Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)

“Ah! Fuck me! I’ve been shot! I’ve been fucking shot! Man down!”

The high-pitched screech cuts through the thick fog of sleep that has me facedown in a pillow, a pile of drool warming my cheek. I scramble out of bed, a tangled mess of limbs and sheets that sends me to the floor with a thud.

“Jaxon!” I scream, clambering to my feet. “Jaxon!” I launch myself through the door, slipping on the hardwood floors, my fuzzy sock-covered feet coming out from under me, pulling my ass to the floor, legs in the air. Flipping onto my belly, I army-crawl across the floor, find the handle on Jaxon’s bedroom door, and hoist myself up before I throw myself through it. “Are you o⁠—”

“Ah! I’m naked!” Jaxon claps his hands over his cock from where he’s rolling around on his back on the rug.

“Why are you naked?” I shriek.

“I told you I sleep naked! I told you to knock unless you wanted to get reacquainted with Magic Mike!”

“You said you’d been shot!”

“Did you hear a fucking gunshot, Lennon?”

“Then why did you say it?” There’s so much screeching, and I don’t know what’s happening. My throat hurts, and now my head does too. Then Mittens wanders out of the bathroom, looking smug as fuck, and when he hisses at Jaxon, the giant of a man covered in tattoos actually cowers. “What’s wrong, angel?” I scoop my new favorite kitty up when he twines himself around my legs. “Did Daddy make you mad?”

Jaxon points a shaky finger at Mittens. “He’s no angel. Goddamn fucking . . . demon cat.” He clutches the edge of his mussed bed, hauling himself to his feet, not bothering to cover his junk. “Motherfucker batted at my balls like it was the last inning in the World Series and a home run would clinch the win.” He cups said balls in his hands, showing them to me as Mittens licks my ear. “Look! He got me!”

There’s a drop of blood on his left ball, no bigger than a pinprick, but it’s the raging erection I can’t look away from. Huh. My memories didn’t do Magic Mike justice. Was he always that big? That veiny? That angry purple head looks desperate for release, and my vagina screams We could take care of that! at my brain, which sends a signal to my legs to walk themselves over to him and spread myself wide.

Goddammit, no. No, vagina. Keep it together, girl.

I flick an uninterested glance at Jaxon. “Want me to make it better?”

The frustration in his face melts, and he tries so damn hard not to grin, stretching his arms over his head in a big, obnoxious way that lets his dick bob, nearly touching his belly button. “Yeah, that could be nice.”

“Okay.” I turn, heading for the door.

“What? Wait! Len!” His feet slap against the planks behind me, and when I spin back to him, he buries a hand in his mussed waves. Christ, the man is damn near perfect naked. Broad shoulders lead to sinewy arms painted with art that only makes him more beautiful. A torso I swear was hand carved by God himself, veins on either side of his hips that beg me to drop to my knees and open wide. “Where you goin’? I thought you were gonna . . . you know.” He aims a pointed glance at his crotch. “Make it better.”

“I am.” I tip my head toward the kitchen. “Gonna get a knife. That’s a bad scratch. Don’t think your ball can be saved. Best we amputate.”

Mittens and I head down the hall as the door slams behind us, and Jaxon’s frustration returns, boiling over.

“I hate you!” he shouts, and I smile.

“Love you, too, honey!”

In the kitchen, Mittens leads me to his food, and when I dump in one scoop, he convinces me via screeching that he requires a second. As I’m dumping it in, Jaxon screams, “You better not be giving him two scoops! He’s on a diet!”

“I only gave him one; stop yelling at me!” I yell back, opening his pantry. He’s got at least seven different types of cereal in here, all sugar-laden, my favorite type. I pull out the Trix and Lucky Charms, dump an equal amount of each into two bowls, and top them off with milk.

When Jaxon walks in two minutes later, his hair is wet, his dick is exquisitely highlighted in his gray sweats, and he’s pulling a T-shirt over his spectacular abs.

I slide one of the bowls across the counter to him. “I made you breakfast.”

“A-plus for effort,” he murmurs, cocking his head. “Did you . . . mix two kinds together?”

“Yep. It’s incredible.”

He dives in with his spoon, closing his eyes and humming as he chews. He devours the bowl in thirty seconds and then promptly refills it with both cereals. “Fanks,” he manages between bites. “I hung-wy.”

When I’m done, I drink the milk from the bowl, rinse it out, and put it in the dishwasher. It’s an absolute mess in here, dishes all willy-fucking-nilly without any thought given to their placement, so I rearrange it to keep my eye from twitching.

“What was wrong with the way I did it?”

“Everything.” I pour myself a glass of water and drain it quickly while Jaxon watches through narrowed eyes.

“Got any plans today?”

Besides wallowing in self-pity? “I was supposed to have the girls over tonight.”

His brows jump. “The girls? Like . . . my girls?”

“I didn’t know they belonged to you.”

“Well, they’re my friends.”

“And according to our group chat, they’re my Coochie Gang.”

“What the—” He shakes his head. “Never mind. That tracks. Cara probably named it.”

“Well, anyway, they were going to help me build my IKEA furniture. There was going to be wine, so I’m not sure how successful we would’ve been, but it would’ve been nice nonetheless to have someone to talk to. Plus, I was gonna make Mimi’s famous banana pudding and her famous key lime pie to ensure their allegiance to me over you.”

He ignores the last part, which is annoying since I only said it to piss him off. “Mimi’s famous lemon-cherry tarts, Mimi’s famous banana pudding, Mimi’s famous key lime pie . . . how many famous recipes does Mimi fucking have?”

“Well, Jaxon, one thing about Mimi is all of her recipes are famous, so jot that down.” I count it a personal achievement when he chuckles, and I look down to hide my own smile. “Anyway, girls’ night is obviously not happening now that my apartment is underwater. So I’m just gonna grab a shower and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Didn’t you have a shower last night? Why do you need another one this morning?”

“Because I need to wash my hair.”

“Why didn’t you wash it last night?”

I scoff. Typical man. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes twenty minutes ago, I still would’ve guessed that he just wakes up like that, his hair in perfect disarray. “Because, Jaxon, washing my hair is a commitment, one I didn’t have energy for last night. Beyond that, I’m absolutely not sleeping on a fresh style. Honestly, get it together.”

Eyes wide, he mouths okay at his cereal. “So, uh, what’s your plan?”

“My plan?” I touch my coarse curls. I didn’t bother wrapping them last night, knowing I’d give them some TLC this morning, so they’re tangled, frizzy, and have lost a significant amount of bounce, hanging halfway down my back. “The usual. I like to stick with my natural curls on wash day when they’re fresh, so I’ll just diffuse them and wear them down.”

Jaxon drops his face as a snort of laughter barrels up from his throat. “Your plan for where you’re going to sleep tonight, Lennon, not your fucking hair.”

Oops.

“Did you manage to book a hotel?”

“I haven’t called yet but Harry Styles has officially left the province. Surely the girlies have dispersed. There must be some availability.” I’m trying this new thing this morning where I speak things into existence. “Just have to call my landlord, see how long I need a place for. What do you think? Will the bathroom be fixed tomorrow? Midweek, maybe?”

The way Jaxon looks at me makes me want to reach out and catch all those words in my fists, shove them back down my throat. “You think they’re gonna fix the pipes, check for further water damage—and mold, which has probably been growing in there—fix the ceiling, and rebuild both bathrooms in a day or two?”

Okay, I hear how it sounds.

My phone dings, and my stomach somersaults. “It’s my landlord.”

Jaxon rounds the island, chest at my back, chin dipped to my shoulder as he peers down at my phone.

I glare up at him. “Must you stand so close?”

“No, but it pisses you off so I like doing it.” His hand closes over mine, jerking my phone up high enough that I can’t read. Instead, I watch his lips move, then stop, the drop of his gaze to mine, and the slow, cringey smile he gives me. “So, heyyy, your landlord can’t get someone in until the spriiing.”

“Spring? But it’s still January!” Spinning away, I press my hand to my forehead. Shake both hands out. Breathe deeply, then fail and panic. “Okay, okay. It’s okay, Lennon. It’s fine.” I shrug, popping a fist on my hip. “Yeah, it’s totally fine. I’ll grab a hotel for a couple nights and look for a new place for February first, and, um . . . yeah, it’s totally fine. Not a big deal. That’s life, ya know? Hiccups. Like Dad always says, ‘Life throws you curveballs. You have to learn how to knock ’em out of the park’.” I laugh so I don’t cry, and it only comes out a little hysterical. It’s also at this point I realize I’ve migrated to the living room, have fluffed every single cushion on the couch, and am shaking out the throw blanket. I lay it back over the chaise lounge and stick a hand in my hair. “Um, so, I’m gonna go shower.”

I march across the apartment with my head held high, because everything is totally fine and I’m gonna figure it out because I’m an independent woman and so the fuck what if I’ve had a terrible string of luck this month. It’s whatever and not important and I’m gonna bounce back so hard everyone’s gonna get whiplash watching me.

“You could stay here.”

I stop at the edge of the hall, tugging on my ears. They must be waterlogged, because no way I heard that right. “What?”

“You could stay here,” Jaxon repeats, slowly, like he’s not sure how to put the thought into real words. He doesn’t move, and I think it’s more for his benefit than mine. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, inviting a girl to stay with him. His brain has probably just sent alarms sounding in every crevice of his body, and all his major organs are panicking. All of mine are. “I’ve got space. No need to waste your money.”

Oh my God, what do I do? What the fuck do I do? I need Serena. I need the Coochie Gang.

“I . . . I’ll look for apartments. So I don’t put you out for long.” What the fuck, Len? Are we agreeing to this?

“Sure. If you want.”

If I want? Surely he’s not suggesting I stay here until my apartment is ready in the spring.

Jaxon makes no move to leave the safety of the kitchen, to come any closer, and I don’t dare turn around. It would mean having to look a horrible decision in the face. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? We met on vacation, got drunk, and fucked so hard I saw stars. We were never supposed to see each other again, and then I took a job with his hockey team. And now? Fuck. This is a horrible, awful, no-good idea.

“Let’s not make this a big thing,” he finally says. “It’s just a room.”

“What about your Reese’s Puffs?” I whisper.

“What?”

“Nothing. Are you sure about this?”

“Literally not at all. I planned on avoiding living with a woman for the rest of my life, and the life after that too.”

“Then—”

“Go take a shower so I can freak out over this in peace, please. Just promise me you won’t, like . . . make everything pink in here.”

“Oh, Jaxon . . . I can’t promise that. Pink’s my favorite color.” I dash to my room, pull out my suitcase, and dump it on the bed before he can rescind the invitation. I can hear the regret in his long, loud sigh, but then Mittens strolls in, jumps on the bed, and flops down on my clothes. “Hear that, little marshmallow? We’re gonna be best friends!”

“No!” Jaxon shouts. “Mittens is my best friend!”

“We’ll see about that,” I whisper, letting him boop his head against mine.

“I can fucking hear you!”

“Well, stop eavesdropping!”

Rolling onto the bed, I curl up next to Mittens while I check my phone.

Serena and Devin have already recovered from my near-death experience after keeping me on FaceTime for an hour in the middle of the night, and Devin wants to know if I have full use of my airways this morning. Serena has responded with: Probs not. If it’s not nuts she’s choking on, it’s hockey player cock.

There are more than twenty messages in our Coochie Gang thread, the girls checking in at various points throughout the night and early morning. The latest message is from Cara, threatening to break in and steal Mittens, because she’s concerned Jaxon annoyed me to death and that’s why I haven’t responded yet. I shoot off a text, letting them know I’m okay but that I’ll have to cancel our plans tonight. It’s particularly gutting, because the love that immediately lights up my screen when all four of them respond is exactly what I need in my life right now.

I skip off to the bathroom, finding homes for all my necessities in the shower, where I spend the next thirty minutes, massaging clarifying shampoo into my scalp, detangling my coils, soaking them in my favorite curl cream, the coconut hibiscus scent infiltrating every nook and cranny in the bathroom. When I’m done, I decide the countertop is way too small a space for me to do my thing, so I scoop everything into my arms and head across the hall to the other bathroom. It’s the same size, and when I hear the TV playing in the living room, I poke my head around the corner, spotting Jaxon sprawled out on the couch, Mittens on his chest.

Quietly, I tiptoe down the hall and creep into his bedroom, the heavens opening up when I get a look at his bathroom. A shower three times the size of mine, a ginormous window that lets in just the right amount of sunshine and makes this the perfect place to apply makeup, and a double vanity plenty big enough for me to spread my wings and soar my beauty products out.

So that’s exactly what I do.

Like Jaxon has some sort of sixth sense and knows I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be, he finds me five minutes later, combing curl butter through my hair.

He pauses in the doorway, jaw unhinging as he takes me in. Or rather, takes in the bomb that appears to have gone off in his bathroom.

It’s me. I’m the bomb.

“Can I help you?” I rake mousse through my hair before flipping my head over and scrunching my curls. “I’m busy.”

“What the fuck are you . . . No, but this is . . . It’s-it’s-it’s . . . it’s my bathroom! You have your own!”

“Yours has better lighting and more counter space.”

Oh look, there’s that vein in his neck Cara was talking about a couple nights ago.

He steps forward, eyes pinballing around the counter. He picks up my purple tub of curl butter. My pink can of mousse. My bag full of lipsticks in varying shades of deep plums and crimsons. My eye shadow palette. And then, with wide eyes, he backs away, slowly and while shaking his head. His hands come up, clapping over his cheeks, dragging down his face in slow motion. “No. No, no, no, no.”

I hold his gaze while I plug in my hair dryer, attach the diffuser, and turn it on. When I lift it to my hair, he turns and dashes from the room.

And that’s the story of how I get Jaxon’s entire apartment to myself for three hours, along with his phone number, which he leaves on a sticky note on his kitchen island, and a sweet message.

Don’t touch any of my fucking stuff. I’ll be back.

When he returns in the afternoon, I’m standing at the bookshelf in the living room, filling it with my books.

“What the fuck?” He plucks one off the shelf, inspects the three half-naked men on the cover, then reads the back. “Three guys and one girl? No way. She’d be split wide open.”

“Every girl’s dream, Jax.”

“Don’t call me Jax.” He holds up a book with two women twined together. “And this?”

“I like men and women, therefore I read sexy books with both men and women.”

He sifts through the books, panic setting in when he finds a why choose dark romance that involves stalking. “You can’t put these here.”

“Ah, yes. I can see why having books on a bookshelf would be an issue.”

“And where’s my algae plant?” He points to the empty spot, where a ring of dust is. “I had that for ages!”

“It certainly showed, Jaxon. It was dead and the roots were rotted, which is why I threw it in the trash. And by the way—” I tap the corner of his mouth, right where it’s pulled down. “It’s an aloe plant, not an algae plant. Algae isn’t a plant, and it lives in water.”

“Like your apartment,” he grumbles, arms pinned across his chest as he watches me inspect the photos on his shelf, starting with a group shot of him and the boys. Nobody looks prouder than Carter, dressed as Posh Spice. “That was from last Halloween, and don’t you fucking say a word, because I know I looked hot as fuck as Ginger Spice.”

He’s not wrong, which is a little alarming, but then Ginger was always my favorite Spice Girl.

The next photo is Jaxon with his lips pressed to the cheek of an elderly woman wearing a red sweater with a Christmas tree on it. She couldn’t look happier to be with Jaxon, who happens to be wearing a horrible, awful red vest, bedazzled to shit, covered in patches of stars, snowmen, and— “Are those real bells on the hem?”

Jaxon yanks the photo away. “That’s my gran. She crochets me a new vest for every holiday and important occasion, and she’s a real-life angel, so shut up.”

I fold my lips into my mouth, humming to keep from laughing in his face. This would make excellent content on the Vipers’ Instagram page.

“And this?” I pick up the final frame, cheap, cracked plastic with an old picture, the colors dull and muted. Though the two boys in it can’t be more than twelve or thirteen, it’s clear the one on the left is Jaxon. He’s got the same twinkle in his eyes, the one that reeks of trouble, and that smirk says he’s about to get into it. The boy he’s got his arm around wears a matching smile, the shock of red hair on his head a mess, like he just tore off his hockey helmet. Judging by the equipment at their feet, I’d guess he did. “Who’s this?”

Something changes in Jaxon. Shuts down, maybe. His eyes dim and shutter as he takes the photo from me, and when he sweeps his thumb over the face of the red-haired boy, his throat bobs. “Bryce,” he whispers, setting the frame on the top shelf, out of my reach.

“You played hockey with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he still play?”

Jaxon turns away. “No.”

It’s only two letters, a single syllable, but there’s so much weight in that word that it slithers up my back, creeps across my shoulders, settles on my chest. If heartache were palpable, it would be the crushing weight of that simple word, the way Jaxon murmurs it, the flex of his fists at his side, the slight curl to his shoulders.

We may not be friends in the usual sense of the word, but everything in me longs to make this right, to take the hurt and replace it with something better, something that brings him back to this moment.

“Do you keep all the vests your gran crochets for you?”

Jaxon’s spine snaps straight. “No.”

“Hm.”

He twists toward me, approaching me slowly, his hands up in surrender as I back up toward the hall. “Lennon,” he warns, and I take off. Dash down the hall, throw myself into his bedroom.

His feet pound behind me, and the moment I get my hands on his closet doors, he wraps his arms around my middle, tossing me on his bed. He’s on top of me before I can take my next breath, fingers wrapped around my wrists, his heaving chest pressed to mine.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I wanna have a fashion show,” I murmur, bucking my hips. His nostrils flare, and he closes his eyes. “Oops. Did I wake Magic Mike?”

His eyes pop open, taking in my hair before they roam my face. “Honey, I’m this close to burying my hands in that pretty hair you spent so long on this morning and fucking ruining it.” He runs his nose along the column of my throat, up to my ear. “The only fashion show that happens in this room between me and you is your naked body sprawled over mine while I bury my tongue in your sweet cunt and my cock in your throat.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Heat tumbles down my belly, rolling to an abrupt stop at my clit, where it thuds like it’s got its own heartbeat, and I moan. I fucking moan. That . . . that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Jaxon grins down at me as my face floods with heat, the triumph clear.

“We can’t . . . we can’t sleep together,” I tell him. “Not again. Not now. Not if I’m staying here.”

“Of course not. Then you’ll never leave.” He hooks his arm under my thigh, spreading it wide as he gets off me, strategically rubbing his cock against me one last time in a move that has every coherent thought leaving my brain.

When he stands, his eyes go to my crotch, and the corner of his mouth hooks. “Go put on a new pair of pants, honey. We’re going out.”

I look down at my pants.

At the small wet spot, right there in the crotch of my gray yoga pants.

Fuck. That was not supposed to happen.

“You still mad at me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smash my fingers against the seat belt release seventeen hundred times over, holding my breath when Jaxon leans over, releasing it on the first go.

“You started it,” he reminds me as I march up the steps to an extravagant house with the mountains as a backdrop. I don’t even know where we are or whose house this is. I wanted to ask on the way here, but I was too busy giving Jaxon the silent treatment. The only time I opened my mouth was when we got out of the elevator and I found my car next to his in the parking garage. Apparently, he stole my keys when he went out earlier and Adam had taken him to get it.

I hate that he’s way nicer than he lets on. In an alternate universe, I think we’d actually be great friends, because he also makes me want to laugh. But I’ve fucked him, and it’s not that I can’t be friends with someone I’ve been intimate with. It’s that my pussy still weeps at the sight of him. That’s why we can’t be friends.

I ring the doorbell, and a chorus of barking and screeching ensues within the house.

Jaxon steps up behind me. “If you wanna waive the no-sex rule for one night, I could probably rock your world so hard later you’ll be satisfied for the next six to twelve months.” He leans over me, reaching for the door handle. “We just let ourselves in here, honey.”

The moment the door opens, three ginormous dogs crash into me, followed by Cara.

She wraps her arms around me, tugging me tight against her as the dogs nudge at my hips, my ass, anywhere they can reach. “We’re so glad you’re okay, Lennon,” she murmurs, and a moment later, three more women wrap themselves around us.

“No one greets me like that,” Jaxon grumbles, but then a small boy toddles into the hallway, and his eyes light like a Christmas tree.

“Unc’a Jax!” the little boy shouts, racing toward him.

Jaxon scoops him into his arms, tossing him above his head. “Hey, buddy! I missed you!”

The little boy looks at me, green eyes dancing as he points proudly to his chest. “Unc’a Jax miss Conn’a.”

“Oh, are you Connor?” I take his tiny hand in mine. “I’m Lennon. It’s so nice to meet you.” I look to Rosie. “God, he’s your twin, isn’t he?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but a screech from farther in the house stops her.

“Ireland! Wait! You need your helmet!”

“Oh, shit.” Olivia pushes by us. “Carter! She doesn’t need a helmet!”

Jennie rolls her eyes. “Ireland’s ten months old and standing on her own. She’s started taking a couple steps here and there.”

“But . . . a helmet?”

“Oh, sorry. Were you not aware that my brother is extremely over the top to his core?”

“Really? I mean, yeah, ostentatious for sure. I see that on the ice and the way he eats up camera time. But surely he’s not that . . .” My words die as a tiny brunette waddles into the room, one slow-motion, wobbly step at a time, dark curls pulled into two teensy pigtails, huge emerald eyes alight with wonder. She’s a perfect mixture of Carter and Olivia, like she was split right down the middle. That’s not what stops me in my tracks, though.

It’s that teensy little Ireland has strips of Bubble Wrap around both knees, and her elbows.

My jaw hangs, and Jaxon shrugs.

“You wanna be part of this friend group, you better be willing to get on board with a lot of weird shit.”

Cara swats him away, shoving him toward the boys, who are actively watching and enjoying as Carter short-circuits, clutching a teensy hockey helmet in his giant hands while Olivia holds him back from going after their daughter.

Cara loops her arm through mine, pulling me into the kitchen. “Rosie made key lime pie, and I made banana pudding.”

“What? You did? Why?”

“Jaxon said you wanted to make them for us tonight, so we thought we’d give it a whack.”

“We pulled the recipes from Pinterest, so they’re probably not as good as your mimi’s,” Rosie tells me.

“And also, I can’t bake worth shit,” Cara adds.

Rosie rubs her arm. “Anybody could’ve mistaken that salt for sugar, Care.”

Something thick clogs in my throat as they present the desserts to me. Cara wraps her arm around me. “They look like shit.”

“They really do,” I cry, my voice cracking. “But it’s the effort that counts, and they smell amazing.”

Garrett raises his hand from the living room. “Can confirm they taste amazing. I licked both spoons clean.”

“Thank you, guys. I appreciate it.”

“You’re gonna need all the help you can get if you’re going to survive living with Jaxon for any amount of time.”

Jaxon throws his arms in the air. “Jennie, what the fuck?”

“Why is nobody telling her what she really needs to survive?” Emmett asks, cracking the lid off a beer before he pulls me in for a hug and claps a hand to Cara’s ass.

“What?” I ask as Olivia pulls me to the couch in the living room. Jaxon has freed Ireland from her Bubble Wrap kneepads and is now playing peek-a-boo with her and Connor from behind a chair, which is an alarmingly attractive sight. It also seems to have relaxed Carter, who is now setting something up on the TV. “What is it?”

“Now, Lennon,” Carter says, his back to me as he rummages through a drawer. “I’m a Disney man myself, but Ollie said I should start slow so I don’t scare you off. So I’m giving you one song before I dive headfirst into Frozen, because Anna and Elsa are my queens.”

“One song? What are you—oh my God.”

Carter twirls around, brow arched, charming grin in place . . . microphone in hand. “Welcome, everyone, to another iconic night of Karaoke with Carter.”

That’s all the warning I get before music explodes through the speakers, and Carter launches into a rendition of “Dancing Queen” by ABBA.

“Holy motherfucking tits,” I murmur, a shaky hand coming up, covering my mouth.

“Tragic, isn’t it?” Olivia says, and yet she looks like she’s about to ask him to put another baby inside her.

“It’s . . . it’s like if one of my playlists were a movie.”

“What playlist?”

I can’t take my eyes off Carter as he does what I’m sure he thinks is a beautiful, provocative dance, but is really just him gyrating while rubbing his left ass cheek. And I sigh.

“Songs That Get White People Turnt.”