Unloved: Chapter 44

When was the last time anyone asked me that?

A smile breaks out across my face—even thinking about the force that was my mom shoots a bolt of joy up my spine. I’m not sure where to start, so I blurt out, “She was really smart.”

Ro rewards the quick confession with a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “She finished her master’s early—sports medicine—and got offers, like, everywhere. But she had a friend from high school who was playing hockey already, so she took the offer with Dallas, because she didn’t want to be alone—I think. Her parents were kinda cold and not that nice—I only met them once, when I was really young. I barely remember the visit, but Archer says they were never very kind to her.”

“Was Archer her friend?”

“Yeah.” I smile again, remembering the photo of them on our living room wall, a Polaroid tucked into the frame that held her diploma. A blurred photo of my mom and Archer at their high school graduation just as Archer lifted her in the air—joyous surprise on her face, a hand on her cap to keep it secured. She’s looking at him. And Archer is grinning at the camera, cap half off his head with the commotion.

“She was really new to the team still, when she met my dad—” I cut myself off at that, the mention of my dad starting to push away the good feeling that memories of my mom bring.

“You don’t have to talk about him,” Ro says, her voice sounding distant.

But… but I to talk about him.

“He was—

a narcissist. He thought he was the best on the team, and I think it was more, at first, that my mom found him charming. He pursued her wildly—very publicly. Showed up to every practice or stretching session with her armed with flowers and extravagant gifts.

“Archer wasn’t playing anymore; he’d gotten hurt bad the first year my mom worked there and he started coaching. She helped him through his injury, but then John Fredderic showed up and ensnared my mom.”

Clearing my throat, I add, “My mom was the best person I’ve ever known. She was—”

I reach up to my eye, feeling an itch, and come away with my fingers wet.

“Sorry.” I laugh and shake my head, wiping my eyes earnestly. “I can’t believe I’m crying. It’s been, like, four years.”

“Hey,” Ro says before crawling over to my side of the floor and grabbing me in a hug—one I quickly return full force.

“I wish you could’ve met her. I told you that you remind me of her a lot—kind and gentle. Nice to everyone. Helpful and genuine. But my dad, he… he ruined it. All the time.”

“Were they ever married?”

I shake my head. “No. She gave me his last name because they going to get married—I think? It’s kinda fuzzy.”

Our pasta is cold now, half eaten and fully forgotten. And I feel like a used towel, wrung out and dried up.

She turns on our favorite internet show, letting it autoplay as I rest my head on her shoulder and she rests hers on mine. Her curls tickle my neck and cheek, the smell of her shampoo and perfume intoxicating and fresh.

I turn my head slowly until I can press my lips against her neck. Once, twice, and then I press my nose in to inhale her skin.

Flopping back away from her, I take her in—flushed cheeks, pupils wide, breath shallow.

I think the sight of her beneath me, being inside of her, would change me forever. She is so perfect, smart and gentle and kind. That same desperate need to please is like a living thing inside of me, begging me to push her back, put my head between her thighs until she feels good and happy—relaxed, sated.

I want that.

But there is something unsettling about sex now, especially with Ro. The need to please her in the way I know best warring with my need for her friendship. Her respect—and never have those things gone hand in hand for me.

So I grin and jump up from the floor.

“I should go.”

“Do you want to stay tonight?”

I’ve slept next to her enough times to know my answer is a resounding yes, but I shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter—I’m nodding before I can talk myself into leaving.

She pops up beside me, stumbling a little in her excitement. It’s thrilling and humbling all at once.

“I just need to shower.”

Why does it feel like she asked me to get naked?

My throat goes dry. “Okay.”

“You can come in, though.”

“Sure.” I nod stupidly, following her into the dim lamplit room. It’s an instant hit of dopamine; the entire room is . Same sage-green patchwork bedding and floral sheets. Same fairy lights and sewing machine in the middle of a project on her desk. Her perfect wall calendar meticulously filled out with—I stop to stare at it, hand drifting up to touch it. Ro’s been to every home game we’ve played, and now I know why.

My finger grazes the black writing—all my games are written out on their respective dates.

“Oh,” she says. She blushes, realizing what I’m staring at. “Yeah, I just… I don’t wanna miss one, ya know? So I marked them all down.”

I can’t swallow, throat tight.

“I’ll be right back,” she says before swiftly turning on her heel and disappearing into the bathroom.

My thoughts are racing, warring with one another. Like a mental game of pulling petals off a flower:

Ro marked my games on a calendar. She made me a tie, embroidered with stars and my number. She asked me about my mom. She asked me to stay the night.

, I think, clenching my fists at my sides.

Carmen’s voice echoes in my ears before I can stop it. “

Ro is different. I have to believe that. Ro wouldn’t play with my feelings like so many have before. She’s

Barging into the bathroom doesn’t seem right, but I can’t stop myself. Steam billows around me as I cover my eyes and blurt out, “Do you like me?”

“Matty? What are you doing?”

“Do you like me? Do you have feelings for me?”

There’s a creak of metal on metal and I uncover my eyes on instinct. Ro pokes her head out around the colorful shower curtain, curls piled high on her head, a few wet and stuck to the back of her long neck.

Hazel eyes inspect me until I’m aware of what I just did. What the hell was I thinking? I don’t—

“Matt,” she breathes, eyes softening. “Of course I like you. There’s no part of you I wouldn’t like.”

That same voice that sounds too much like my voice mixed with my father’s.

White teeth nibble on her bottom lip as we lock gazes in the steamy, humid room.

“Will you kiss me?”

“What?” I nearly stumble, planting my feet a little wider so I don’t make more of a fool of myself than I already have.

A touch of insecurity sinks into her features, her hand gripping the curtain a little harder like she might slam it closed and tell me to “You said I only had to ask you—”

I don’t let her finish, straining toward her and planting my hand on the wall beside the shower, my other hand holding her neck as I kiss her. She tastes like candy and summer, warm, lips wet from the shower as I drink from her mouth.

My tongue pushes between her lips, the noise she makes sending shivers down my spine. She pushes back just as excitedly. Ro kisses like an overeager teenager, like she’s just discovered French kissing. It ignites something in me, something that makes every touch feel like first time.

Special.

I pull back, smiling with heaving breaths. She matches me, until we are both doe-eyed messes gazing at each other.

“Come in, Matty,” she says before ducking her head back into the shower. My breath catches. She doesn’t—

“You don’t have to,” she calls over the sound of the spray. “But I want you.”

It feels like I’m undressing for the first time, chucking my sweatshirt and shirt into a pile in the corner before pulling my pants off too hastily, having to catch my balance using the wall.

For a moment I debate if I should take my underwear off, which is ridiculous. No one showers in underwear.

But she’s naked already—

Fuck. Rosalie Shariff is naked. And wet. In a shower, waiting for me to join her.

I don’t think, just pull back the curtain and step into the tight space.

I’m greeted by the long, bare line of her spine, golden tan skin from head to toe, and I swallow my tongue as my gaze tracks down, down, down to her small, pert ass. She’s tall, delicate, and so beautiful I can’t stop flicking my eyes over her because I don’t know where to look first.

She looks over her shoulder, down my body, before—

“Why are you wearing underwear?”

Oh— Fuck. I am, though now the gray fabric of my boxer briefs is stuck to my skin, damp from the warm, wet air.

She turns, but brings her arms up over her chest, covering herself.

“Shit.”

I scramble, my hand swiping at the wet tile as I reach and shuck off my boxers, tangling them around my feet until I can kick them off, tossing them out onto the bathroom floor.

Ro inhales sharply as she takes me in.

I match her, both of us staring openly, admiring each other.

Her brain, her kindness—that’s why I want her. But God, her body has me ready to drop to my knees and stay there, staring at her like a work of art, never getting my fill.

“Rosalie,” I breathe, swallowing loudly. “You’re so beautiful.”

She blushes, letting her arms drop from around her chest, revealing small breasts tipped with small brown nipples.

My mouth waters. I want to press my lips to every inch of her, slowly taking my time down her tight body until I reach the soft brown curls between her legs. I know the feel of her, dream about it often, but I want to see her feel me, my fingers inside her, pulling pleasure from her.

“Can I touch you?”

Hearing her ask that question makes me moan, my own hand holding myself. I’m rock hard, practically straining toward her.

“Y-yes.”

She reaches for me, slow and careful. Her delicate hand wreathed in little beaded friendship bracelets wraps around my length. Her fingers are long, but still barely meet.

I’m well aware of what I bring to the table when it comes to sex—pretty face, muscular body, objectively white-boy attractive. My cock is arguably perfect; a nice length, and thick. And, most important, I know how to use it. I’m good at sex, just like I’m good at hockey.

And yet, my dick is weeping like a virgin in her hesitant hold.

“I’m—I don’t know if I’m going to do this right.”

I almost laugh at the ridiculous idea of her doing anything wrong, but bite my tongue and step a little closer to her, touching along her bare shoulder with my fingers.

“Just stroke it; you can’t do it wrong.”

I can’t remember the last time I got a hand job, but , the feel of her hand on me is going to make me blow in five seconds like a fucking teenager.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, princess,” I breathe, my hand coming up to cup her cheek. She’s warm from the water and the blush of her arousal. “I wanna kiss you,” I pant. “Please, please let me kiss you.”

It’s almost a whine, and maybe I should be embarrassed, but my want for her is so great I don’t care.

She nods rapidly, eyes meeting mine—finally pulled away from her intense gaze on my dick. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and I collapse into her. I press her back into the cool tile, and the water splashes over my side as I angle into it.

She whines into my mouth, almost frantic, as I feel more than see her press her legs together.

“Rosalie,” I coo, pressing her fully back. Her fist continues to grip me while I slide my knee between her legs. “Are you aching, princess?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “Please, Matt—”

“Ride my thigh, baby. Make yourself feel good.”

She does, humping against me with abandon. I feel feral, frantic in my movements to kiss her, nipping along her neck and trying desperately not to come.

Until—

“I think about you when I touch myself,” she cries into my neck, biting down. “I—”

I come, hard, with a heavy, breathy moan. It zaps through me like lightning, no time to prepare for it or tell her. Come splashes against her bronze skin, washing away with the spray instantly.

She stops moving on my thigh immediately and I kiss her, harder now, as if I’m pressing into her mouth. I wait for her to keep going, to rock against me, growing impatient as I grab her hips.

“You don’t have to—” Ro says, shuddering as I push my thigh against her clit. “You finished. We can stop—”

I shake my head. “Not how it works. We don’t stop till you come, Ro.”

I pull her back with a light grip on her neck, looking into her eyes. They widen comically as I say, “Usually more than once, but the water’s gonna get cold.”

“But—”

“Does it feel good?”

She nods.

“Do you want to come?”

Her blush is furious, but she manages another nod. Her fingers tangle in the chain on my neck, pulling a little sharply. She could pull me around with it and I’d follow like a damn puppy.

I kiss her temple and hike her up again. “Then keep going, princess. Just like last time.”

Ro whimpers, melting into a low, desperate moan. She rolls her hips more quickly now, sharp nails sinking into my flesh as she climbs higher and higher before cresting.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” I mumble into her neck, kissing her while encouraging her. “Come on, Rosalie. Let go. Come for me, , Ro, I need to feel you—”

Her shout bleeds quickly into a keening cry, nearly a sob of relief that has my cock rising again in record time. I grip her hips, slowly moving her as she slumps more and more into my body.

Placing her back on her feet, I wait until Ro regains her balance and smiles at me, sated and happy. I thought pleasing released endorphins in my body, high on the feeling of being needed and wanted in the same measure. But with Ro, it’s overdose level—and I’m raring to keep it going.

Grabbing her sponge, I lather an exorbitant amount of soap—soap that smells like flowers and coconuts and —and scrub across her chest, stomach, gentle between her legs. I kneel to wash her legs in slow, sweeping strokes.

Looking up at her, I pause. Her eyes are on me, breath heavy and low—but it’s not arousal I see. It’s gratitude and awe, like she isn’t sure if she’s dreaming this.

I feel the same.

Loving Rosalie Shariff would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done—I know, because I’m already doing it. I think I’ve loved her since the day she stood up for me in that conference room. As a friend first, something I’ve never had, but now it’s more.

It’s overwhelming, suddenly hard to swallow or even at her. So I turn her around and wash her back reverently. I can’t stop myself from pressing a kiss into her back, right at the top of her spine.