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When I was the definition of a hot mess express, he treated me with kindness and compassion. With respect. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I was completely vulnerable with someone. I needed someone to look after me for once, and instead of him throwing it in my face or making a joke about it, he took care of me when he didn’t have to.
My hand moves over his on my stomach, and I slowly inch it lower, holding my breath the further it goes until his fingers sweep along the edge of my panties. This is as close as I’m going to get to asking for him to touch me. It’s a clear go-ahead, and now I’m leaving it to him. For a second, his fingers don’t move, and neither does he.
“Let me take care of you, baby. Let me give you what you need,” he rasps as his fingers circle my clit roughly. “Fuck, Vivienne, do you know how long I’ve been dreaming about this? How many times I’ve fucked my fist and thought about sucking on your needy little clit again? How many times I’ve come with the thought of your tight cunt wrapped around my cock? I’m going out of my goddamn mind for you.”
“Don’t get used to it. You know we’re good at one-offs, but that’s all it is, Reese. A onetime thing,” I smart, trying to make light of what we just did. He stiffens behind me, and I hear him scoff. “Don’t do that shit. Don’t act like you don’t want me as much as I want you, Vivienne. Not while my fingers are still wet with your cum.”
“Oh my god, I’m naked!” I say, making a feeble attempt at covering myself. Although, it’s not like he hasn’t seen it before. More than once at this point. “What the hell, Reese?” “Fuck. This,” he says, closing the distance between us, grabbing my face between his big hands, and slamming his lips on mine. My protest dies on my tongue as he kisses me like a man possessed.
“Because the only fucking jersey you should be wearing is mine, Viv. The only name on your back should be mine.” Holy shit. I swallow, my throat thick with anticipation. “And now you’re angry? That I wore another guy’s jersey?” “Yeah, baby, I’m fucking angry,” he grunts against my lips.
“Nah, babe, you’re good,” he says with a smile, pulling a huge bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “I got these for you and your mom.” Holy shit. They’re beautiful. Pale purple roses with a mixture of baby’s breath and lavender pieces throughout, tied with a beautiful lace ribbon. And the bouquet is huge. Like
He’s the guy that has more money than anyone I’ve ever met and is about to be drafted to the MLB but spent the night watching a movie with me and my mom on an uncomfortable, springy old couch in an apartment that is the size of his kitchen and didn’t once make either of us feel like it wasn’t good enough for him. He treated my mom with kindness and compassion.
“I see you, Vivienne. I see you trying to hide yourself from me, from all of our friends. But I’m going to be here, even when you push me away. Even when you hate me for how annoying I am, for threatening those walls you’ve put up. I’m not going anywhere, baby. Even if all you need from me is to be your punching bag. You are not alone.”
It’s at this moment that he looks up, his espresso-colored irises connecting with mine. He opens his mouth to speak but then closes it as if he’s trying to find the right words. “Vivienne…” he starts as he steps forward to slowly close the distance between us. “Fucking Christ, you look…breathtaking.”

