I can’t stop touching her.
Her soft hair, the slender nape of her neck, the dip in her waist. Everything and anything. I’ve never considered myself a particularly touchy-feely person but I can’t get enough of her. I think it has something to do with the fact I can’t quite believe that I can touch her all the time. That she wants me to.
I get to draw her too. I could draw her all day, and some days I damn near do; one flick through my sketchbook would convince anyone I’m a stalker. Luna doesn’t mind, though. In fact, she encourages it. She likes being ‘my muse’ as she so graciously dubs herself. Not that I care.
She can call herself whatever the hell she wants if the word ‘my’ sits before it.
‘My girlfriend’ would be preferable.
But baby steps.
Even right now, when I’m supposed to be studying, I couldn’t resist ditching my textbooks in exchange for my sketchbook. Something about her stretched out at the foot of my bed, typing rapidly on her laptop, hair spilling out a messy bun, and glasses I didn’t even know she wore until a couple days ago perched on her nose, have my fingers itching for a pencil and paper.
I could sit here all day, perfectly content drawing quietly, if whatever she’s smashing away at didn’t have her growing increasingly frustrated.
She keeps messing with her fingers, that’s her tell. Twisting her ring, bending her pinkies back in some freaky contortionist move, pressing down on her thumbnails.
When I coast my free hand up and down her bare leg in an effort to get her attention, she kicks me away, the crease between her forehead intensifying. I call her name softly and she doesn’t even glance up, her glasses crooked as she scrunches her nose in concentration. Tossing my sketchbook to the side, I wrap my fingers around the ankle closest to me and squeeze.
Nothing.
“Luna.” She waves me off with a flick of her fingers. “Luna.”
Irritated blue eyes meet mine. “What?”
The snapped word trails off in a surprised yelp when I tighten my grip and yank her toward me. Carefully setting her laptop out of harm’s way, I scoop her onto my lap. She screeches and claws at me, complaining about needing to finish something, and the only way to shut her up?
Pressing my lips against hers.
I can’t help but smirk when Luna instantly relaxes, becoming a ragdoll in my lap. I keep it slow and sweet, much to her disappointment. When I pull away and she whines in protest, I reprimand her by snapping the waistband of her leggings. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” Just like that, she hardens again. Crossing her arms over her chest, pouting like a child, fingers wildly tapping against her forearms. “I’m trying to work.”
My hands close over hers to halt the fidgeting. “You’re all twitchy.”
Her cheeks flush as she drops her gaze, squirming in my lap. I stifle a groan as her ass continuously brushes against my crotch—intentionally, I bet—and I grip her hips to stop the fucking wriggling. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She doesn’t. She won’t even look at me. Ironic, considering the hell she gave me over eye contact, or lack thereof. Still does, actually; my inability to hold her gaze is her favorite thing to tease me about.
Twirling her hair around my fist and tugging, I force her gaze upwards and give her an ‘I know you’re full of shit so you might as well spill’ look.
With an indignant sigh, she drops her arms. The muscles in my stomach clench as her fingers find the hem of my t-shirt, brushing my skin as she fiddles with the fabric. “I’m just having a bad day.”
“Care to elaborate?”
No, apparently. Luna remains silent as she casts a wistful glance at her laptop. Funny, considering she looked like she wanted to snap the thing in half about five minutes ago.
“Did something happen?” I prompt gently. She shakes her head. “Is it class?” She shakes her head again. “I can guess all day, sweetheart, if you make me.”
“I’m not making you do anything,” she retorts, that signature bratty lilt to her voice.
Unimpressed, I yank her hair again, harder this time. A little shiver wracks her as she crosses her arms again, then uncrosses them and starts twisting that damn ring. When she mumbles something inaudible under her breath, I squeeze her gently. “Speak up, sweetheart.”
She scowls at me but it’s half-hearted. A beat passes before she repeats herself, barely loud enough for me to hear. “I didn’t take my medication this morning.”
I pause, making sure my tone is clear and even, before asking, “Medication?”
“I stayed here last night, obviously, and I forgot to bring it.”
“You didn’t take your medication because you stayed here last night,“ I repeat slowly, the revelation tasting sour on my tongue. “If you needed to go home, you could’ve told me.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is. You can’t just skip a dose.“ I don’t know what she takes, but I’m pretty sure nothing allows for a skipped dosage.
Luna bristles, her scowl turning a touch fiercer. “Sorry, doctor, when did you get your medical degree?”
“Stop picking a fight.”
“Stop acting like I’m incompetent.”
I take three long seconds to breathe before saying, “I’m not fighting with you.” When she tries to argue, I cut her off. “Shut up before you piss me off, Luna.”
Pink lips clamp shut immediately. Strong thighs tense around me, a very different kind of intensity clouding blue eyes. I look away before I get too lost, too distracted. Standing with Luna still wrapped around me, I ignore her squeals of protest as I set her down. Stepping away, I grab my keys off the nightstand, simultaneously tossing her shoes at her. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To get your meds.”
“We don’t have to-” The look I give her puts an immediate end to her weak protest. Without another word but with plenty pouting, she follows me downstairs.
It’s not until we’re in my car and speeding towards her apartment that she says, quiet and unnervingly meek. “They’re for ADHD.”
“What?”
“My medication,” she repeats, gaze downcast. “It’s for my ADHD.”
“Oh.” I frown as I mentally run through everything I know about the disorder. Not much, and there’s a good chance what I do know is rooted in some kind of stereotype. As we pull up outside Luna’s place, I make a mental note to research it later. “I had no idea.”
“I don’t make a habit of telling people.” Something about her snarky tone has me suspecting there’s a story there, a reason why she made an effort not to tell me. When I glance at her, my suspicion grows. She looks almost embarrassed as she studies my expression, recoiled slightly like she’s bracing for something.
Curling my hand around the back of her neck, I massage the tense muscles there. “Anything I can do to help?”
Her forehead creases to match mine, lips parting in a perfect little ‘o’, and I swear surprise crosses her features. It takes a minute for her to respond, shaking her head slowly.
“You want me to come up?” She shakes her head again, still looking at me weirdly as she gets out of the car and sprints up to her apartment. Barely five minutes pass before she’s back beside me, a bag in hand indicating she’s staying over again tonight.
I duck my head to hide a smile. I like that she didn’t ask, just decided. It means she’s comfortable.
Starting the car and peeling away from the sidewalk, I drive with no real destination. Somewhere with food, maybe. It’s probably not good to take meds on an empty stomach, and I know damn well she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. A meagre breakfast too, considering the food situation in my house is pretty dire.
One hand taps a random melody against the steering wheel, the other resituating itself cupping the back of her neck. “You have a lot of bad days?” I pose the question carefully, not sure if I’m prying. It’s clear this isn’t something she feels comfortable talking about, but I don’t want to just brush over it and have her thinking I don’t care.
Luna huffs, bristling. “You mean do I skip my meds a lot?”
I shoot her a look.
Leaning back into my grip, she mutters an apology under her breath. “Not really. It gets worse when I’m stressed or tired or forget my meds. Which I rarely do,” she adds the latter in a grumbled rush. “Today’s just a combination of all three.”
“You’re stressed?”
“A little.”
“Because of me?” The question comes out before I can stop it. “Because of the thing the other night,” I clarify with a wince. I still feel guilty about that, jumping to conclusions and making assumptions like an asshole. And the whole exclusive thing, maybe I pushed too hard. Shoved her into a corner she felt like she couldn’t get out of so she agreed.
A pinch to the skin between my index finger and thumb jolts me out of a panic spiral. “No, dummy. Class is stressing me out, not you. The tired thing, though, that is your fault.”
I grit my teeth to hide a shit-eating grin.
In my defense, she kept me up last night just as much as I did her.
I intend to retort that but something in my wing mirror catches my eye. At the sight of a familiar building, an idea springs to mind. “You know what I do to relieve stress?”
With a cheeky smile, Luna quirks a suggestive brow.
I roll my eyes. “Not that.”
Luna pouts, her shoulders slumping in exaggerated disappointment. “Then what?”
“Just trust me.”
“I look ridiculous!”
She doesn’t.
She really doesn’t.
I don’t think a universe exists where Luna Evans could ever look anything other than perfect.
Even with a too-big helmet hiding her pretty face.
I can’t decide what I like best; the grey leggings slick against her legs accentuating her ass or the Sun Valley Rays hoodie swamping her lithe body with my number on it or the way she’s wielding a baseball bat, fingers wrapped tight around the handle as she swings it testingly through the air.
She looks like a less unhinged but just as hot Harley Quinn.
“Come on!” She calls across to where I stand beside the pitching machine, the remote in my hand poised and ready to fire baseballs at her. She’s swinging that bat and posturing around like she knows exactly what she’s doing despite the fact we both know damn well that she’s never played a day in her life. I tried to coach her a little only for her to laugh tauntingly. “How hard can it be? Ben does it.”
I snort; I see her point but Ben is a clumsy fool everywhere but on the field. Luna would probably keel over in shock if she ever saw him play.
“Ready?” I double-check, my caring caution earning a dramatic eye roll in response. Shaking my head and saying a silent prayer, I press a button on the remote and let a baseball fly out.
The whooshing sound of it leaving the machine is drowned out by Luna’s piercing shriek of surprise. “What the fuck?” Dropping the bat, she scuttles backwards as the ball whizzes past her, pinning me with daggers. “Are you tryna kill me?”
Drama queen.
“How hard can it be?” I yell back, mimicking her overconfident tone.
She scowls and picks up the bat again, brandishing it at me threateningly. “I didn’t think it would be that fast.”
Ignoring her whining, I cross my arms and stifle the urge to roll my eyes again. “Go again.”
“Does it have a slower setting?”
“Luna.”
“Alright, alright,“ she grumbles, setting her shoulders back and gritting her teeth as she gestures for me to release another baseball. I do, and when the exact same thing happens, I can’t hold in my laughter. Her screech is damn near ear-shattering as she flails her arms exaggeratedly. “I thought you liked me!”
Taking pity on her, I pocket the machine remote and jog her way. Positioning myself behind her, I settle a hand on her lower back, the other between her shoulder blades. “First of all, your posture is godawful.”
She glances at me over her shoulder, an exaggerated simper on her face. “You say the sweetest things to me.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, I grip the cage of her helmet and force her gaze forward again. Kicking her feet further apart, I settle a hand on her shoulder and push down gently until her knees are slightly bent, not too much, just enough. As my fingers skirt down her arms to adjust her grip, she leans back with a soft sigh that I’m almost sure is accidental, wiggling her ass against me in a move that I’m absolutely sure is purposeful. I guide her though a couple of swings, first with my hands covering hers, then with them on her hips, murmuring corrections under my breath.
The third time, I step back and watch her, nodding in approval. “Try again,” I call over my shoulder as I jog back to the pitching machine. “Keep your eyes on the ball this time.”
This time when a baseball comes flying her way, Luna doesn’t flinch. Instead, she swings with confidence, and a loud cracking sound rings through the air as ball and bat connect. Squealing, she drops the bat and bounces toward me, throwing herself in my arms with the excitement of a player who just won the MLB World Series. “I did it!”
I wrap my arms around her, probably smiling just as wide as she is because what the fuck else am I supposed to do when a beautiful, happy woman chucks herself in my arms? “That was good, sweetheart.”
“Better than Ben?”
“Could steal his spot on the team out from under him.”
Luna scoffs and slaps me upside the head for my sarcasm but she’s beaming. Fucking beaming. Beaming and blushing and so fucking beautiful. So horrendously out of my league that I’m not quite sure how I managed to get myself in this position. I’m not going to question it, though. I’m going to hang onto her for as long as she’ll let me.
Not literally, though. We look weird as fuck right now, hanging off each other in the middle of the batting cages, and the looks we’re garnering are making me want to bury my face in her neck and hide. I allow myself one more moment with her wrapped around me, smothered in her sweet, vanilla scent before dropping her carefully to her feet and nudging her back towards the dropped bat, slapping her ass when she pouts. “Again.”
With a wink and a mock salute, she croons, “Yes, Coach.”
