up to paint red and ‘guilty’ all over my killer cheekbones. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wyatt turns to the bartender and puts in an order. Then he slides an arm around my waist. “We’re together now, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Took you long enough.” Robert shakes his head mournfully. “I put in for six months post-graduation. It was obvious you two were meant to be together. I just didn’t realize you were both so dumb as to ignore it.”

“I’m not dumb,” I object. “I graduated summa cum laude.”

“You were about this.” Robert ruffles my hair. Before he can cast any more aspersions on our intelligence, our college buddy, Ty Masters, intercepts the ball and starts running for the end zone.

Wyatt leans forward, his chin on my shoulder. “First time for everything.”

I harrumph silently. I wasn’t dumb and I didn’t ignore it. We just…delayed the play until we were both ready. And now it’s perfect. Wyatt and I hadn’t been each other’s first but we’d be each other’s last.

As if he can sense my thoughts, Wyatt curls me closer to rest his chin on the top of my head. “Love you, Lisle Cunningham.”

If the Mulligan folks said I floated the rest of the night, they wouldn’t be wrong.

The post Delay of Game Chapter Four appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Delay of Game, Chapter Three

Chapter Three

“We’re friends.” I search his familiar gaze, one that I conjure up before I close my eyes at night and the one I seek out in my dreams, and for the first time I see something more than friendliness there.

“And that’s all, right?” He takes a deep breath and then takes a step back. My eyes involuntarily drop to the vicinity of his zipper. The sight of his shaft pushing against the denim rouses a corresponding ache between my own legs.

“I didn’t realize there could be more for us.” The words are barely a whisper. I raise my agonized eyes to his face. His jaw is set but there’s no less lust in his expression. “You…you’re always dating someone.”

Wyatt always has women buzzing around him. At Mulligan’s. When we go out to lunch. They even show up at the job sites.

“I’m not dating anyone. I haven’t been with anyone since college,” he says between clenched teeth.

“Not since Heidi?” I ask in utter shock. Heidi was his college girlfriend. He dated her for two years. She hated me. Hated my friendship with Wyatt. I don’t know what happened to end their relationship but one day he showed up and said they were over. And he never had another girlfriend, but I thought for sure he’d been hooking up. There’d been so many offers. Numbers slipped into his pockets. Napkins left by waitresses. Cards dropped onto tables by women who apparently took one look at how he ate his roast beef sandwich and thought to themselves, I want a piece of that.

“Yeah. She was an utter shit-head to you, and I feel guilty I didn’t notice it sooner. She wanted me to stop being friends with you, and I told her to go to hell.” Wyatt runs an unsteady hand through his tousled hair. “I don’t want to talk about Heidi. I want to talk about you. Your makeover. Your desire to move. What’s this all about?”

“It’s about wanting more.” I search for the right words. “I want a family, a big house filled with people. I want love…and marriage.”

His eyes flash with something I think is joy.

“Then you’ll damn well have more with me.” He jerks me back against his body and fixes his mouth against mine. Wyatt isn’t my first kiss but he kisses me differently than I’ve ever been kissed before. It’s not just his lips against mine. It’s the nonverbal torrent of emotion conveyed through the press of our bodies. It’s lust, longing, want, desire, need, all tumbled into a ball passed between us. Time passes. The moon shifts, the tides come in, the earth rolls on its axis, but we remain clenched together.

One hand glides down to cup my rear, pulling me even closer against him. The other tangles in my hair to hold my head at precisely the right angle for the onslaught of his passionate kiss.

I cling to him as a tornado of feeling swirls around my small apartment. He lifts me, mid-kiss, and carries me to the sofa. Somehow he manages to get us prone without breaking contact.

He’s a magician.

The mere touch of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue, his hands over my clothes are arousing me into a fitful state, the kind I’ve never experienced before.

“Wyatt. Wyatt,” I murmur against his mouth. I tug at his t-shirt, trying to pull it up over his head, or at least bare some of that tawny skin.

He leans back slightly and rips the t-shirt off. I take a moment to appreciate the view, the golden hair dusting his pectorals and a slightly darker line leading into his jeans.

“Touch me, Lisle,” he says. He pulls my hand up and places the shaking appendage on his ridged abdomen. I run the tips of my fingers over the rectangular muscles, up to his hard pectorals. “You’re going the wrong way,” he teases, and bends down to place his mouth against the slope of my neck.

I whimper at the exquisite pleasure of it. “What’s happening to us?” I ask.

Wyatt gives me a gentle smile and runs a finger across my forehead, tickling the fringe of my bangs. “Why don’t you tell me? I’ve asked you before. Why are you making all these changes?”

I’ve been telling myself, my friends, my family, a sack of lies for years. It’s time to come clean. “For you.”

He strokes a work-roughened hand down my face. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes.” I nod miserably. “Very hard. My heart is beating so fast, I think you might need to call emergency services.”

“Let me feel.” He reaches up to cup my left breast, and that simple touch is nearly enough to send me into a tailspin. “I can’t tell,” he whispers against my cheek. “There’s too much fabric for me.”

His hand glides under my shirt. My bra is unclasped in an instant. His fingers sweep across the tips of my nipples, and it’s a good thing I’m lying down because my knees feel like jelly. The deep V-neck of my top is swept aside, and his mouth latches on to the erect tip of my nipple. He sucks in hard, the sides of his cheeks hollowing out, and I feel every pull as if there’s a direct line from my breast to my core.

I spread my legs, wanting to feel that hard erection against me, but my damn skirt is too tight. He releases a chuckle against my breast and tugs me upright. With little fanfare, he disposes of my shirt, my bra, and my skirt until all I’m left with is a naughty black lace thong.

The cool air makes me feel self-conscious. I don’t have a hard body. I’m shaped by too many caramel lattes and ice-cream desserts. I plaster my hands over my boobs and crotch but Wyatt tsks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and peels my hands away. “You’re so damn beautiful, Lisle. I liked having you to myself. Now everyone is going to see how hot you are. I’m going to have to carry around a bat to beat them off.”

Mischievously, my hand reaches between his legs. “I don’t think you need anything bigger than what you have.”

He groans. “Shit like that will result in you getting fucked too hard.”

I nearly faint at his threat. “Is there such a thing?”

“We’re going to find out if you don’t move your hand,” he replies grimly. He plucks my reluctant fingers from his zipper and simultaneously moves down the sofa while pushing me upright until I’m lounging against the arm with my knees splayed open.

He traces the edges of the black lace at the juncture of my legs. With each sweep of his finger over the cloth, I grow wetter and wetter. He stares at me like I’m a banquet filled with all his favorite foods.

He reaches behind him and grabs one of the throw pillows and plumps it underneath my ass. “These have to go,” he orders, his voice guttural. He draws my panties down my legs and then pushes my thighs open. This time I don’t feel self-conscious. The naked want in his face reassures me that this is the most glorious vision he’s ever been privileged enough to lay eyes on.

Then he leans down and licks me and licks me and licks me. I shudder underneath him. This is going to be over fast, I think.

“No,” he answers; I must have spoken out loud. “This is just the beginning.”

Wyatt’s not tender. He doesn’t treat me like a fragile flower. He attacks me. He pushes my thighs up and apart, opening me until there’s nowhere for me to hide. He buries his face between my legs, and I swear there is no part he doesn’t lick or suck or nip. As he devours me, he makes these sounds as if I’m so delicious he can’t keep quiet.

I dig my nails into the cushions as my whole body tautens under his onslaught. The orgasm takes me by surprise, exploding from my center, lifting my body off the cushions, and ripping a cry of ecstasy from my throat.

Limp and weak, I can only watch as he tears off his clothes until he is as bare as I am. He takes his huge shaft in his hands and jerks it roughly. Pearl white fluid appears on the tip and he uses it as lubrication. I raise my hand tentatively, wondering if I can touch him and feel his velvety skin against my palm.

He licks his lips and halts. When he releases his cock, it bounces, lightly striking my clit, and I cry with delight at the sensation. He closes my fingers around the shaft and then wraps his hand around mine. Together we work him. He shows me how hard to grip him (hard!) and where to twist (at the top!) and how to cup his balls (carefully!).

His eyes narrow to tiny slits, flitting from my face to his cock and back again. The heat of his skin scorches my palm, as if his blood is boiling underneath the surface. Our palms are slick with his arousal, with the sweat of our exertion, and it’s just enough friction, slick heat, and pressure to make him bow his back and come.

The milky white seed spurts onto my pubis and onto my stomach and even around the upper curve of my breast. He swallows hard, and his eyes glitter with wanton possession.

He lets go of my hand and spreads his large palm on my tummy. “You’re mine now,” he growls, and I shiver at the possessiveness of his words.

In this context, in this moment, they are sweeter than any compliment. I move to tug him down, to feel the full weight of his body pressing mine into the cushions, but he resists.

“We’re moving on to phase two,” he says, and gets to his feet. I struggle to push up to my elbows.

“Phase two?” The orgasm has fried my brain.

“Phase two is me fucking you until you don’t remember anything but my name.” He leans down and picks me up in his arms. Again, I’m struck by how strong Wyatt is. He doesn’t huff and puff as he carries me down the hall. He doesn’t shift my weight from arm to arm. It’s as if carrying me is as easy as lifting a five-pound bucket of nails.

When we reach the bedroom, he throws me onto the bed and then looks around. His penis bobs between us as if he hadn’t just come. I stare at it in amazement.

“How can you still be erect?” I ask, propping myself up on an elbow. “Is that scientifically possible?”

“Around you? Apparently so.” He absently rubs himself. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” I don’t want him to go. I’m hot and achy and the release he gave me feels like it was ten centuries ago. I haven’t had him inside me yet and I need him there. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I need a condom, sweetheart.” He leans down and kisses me. Momentarily, I forget everything including my name until he lets me up for air.

“Have you really not had sex for five years?” I place a hand on his arm to prevent him from going.

“Really.” He nods abruptly, as if his long period of abstinence is a painful memory.

“I’m on the pill. For medical reasons,” I hurriedly explain at his frown.

His arm trembles beneath my hand. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. 100%.” I raise my two thumbs.

He grins ruefully. “It won’t be two thumbs up because I’m going to come in about five seconds. This is a fantasy I’ve been jerking off to for about five years now, but I’ll make it up to you.” He positions himself between my legs and then positions the tip right at my swollen, sensitive entrance. “I’ve thought about this a million times but it hasn’t prepared me for how good it feels just to kneel between your legs.”

I look at him through my lashes. “I’ve dreamt about this a million times but nothing is like the real thing. You here, touching me with so much love and tenderness, makes me wonder if I’m still dreaming.”

His hard face softens, and his hand comes up to cup my face. “It’s no dream, sweetheart. And I do love you. I always have. Always will.”

Tears come to my eyes as he slides inside me. “I love you, Wyatt. I was born loving you. I’ll die loving you.”

He presses his hips forward, pinning me with his body and with his gaze. I widen my legs, opening for him, and he glides deeper, so deep that he’s touching my heart. Never once does he take his eyes from mine. I roll my hips to meet his thrusts, and he withdraws slowly so I can feel his thick, ridged head cock every nerve ending in my pussy.

His arms shake by my head with his effort to stay in control, to make it perfect for me. But I don’t need that. I want his wildness, his roughness, his unquenched desire. I scrape my fingers down his back until they stop at his ass. And then, based on something I read, I slide just the tip of my index finger into that private place of his.

His eyes widen and his nostrils flare and his hips jack into mine with a force that surprises us both. He growls—deep, needy, and low. There’s no escaping him. He powers into me, swiveling his hips, driving against my pubic bone, rubbing against my clit, stroking me with power and passion until I can do nothing but cling to him as the tidal wave of sensation crashes over my head and takes me under.

He reads my body, or my face, and lets loose his own fragile control. He thrusts into me with mindless pleasure and those thrusts, and his abandon, sweep me over the edge once again.

The post Delay of Game, Chapter Three appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Delay of Game Chapter One and Two

 

Chapter One

I was eight when I first started telling people I was never going to marry. Wyatt Majors, my best friend at the time, said he wouldn’t marry anyone either because girls were gross and he didn’t want to live with another boy either. That made me feel better because it meant I wouldn’t be alone. It didn’t occur to me that if I got married, I wouldn’t be alone either. That sort of logic didn’t exist when I was eight. Or when I was eighteen, to be frank.

It was in college, while my psychology major roommate was spouting off on projection and behavioral confirmation, I realized that my eight-year old self’s declaration had been made out of self-protection. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married; it was that I never thought anyone would ask me, and therefore, I hated the whole idea of it.

As I grew older and other people dated and I didn’t, that resolution solidified from an ephemeral youthful statement into a meaningful part of my make-up. It was one thing that everyone knew about me—I was a serious student who eschewed dating.

When I was a sophomore and one of our new acquaintances asked me why I wasn’t seeing anyone, Wyatt informed them that I didn’t believe in the archaic, primitive notion of pairing off. I didn’t protest because he was simply parroting something I’d espoused dozens of times before.

I’d said it so many times that I’d become confused as to whether I truly did believe it or if it was still something I’d say to preempt anyone from telling me that I was unmarriageable.

But now I’m twenty-seven, five years out of college, and the idea of marriage—or at least dating—is pretty darn attractive. I’m tired of being alone. The problem is I have zero prospects. My entire circle of friends is either married or a bunch of horn dogs.

Somehow, probably because I wasn’t looking to hook up, I became one of the guys. I’m still one of the guys, even though I have boobs and a fairly sizeable ass. Maybe the fact that I wear oversized t-shirts and baggy jeans has caused them to mistake me for a man.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see datable material. I see…a bunch of drab brown hair, thick eyebrows, a chest full of boobs, and hips that move on their own. I’m not anything like the sexy ladies that come up to the guys at Mulligan’s as we sit around the table, drinking beer, eating chips, and cheering on our favorite teams.

Most of our friends are paired off now, except for Wyatt.

I don’t know why Wyatt’s not dating anyone. Or why he’s not married. He’s a catch. Granted, I’m biased because I’m in love with Wyatt, but I think anyone who likes men would be interested in him. He’s got a good-sized bank account. He likes animals and kids and is generally a decent person.

Even sitting on my sofa, shoveling potato chips into his mouth like Idaho and all of its starchy crops will disappear tomorrow, he’s bangable.

“Lisle, why are you staring at me?” he asks, hand halfway to his mouth.

“Was I?” I suppose I was. I stare at him all too often, preferably when he isn’t looking, because nearly everything about him makes me happy. The sun-kissed, wheat-colored hair that has a tendency to fall over the left side of his forehead has become my favorite version of blond.  It’s overlong in the back because he only gets it cut every three months or so. His eyes are this tawny gold that remind you of lions and cougars. Big, lithe, sexy cats—also my preferred animal.

“Yeah, you’re staring. Is there something on my face?” He brushes a hand over his square jaw—the one that looks so firm and solid you could break a rock against it.

A few guys have tried. To hit him that is. He’s gotten into bar fights. He’s super protective of his friends. One guy in a bar called me an ugly name, and Wyatt turned around immediately and clocked him. When the bouncers came over, Wyatt told them quietly he’d been standing up for me and if that meant getting kicked out of the bar, it’d be worth it.

The bouncers bought it and kicked the other guy out, which I was grateful for because I really liked Mulligan’s.

“Remember the time you hit that guy over at Mulligan’s for calling me an ugly bitch?”

He frowns. “Okay, that’s random but yes.”

“Why’d you do it? I mean it was rude, but I’ve been called worse.”

He sits up immediately, brushing his hand down his abs to dust away some nonexistent potato chip crumbs. The motion causes his shirt to ride up a bit, and a delicious sliver of skin appears. I suck in my breath and bite my lip. The whole motion discombobulates me, and I leave to go into the kitchen on the pretense that I’m thirsty.

Unfortunately, Wyatt follows. “First, no one says anything bad about you in front of me and second, who the hell is calling you worse things than that asshole?”

See? Wyatt is so nice he can’t even bring himself to repeat the words. I grab a glass from the cupboard and pour myself some water from the pitcher in the fridge. I’m parched. Thinking about Wyatt’s perfect body and his bare skin makes me hot all over. The single glass of water does nothing to quench my desire. I need the whole pitcher to be poured over my head.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember all of the times.”

“All of the times?” he nearly roars. “Why are you just now telling me this?”

I stare at him over my second glass of water, utterly confused, but touched by his show of anger. “It didn’t seem important at the time. They were stupid, careless things.”

He runs an agitated hand through his hair, and the ruffled mess makes me think of the times I’ve seen him wake up—mostly when he’s passed out at my place from too much drinking, even though his apartment is across the hall from mine.

“None of the people we hang out with though, right?”

Do we count the prissy Donna who, at the last Super Bowl party Wyatt and I co-hosted, said I should lay off the chip dip if I ever wanted to snag a man? I informed her that I love jalapeño, bacon, and red pepper dip, and it’s impossible to lay off that stuff unless you don’t believe in food.

She told me to believe in food a little less. I’m not a fan of Donna.

“Lisle?” he prompts impatiently.

“No. No one we hang out with.” I mean, honestly, I see Donna three times a year at the most. She hooked Keith good and he’s not allowed to see his friends anymore because he has too much fun with us. Literally, that’s what she said during the Fourth of July party. But it’s nearing Christmas so she’ll have to let poor Keith out of his cage for our annual pre-Christmas bash.

“You going to tell me if you are being hassled?” He levels a glare at me.

“Are you going to go around punching people?”

“If they’re being assholes, yes.”

“Then no. I’ll keep that info to myself.” I place the glass on the counter and move past Wyatt, making sure there’s enough space between us so we don’t accidentally rub up against each other or I might jump him.

I learned that lesson about four months ago. We’d both tried to go into the construction trailer at work at the same time, and I swear my hand brushed his jeans in an area where only his girlfriend should be touching. It felt big and hard and I had the very best self-help sessions for a week afterward imagining that monster working its way between my legs and in my mouth.

“Why would you keep it to yourself?” His tone is one of frustration.

“Because I’m a big girl, and you don’t have to go around hitting everyone who is so miserable that they feel the need to build themselves up by tearing me down. It doesn’t bother me,” I insist. I drop into the single chair and lift my feet up on the coffee table.

I used to sit on the sofa next to Wyatt but a few months ago, about the time I started fantasizing about him during my me-times, I gave that up. It was too painful. So I sit in this chair, and Wyatt gets the sofa all to himself.

He plops in his usual spot—right in the middle—and throws his feet onto the coffee table. We are almost touching. His sock-covered toes and my sock-covered toes. It’s as much intimacy as I can handle.

“It bothers me,” he grumbles but lets it go. He flicks on the television again.

I pick up my notepad. We’re planning the pre-Christmas bash—the one that Keith gets to attend. It’s something we’ve held jointly since freshman year, when all the students went home but the poor football team. Wyatt played and so did many of our friends. Only one of them went pro—Ty Masters. The team was supposed to be good but injuries and illnesses and scandals wore the team down until we counted it a success when they ended up with the same number of wins as losses.

But the bonds they’d formed on the team were lasting, and many of us stuck around, got jobs, and started growing up. We refused to allow those friendships to die off. We’d go out on Friday and Saturday nights. Watch games on Sundays. Meet for Monday Night Football.

As the years wore on, though, the number of participants at these social gatherings dwindled, and often it was just Wyatt and me—mostly because we live across the hall from one another.

“Why do you still live here?” I ask suddenly. Wyatt can easily afford someplace else. I should know. I write out his check.

“Why do you?” he counters. He knows my financial status as well. We both work at Cunningham and Associates, formerly known as Cunningham and Sons until I convinced my dad a year ago that since I didn’t have a penis, the word son was misleading.

“Good question.” My answer is because Wyatt lives across the hall, but if I’m making changes in my life, if I’m truly going to move on from this horrible unrequited love that burns me up inside, then finding a different place to live makes a lot of sense.

That should be top of my list, even above getting a haircut, going to the make-up counter, and buying new clothes. I nod firmly. Getting a new place is priority number one.

“I’m going to move,” I announce.

“What?!” Wyatt shouts, rocketing off the sofa like it has a spring trap beneath his butt. “Since when?”

“Since right now. You’re right. There’s no reason for me to be living in this place anymore.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” He places his hands on his lean hips, the movement pulling his already low-riding jeans down so I can see the black strip of his Under Armour underwear.

I inhale deeply and breathe out through my nose, thankful that my female body is made in such a way that he can’t tell how hot I find him. Or how hot he makes me.

“It’s too small.” The apartment has one bedroom, one bathroom, a living space, and a tiny galley kitchen. It was fine when I was first out of college, but I want to outgrow it. I want a big house with lots of people in it.

“What do you need more space for?” He looks genuinely confounded.

“I want…more.” I don’t feel comfortable telling him that I want to get married. I suppose because I don’t want him to remind me of my own oft-stated proclamations about the tired state of marriage, nor do I want him to look at me with shock because he doesn’t think I’m marriageable material.

“More what?” His confusion has morphed into suspicion, and he turns those golden eyes toward me. I look away. I can’t be caught in his tractor beam of a gaze, which compels me to spill silly secrets; such as the time I confessed to stealing a beef jerky stick at the gas station on a road trip to see our friend Ty because I’d forgotten my wallet. I mailed the owner a five-dollar bill hoping he’d forgive me. Wyatt called me the “Beef Thief” for far too long after that which was more than enough punishment for my wrongdoing.

“More space. More room. More… Just more,” I answer. I stand up and smooth down my leggings. Since it was just Wyatt and I, I had pulled on my stretchy yoga pants and tossed an old t-shirt over it. I think it was Wyatt’s at one time. It has ‘Southern Texas University Football’ on it.

Wyatt’s eyes fall to my legs and stay there too long. Does he think my thighs are too big for leggings?

“You don’t need more space,” Wyatt argues. “This place is perfect for you.” He waves a hand around. “You decorated it just the way you’ve wanted—with lots of color and stuff.”

My apartment is colorful, from my mustard yellow sofa to the retro, blue velvet side chairs. The curtains are a white and yellow stripe with wide blue bands around the bottom. It’s comfy and pretty and yet not overly feminine. I realize that I decorated it with Wyatt in mind.

I decide that my next home will be decorated in all white, minimalistic with only splotches of gold—no, silver. Gold and yellow and any shades stemming from that parent color shall be prohibited. I don’t want any reminders of Wyatt and my old life in my new one.

“Yup, and this will give me a new opportunity. Time to go.” I start pushing Wyatt toward the door. It’s not easy. He outweighs me by at least seventy pounds. The man is solid. He doesn’t work out because his entire day consists of lifting, carrying, pushing, and pulling lumber, concrete, rebar, and anything else involved in the commercial construction business otherwise known as Cunningham and Associates.

Wyatt digs in his heels, and I only manage to move him about two feet.

“Is something wrong, Lisle?” he ask.  at the door.

Yes, my life, but I’m going to fix that. I’m going to fix everything.

Chapter Two

“What did you do to your hair?” Wyatt frowns at me.

I pat the side of it so I don’t mess up the style. “I got it cut.” And colored and styled. The whole process took over two hours. I had a long lunch. “Is it bad?”

The stylist cut my long hair into layers so I could wash, blow dry, and go. I was informed I’d have to come in every six weeks for a trim, but I enjoyed the head and shoulders rub so It won’t  be too big of a sacrifice.

The biggest difference is the bangs. There’s a fringe across the top of my forehead that now frames my face and highlights my so-called “killer” cheekbones. The stylist and the make-up lady made a big deal out of those. The bangs didn’t make me look childish, as I’d feared when the cut had first been proposed.

I thought it looked amazing but Wyatt’s unhappy face has me second-guessing it.

He grunts. “It’s different.” Different? In what way? I want to ask but I bite down on my tongue. Wyatt’s approval is unnecessary and unwelcome, I remind myself. It’s hard to hear over the galloping of my heart whenever Wyatt appears.

“Is that where you’ve been this whole time?” he asks. He slaps down a roll of plans and a stack of paper. “I was here an hour ago because I needed you to sign off on these invoices so we could get moving on stage two.”

“I’m sorry.” I sit down and pull out my pen. “You’re allowed to sign them now, you know. You don’t need me.”

“Since when?” he scoffs.

“Since your dad retired and moved to Florida,” I remind him, signing the last of the invoices and passing the stack back to him. His hand, lightly dusted with golden hair, rests like a glorious paperweight on the edge of my desk. I’d love to make a cast of it, and then I could hold it—God, is that creepy or what? I shake my head in dismay. Excising Wyatt from my heart isn’t as easy as snipping off two inches from the bottom of my hair.

Wyatt sighs, an aggrieved and unhappy sound. “I know my dad retired. I still need you.”

“You don’t,” I say. “Your name is on the Cunningham and Associates partnership agreement. Is it the name? We can change the name, but originally you said you didn’t want to because the brand had been built up. I don’t mind, though. Let me get Grant on the phone and he’ll whip up an amendment to our corporation papers.”

Wyatt’s frown deepens to a scowl. “Is this about Grant Wilkins?”

“Is what about Grant?” I ask with frustration. It seems like Wyatt and I can’t communicate at all anymore. We used to be able to finish each other’s sentences and now it’s difficult to even carry on the simplest conversations. He seems to be talking about one thing and me another and neither of us understands the other.

“This.” He gestures toward me. “The hair. The move. Is Wilkins making you do this?” Wyatt asks angrily.

“No. What does Grant have to do with anything? He’s our company lawyer.” I couldn’t be more confused.

“You had lunch with him yesterday and dinner with him last week.” Wyatt punches the dates on my calendar pad with a forceful finger.

“He asked me to go over our minutes. He thinks we need to do a better job of conducting monthly meetings and keeping appropriate business documents. He wanted to show me an example.”

“And that had to be done over dinner at the Bistro?” Wyatt mocks.

“What’s wrong with eating and working at the same time? You and I used to do that all the time.”

For some reason, that’s entirely the wrong thing to say because Wyatt shoves away from the desk with obvious anger and stomps to the trailer door. “Fuck it. You want to be with Wilkins, then be with fucking Wilkins.”

“What?” I jump up and run after him. “What are you even talking about?”

“You and Wilkins!” He leaps from the trailer as if my nearness is an anathema to him.

“There is no me and Grant!” I yell after him, but my words are lost in the noise of the construction site, and Wyatt stalks off toward the job site.

My phone rings. I pull it out of my back pocket with a sigh. The screen reads ‘Rachel.’ Is it bad to ignore your sister? Probably. I press ‘Ignore’ and tuck it back in my pocket. Then the office phone rings. I suspect it’s Rachel again, but it might be a supplier or a sub-contractor so I answer it.

“Lisle!” Aaaaand it’s Rachel.

“Hey, Rachel,” I answer flatly.

“I wish you’d answer your cell phone,” she sighs. “Am I that terrible to talk to?”

“No. It’s just that…” You’re perfect. You have the beautiful husband, the two funny, sweet kids, and the gorgeous house in the suburbs. You have a graduate degree in English literature but spend your days volunteering at a domestic abuse shelter. Basically, you are living the life I want, and every time I talk to you, I’m reminded how very empty and lonely my life is.

“Just what, honey?” she asks softly. I wonder if having a baby gives you special insightful powers.

“I need a makeover,” I blurt out.

“What?” she shrieks. I hold the phone away from my ear. “I’m coming over. Are you at the job site? I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t move.”

Rachel shows up in twenty minutes, her youngest in tow. “Oh good, I thought you might leave.”

She shoves two-year-old Lauren into my arms, a bundle of sweet-smelling, curly-haired girl.

“Auntie Leesee,” she coos and rubs her soft cheek against mine. My ovaries explode. Yes, I want this. I want this so bad. And I want it with Wyatt, but he’s not for me so I need to find someone who is.

Rachel drops into my desk chair. “Tell me everything and start with your hair. It looks amazing. I love your bangs.”

I run my finger along the fringe. It’s taking some getting used to.

“What’s there to tell you?” I pull a hank of hair out of Lauren’s surprisingly strong grasp and give her a ruler instead, which she promptly uses to bang me on the head. “I’m tired of my look. My hair was blah, which I fixed, but my clothes are even more blah.”

“You want a man,” she states with authority.

I scrunch up my nose. “Maybe I just want to feel good about myself.”

“You want a man,” she repeats.

“Fine,” I sigh. “I’m tired of being alone. I want your life.”

She laughs. “No, you don’t. You would be bored to tears living in the suburbs and not working. You love your job, and you’re damned good at it.”

Her sincere compliments warm me from head to toe. “I do love my job,” I admit. Rachel spent a lot of time with Mom, while I was a total daddy’s girl. Still am. I followed him around on job sites and spent more time wearing overalls and mini work boots than dresses and heels. I know as much about the construction business as anyone, which is why Dad felt comfortable going on a six-month sabbatical with Mom around Europe, leaving Wyatt and me in charge. “But I’m lonely.”

Rachel makes a sympathetic noise. “I agree that you could do with a small wardrobe change, but Lisle, you’re beautiful just as you are. The reason you don’t have a man in your life is because you don’t want one.”

Lauren strikes me on the head with the ruler to emphasize Rachel’s point. Rachel gets up, pulls the ruler away, and hands Lauren a soft toy instead.

“But I’m out there. I hang around with guys all the time. All my friends are guys,” I point out.

“Yes, but you encourage them to date other women. I’ve been out with you. You point out which girls are hot and you say to them, like Wyatt, ‘you should hit that.’ Or ‘I’d tap that if I were a guy.’”

“Wellll, okay, but it’s true. I can appreciate a hot woman just as much as I appreciate a hot guy,” I protest.

Lauren slaps me in the face with the soft toy. I pull it out of her hand and set her on the floor. “Lauren is really aggressive.”

“She’s just picking up on the fact that you are saying really stupid things.” Rachel scoops up her youngest and grabs me. “Let’s go. I’m taking you to the salon to get your eyebrows waxed, and then we’re going shopping for some clothes that remind all the men you work with that you don’t actually have a penis. We’ll talk about the rest of your issues at that time. Maybe the chemicals in the coloring formula will have softened your thick head.”

I follow her out, rubbing the sore spot that Lauren hit with the ruler a few too many times. My head doesn’t feel that dense.

———————————————

I can’t stop staring at myself. They thinned my eyebrows and Rachel had them do a complimentary make-up session at the end. They’d given me a tinted sunscreen to put on every morning and a berry-colored stain that I could rub on my cheeks and my lips. The hardest thing for me to replicate at home was the brown pencil I am supposed to draw around my eyes. I’m not convinced I can do that, but the whole make-up routine didn’t take more than a couple of minutes.

Rachel smartly didn’t try to give me anything complicated, and the effect of a little eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick makes me look …mysterious and different and sexy. I’m still me but a hotter version. I wish I could go out tonight to test the goods, but it’s Monday and Wyatt’s coming over for the game.

But maybe he’d want to go to Mulligan’s. I could flirt with the bartender, Scott, as practice. He flirts with everyone who comes in, so I could pick up some pointers from him.

The door flies open and I jump back from the hall mirror.

“Games going to be on in five…” Wyatt’s voice trails off. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my new style and my new clothes. Rachel had me buy a knit pencil skirt that was stretchy enough to accommodate my big bottom and not so short that I feared I was flashing my private parts at every stranger in the room. She topped it with a long-sleeved knit top that was shirred at the side. It covered my round stomach and drew attention to my “spectacular” cleavage. Adjective supplied by Rachel and the lady in Nordstrom’s bra department. I’m still getting used to the deep valley between my boobs, and Wyatt’s glower is not helping. “What the hell, Lisle?”

I fight the urge to round my shoulders and hide my body. I’m hot-Lisle, and if I’m not used to it, I guess it’s reasonable that Wyatt is shocked too. I lift my chin and stare at him in challenge. “I got a haircut, remember?”

“I’m not talking about your hair. I’m talking about all of this.” He waves his hand down my body. “You’re wearing a skirt. You have make-up on. Are you going out with Wilkins tonight? This is Monday night. We watch football on Monday nights!” Wyatt angrily slams his six-pack on the side table.

I brush my bangs away from my face in confusion. “I still want to watch the game. I thought we’d go to Mulligan’s instead. And why are you so obsessed with Grant all of a sudden?”

He plants one hand on his hip and grabs the back of his neck with the other hand: a classic Wyatt sign of frustration. I had seen it in action before when he was talking to a sub-contractor who screwed up.

I’ve clearly done something to make Wyatt upset, but I don’t have the first clue as to what it could be.

“I’m obsessed with Grant?” He laughs mirthlessly. “You’re the one who is changing everything to make him happy. You’re even thinking of moving away from me.”

Away from him? What does that even mean?

“For the last time, I do not like Grant Wilkins. He doesn’t even like football, for God’s sakes. What would I talk to him about?” I throw out my arms, completely exasperated by this line of questioning and Wyatt’s fixation on the construction company’s lawyer. “Maybe you like him and are jealous that I’m spending time with him! Is that it? Well, next time Grant Wilkins calls the office and wants to schedule a meeting to talk about S corporations, you’re going to be the one to sit with him for two hours while he drones on about codes and case law.” I jab Wyatt in the chest.

He grabs my offending finger and drags me up against his chest. His breath is rough and a wild look is in his eyes. I don’t recognize this version of Wyatt. Like me, he’s undergone a transformation but his is internal.

“I’m jealous,” he grinds out. “Is that what you want to hear? That you’re making me jealous? That I’ve been wanting you for years; waiting for you to see me as a man, not just a random body that sits in your living room and drinks beer?” His hand sweeps out and knocks the cans off the table.

I lean down to grab them but my hands are shaking so hard the six-pack drops back to the floor. I stare at the cans splayed on the floor while Wyatt’s words ricochet around my brain. Wyatt’s jealous. Wyatt wants to be with me?

“But…you’ve never said,” I manage to stammer out, my eyes pinned to the floor. I’m afraid to look at him because I know he’ll see my hope, my love, my utter vulnerability.

Above me he makes an agonized sound. “Will you leave the beer alone and look at me?”

“I’m afraid,” I whisper. I look down at the stretchy fabric of my skirt. I feel the tickle of bangs on my forehead. I remember the slight but obvious brush of Wyatt’s erection when he jerked me against his body. I don’t want to lose Wyatt as a friend, but isn’t it him I want to build that big house with? And isn’t it him I want to see every night before I shut my eyes? And isn’t it him I want to grow old with? Isn’t it better to take a chance?

I take a deep breath and push to my feet. Wyatt’s hair is standing up and his lips are flattened in an unhappy line but he’s still here and he’s clearly waiting.

Here goes everything.

The post Delay of Game Chapter One and Two appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty

Nick

“Great game, man!”

“What a comeback!”

“This man needs a drink!”

The standing-room-only crowd at Mel’s Tavern shouts out their greetings when I step inside. While I hold the door open for Charlie and Reese, I hand out high-fives and handshakes. A Shiner Bock is shoved into my hand almost before I can get the door closed behind me.

“Thanks.” I slap the hand of the stranger who handed me the drink. “Hey, what about—“ I try to stop a server to grab a drink for Charlie and Reese, but Charlie pulls my arm down.

“We’ll go to the bar,” she half yells so I can hear her over the din.

The two give me a wave before diving into the throng. Over the tops of the heads of the well-wishers, I see Plant making his way in my direction.

“It’s a madhouse in here,” he says. At six-four, he’s tall enough that we don’t have to scream in each other’s ears to be heard. “So you gonna celebrate tonight?”

“With you,” I reply, intentionally refusing to follow his head tilt toward a group of pretty girls dressed in tight clothes. Most of the guys are home with their families but there are plenty of single players—like Plant and ostensibly me—who are still riding the high from our win and want to exorcise some of that excess adrenaline. What better way to do that than hitting up a bar well known for hosting an after-party for the players?

Except…fuck, I haven’t had a woman in my bed since Lainey walked out on me.

“So are we joining forces or having a full-on orgy?” Plant literally rubs his hands together in anticipation. “Because if we invite more than one back, that means we don’t have to disappoint any of those lovely ladies over there.”

“I can’t wait to see the Snapchats from a night like that. How many fines would we be paying off?”

“Nah, as long as they’re all above eighteen, we’re golden. I’m a sucker for redheads. Mind if I call dibs on her?”

“Yeah, that’s cool.”

“Dude, you aren’t even looking,” Plant complains. “There is no redhead.”

This complaint does make me glance toward a small grouping of five women, all about the same height, same build, same clothes. It’s like they’re manufactured somewhere. “They all look so much alike, I don’t think we need to screw them individually. Take one and you’ve had them all,” I mutter.

“So threesome, then, is what you’re saying.”

I silently take a long drink of my beer. Plant reads my refusal easy enough. We’ve developed a Jedi-like communication with each other, both on and off the field. I only need to give him a look and a nod and he knows exactly where to run to catch the ball. It’s what’s made our offense so potent this year.

“It was worth a try,” he grins.

“I’m saving all my energy for the conquest next Sunday.”

“I gotcha. Unlike you, though, I’m able to multi-task. I can lay pipe at night and still blow by the defense by day. Besides, tomorrow’s our day off.”

“Eat, drink, and be merry because tomorrow we die?” I quip.

He laughs. “Something like that.” He pounds me hard on the shoulder. “I’m going in but let me know if you find a redhead. I really do have a thing for them. True redhead, though. I like the curtains to match the carpet.”

“They dye their hair all over these days.”

Plant pauses. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Huh.” He mulls this over. “I’m okay with that. Find me a girl with a lot of freckles who’s willing to dye herself all over.”

“I’ll get right on that,” I reply dryly.

“That’s my man.”

As Plant makes his way toward the ladies, I consider my options. I can go home where I’ll have another filthy dream about Lainey, which ends with my hand around my dick in a big, empty bed.

I can take home some groupie who will brag about bagging me on some forum or social media before I manage to make it out of her apartment. My ribs hurt from the sack I took in the third quarter which means I’d need her to go easy on me and that’d mean the bragging would turn to insults in short order when I never call her back.

Or I can drink with by best friend who’s finally talking to me after about five weeks of freezing me out. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her if her PMS was now a month-long event but her blaming me for Lainey running off raised my hackles. I wasn’t the one who walked out.

Speaking of Charlie, where the hell did she disappear to? As I raise my bottle to my lips, I sweep the room once more and nearly poke my eye out when I spot a familiar face.

“What’s she doing here?” I scowl, but my traitor roommate isn’t next to me to answer. Instead, she’s leaning on the table talking to the star of my nightly dreams. The high from the win where we secured our place in the post-season is wiped away in a second replaced by twin emotions of anger and lust. One look at the pouty red lips and dark curls and my dress pants are officially two sizes two small. Damn glad I have my suit coat on.

I’m at the table without even realizing my feet were moving. Her head pops up as if she sensed my approach.

“Lainey.”

“Hello, Nick,” Lainey says coolly.

So that’s how she wants to play it. Like we’re acquaintances. Like we haven’t had our hands all over each other before. Like she hasn’t ignored every text and phone call for over nine goddamned weeks.

I turn to the table next to Lainey’s and glare at one of the men until he stands up. “Can I offer you the chair, Mr. Jackson?”

“Thanks.” I flip it around and shove it next to Lainey.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” Charlie says. “Anyone else?”

“Me,” Lainey says but I grab her wrist before she can rise.

“No, you don’t.”

“I need someone to come with me.” Charlie tries again.

Lainey twists her wrist but I’m not letting go. I glare at Charlie until she sighs and turns to Reese. “Come on, Reese.”

“Really? Do I have to? This was getting good,” he complains but gets up and follows Charlie.

“Traitors,” Lainey mutters.

When Charlie and Reese disappear down the hallway toward the bathrooms, I finally release Lainey’s wrist.

“Why are you here?” I ask bluntly, trying to ignore a twinge of guilt as she rubs her wrist.

“Charlie asked me to come,” she says.

“You left her in a real bind.”

“I know.”

Lainey’s face falls and that twinge turns into a full-fledged pang in the back of my neck. I reach over to tap her hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She looks up with earnest eyes. “I’m going to make it up to her.”

And me? What are you going to do for me? I want to ask but I’ve got no right, I realize. I don’t have any right to be mad at her for leaving me. I don’t have any right to be mad at her for coming back. I never made her any promises. My sudden spate of anger drains away.

“Why are you here?” I ask. Her skin is smooth under my fingers. I can’t seem to move away from her.

Lainey’s gaze drops to her hands. “Because Charlie said you’d be here.”

 

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

What I’m Working On

1) Broken Prince. This book is done and at the copyeditor! Elle Kennedy and I are so excited about this book. It’s a match for Paper Princess. The release date is July 25, 2016. Add it to your Goodreads shelf or pre order it:

Digital: Kindle | Nook | iBooks | Kobo
Print: Amazon | Barnes & Noble

2) Twisted Place. The third in the original Royals trilogy will be released on October 17, 2016. We’re diving into this book right now. It’s possible the most thrilling entry of the three with all the questions we raised in books 1 and 2 getting answered.


3) Downed. This is Ace’s book and I’m so excited for you to read this. I have a great redemption storyline for him, and you are going to love the heroine. This book will be released on November 7, 2016.



4) Unwritten. Are you tired of me yet? This book is getting a hard release date of December 5, 2016. I had hoped to have it out earlier, but it’s not going to happen. The December release date gives me enough time to get you a great book instead of just an okay book which is what would have been the result of me publishing the book in in August. So mark your calendars and add Unwritten to your Goodreads shelf!


Those are a lot of releases in the fall and winter of 2016 and there are more goodies to come including Kaga’s story which I will write in the fall for an early 2017 release along with PLAYED, Ty’s story, and the final installment of the Woodlands which will feature Mal and Lana.  Their story will be a novella.

5) Delay of Game. I wrote this short story for including in the For the First Time anthology put together by the amazing Skye Warren. I will be publishing it for free in three parts as part of the newsletter. (Sign up here). The first installment goes out on May 27. Watch for it!

The post What I’m Working On appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.