"Are you wet, honey? Has he made you wet?"

"So wet. Wet and swollen. It's trickling between my thighs. I hurt. I need..." She makes a little hiccup of sound. "I need..."

"You need him to touch you, baby. Ease that ache. Rub your c.l.i.t, spread all that slick sweetness around."

"G.o.d."

"Would he finger you? Would he f.u.c.k you with his fingers? Push them in and out, nice and slow?"

"Yes."

I lick my lips. "I think he'd have to taste you, honey. I think he'd need that so badly. To know how sweet you truly are."

"I want him to. I want his mouth there."

"It is. He's lapping you up. Making you scream his name."

"Gray."

"I know. I know." I'm barely aware of what I'm saying anymore, only that I need more. The bed squeaks beneath me as I pound myself.

Ivy's breathless voice is disjointed, hitching over the words. "I... You... He needs to f.u.c.k me. I can't take it any longer."

"You want him to sink his c.o.c.k into you?"

"Yes."

"Pump into your tight heat like he'd die if he stopped?"

"Yes."

"Oh, f.u.c.k, he wants that too. He wants it so much he can't think of anything else." I'm so hot, I'm leaking come. It weeps over the swollen head, coats my shaft as my fist moves faster, harder.

"I want him to f.u.c.k... f.u.c.k me. Gray..."

And then I hear it. The sweetest f.u.c.king sound ever. A low, keening wail, almost pained but so full of pleasure that the hairs on the back of my neck lift.

Everything is m.u.f.fled, like she's trying to stifle the sounds but she can't. And I'm so attuned to her right now I hear every one of them. I bite my lip and taste blood. Ivy coming.

My chest heaves. Heat licks over my b.a.l.l.s, down between my thighs. My a.s.s clenches on the next thrust. "Oh s.h.i.t. Honey, I'm gonna-"

The o.r.g.a.s.m hits at full velocity. I arch up, my hips leaving the bed, my body locked in pleasure. A strangled, broken shout leaves my lips as come lands in hot strips across my abs and chest. My vision goes dark, my hand jerking every last drop of l.u.s.t and need from my abused c.o.c.k. And then I fall limp upon the bed, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Jesus.

For a moment I lie there, shaking and damp, f.u.c.king weak as a kitten. Licking my dry lips, I try to get my bearings, the room rocking drunkenly around me. And then I remember. Oh, s.h.i.t. Ivy. I came harder than I ever have in my life on the phone with Ivy.

Panic punches into my chest, and I lurch up, scrambling for the phone lost amidst the rumpled covers. My ears burn hot, my heart racing. What to say? What will she say?

Hands shaking, I yank free the headphones and lift the phone to my ear. "Iv-" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "Ivy? You... Are you-"

My mouth snaps shut. Because she's not there. The line is dead.

Thirteen.

Gray

I'm home. Which is to say, I'm standing in front of Ivy's door. I've been standing here too long. The neighbors are going to start to wonder what the h.e.l.l I'm doing. f.u.c.k if I know. My b.a.l.l.s are in danger of freezing, and I can't make myself knock.

We'd had phone s.e.x. I'm almost positive of it. And how messed up is it that I'm not sure? Had she realized I'd jacked off to her breathless voice? Had she hung up before or after I came? I'm not certain. And it's doing a number on me.

I'm all twitchy and tense. It's like a false start. Am I going to get called for stepping over the line before the snap? Or is the fact that she enjoyed it permission enough to let this transgression slide?

Because there is one thing I do know. She got off on our conversation too. I heard those little strangled whimpers she'd made. As if she'd tried so hard not to be heard but the o.r.g.a.s.m was too strong to fully contain. And oh, sweet h.e.l.l, just thinking about it has my cold d.i.c.k heating up.

I know when she opens the door and I see her face, I won't be able to stop myself from touching her. I don't want to resist anymore. I want to sink myself into Ivy, surround myself in her warmth and freshness. I want to hear that sound again and discover new sounds, make her lose control, shout my name.

My hand shakes as I lift it to knock. Knuckles rapping against the door, my heart pounds out a rhythm that sounds like Ivy, Ivy, Ivy in my head.

I hear her approaching. Mouth dry, I wait. My d.i.c.k is so hard now, it's pushing against my jeans with an eagerness that's staggering. I have never wanted this badly. Never waited this long.

I almost whimper when the door swings open. But then I see her and promptly wilt.

"Mac," I get out. "Honey, you look..."

"Awful," she finishes for me with a voice that sounds like a dying frog's. Pale and pasty, her eyes are swollen and red, her nose running. She makes a pitiful face and then sobs. "I feel like a.s.s."

I hate sickness. Being around ill people freaks me out now. But I don't hesitate. I step into the house and pull her close.

Ivy

My face hurts, literally hurts, like someone has used it as a punching bag and stomped on it for good measure. Add the fact that my head felt like a bowling ball teetering on the top of my neck, and I'd wanted to weep when I'd trudged toward my door. I'd known who was banging on it, and I hadn't felt like facing him when I looked like the walking dead. To be honest, I hadn't felt like facing him at all. Not after the things we'd last said to each other.

Gray's affable expression had faded the moment he'd seen me. But he hadn't turned and run off to get an axe, so there was that to be thankful for.

And now that he is here, his big, strong body offering me support-literally, because I can only lean against him and pray that the pounding in my head will soon end-I sigh with relief. He is here. I don't care about the phone s.e.x. Or anything other than his presence making me feel better.

His chest rumbles when he speaks. "You really do look awful."

"Thanks," I mutter, too achy to put any emphasis behind it. "I feel bad." Now that came out like a pitiful pout.

Gray utters a short laugh. "Yeah, I'd say that you do." Looking fresh and hot and way too healthy for my taste, he rests his cool hand on my forehead. "Jesus, baby, you're burning up."

"That's because I have a fever. And I'll try to ignore that you called me baby. Do I look like I need diapers?"

"And I see we're a grumpy patient as well."

At the very least, sickness is an excellent defense against any post-phone-s.e.x awkwardness.

Gray tries to take my hand and lead me toward my room when the haze fully lifts from my brain. Instantly, I lurch back so he can't touch me.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" I say and wince at my aching head.

He frowns. "What the h.e.l.l does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting you into bed."

"Oh no, you aren't." My hands cover my mouth, which is probably ineffectual, but I don't know what else to do. This also m.u.f.fles my words when I continue to yell at him. "Get out, Gray. You cannot be here."

He actually looks hurt, his open expression twisting into a wince, and I solider on, because he's obviously being thick. "Gray, you cannot get sick! You need to stay healthy to play, you big oaf. Now, go!" I wave one hand in the direction of the door, while still covering my mouth. "Out with you."

Does he listen? No. He laughs as though I'm the oaf. "Oh, please, I never get sick. I've had my flu shot."

I roll my eyes and snort, which really isn't advisable with a stuffed nose.

"And have the immune system of a G.o.d," he adds.

"f.u.c.k! Don't say that! Quick, knock on wood." I flail my arms. "Knock on your big, block head." In my outrage, I start to cough and almost lose a lung.

His brows draw together in a frown. "Let it go, Mac. There is no way in h.e.l.l I'm leaving you like this."

"I'll be fine. Really."

A world of skepticism lives in his eyes. "Yeah, not buying that. Now, quit arguing. I'll be careful with your germ-ridden a.s.s, okay?"

"I so want to blow a raspberry at you right now. You're just lucky I care about your football career too much to risk spraying germs."

"I'm touched." He purses his lips when I sway on my feet. "h.e.l.l, you shouldn't even be walking around."

His arm wraps around my waist, his other arm snakes under my thighs, and then I'm airborne, all six feet of me. As simple as that, as if I'm no heavier than his bag.

Because arguing has left me weak and whiny, I rest my pounding head against his shoulder and enjoy the novelty of being carried.

"Don't scold," I say as he puts me down in my bedroom. "I was getting the door." I give him a pointed look which he ignores in favor of pulling back my sheets. The bed swims before my eyes, glimmering like an oasis in a sea of misery. But I'm so hot, the flannel PJs I'd thrown on to answer the door suffocate me. Hesitating, I glance at Gray. "I can take it from here." The floor tilts.

Gray's arm slips around my shoulder. "Sure you can, Special Sauce." Cool blue eyes study me for a moment, and then he starts to ease my pajama pants down my hips.

"Gray!" I make a furtive attempt to hold onto them.

He pauses, looking up at me with brows lifted in confusion. "What? You're burning up. And you have underwear on, right?"

"Yeah. But-"

"It's not any different than seeing you in a bathing suit." He gives me another look, grinning now. "Unless you're wearing naughty panties?"

"You sound way too hopeful there, bud."

"I always hold out hope for s.e.xy underwear. Step."

I do as told, way too aware of my bare legs and the fact that I'm sweating like a farmer. But he's right. I'm wearing basic boy briefs that cover me more than a bikini would, and frankly, I'm too sick to put up a fuss any longer.

Gray turns into Mr. Brisk Efficiency, neatly pulling off my shirt and not even looking at my bra as he handles me into bed and covers me with cool sheets. With a sigh, I sink into the bed, and Gray closes the curtains against the harsh daylight.

I drift in and out as he leaves the room then comes back to give me painkillers and a gla.s.s of orange juice. His care has my heart clenching within the walls of my aching chest.

"Thank you," I rasp past the needles in my throat. "You don't have to-"

"Yeah, I do. I would never leave you like this."

Gray takes my gla.s.s, then rounds the bed to the other side. Without pause, he unb.u.t.tons his jeans, and I try not to gape as they slither down his long legs and expose thighs that are truly magnificent. No, I will not check out his package, nicely held by a pair of blue boxer briefs. Before I can utter a word, he's sliding in and gathering me up.

I'm not prepared for it, or the feel of his hands against my bare back. The touch sends little shivers over my skin but I snuggle in closer, wrapping my arm around his torso and resting my head on his shoulder with a whimper.

The only man who's ever given me comfort is my dad, and that was in the form of awkward pats and general fussing with thermometers and medicines. Nothing like this. This is Gray. Strong, solid Gray, who smells like happy dreams. It feels good. So good that tears threaten.

"I hate being sick," I mutter against his chest to hide my fit of emotion. "It sucks."

His big body shifts and he makes a sound that I know means he's smiling. "Sucks big." His long fingers trace idle patterns along my back. "Poor, non-baby Mac."

Closing my eyes, I let my hand wander. Despite my fever, my fingers are cold. I find a swath of Gray's warm skin, exposed where his shirt rides up on his side. Gray lets out a small yelp, his flesh jumping away from my touch.

"h.e.l.l, Mac. Your hand is ice!"

"I know." It sounds like a whine. "It needs warmth. Gimme."