At the Right Time

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maxwell ~ Present

I'm in Los Angeles for the commercial filming plus several interviews my manager booked me for while I'm out this way.

Today was long, and I'm exhausted even though it's only nine PM.

I slide the keycard to get access to my room. Once I'm inside, I collapse onto the bed.

Interviewers have wanted tons of questions answered that I simply can't talk about yet. It drains me. I know they are just doing their job, but I signed up to play basketball, not twenty questions.

I'm worried about what my future holds. I'm itching to know if I will be able to get traded, or what the coaches will think of me now that I'm no longer a rookie.

A ding in my back pocket causes me to groan. I don't want to move. It's probably my manager, or my mom. I'm not in the mood to talk to either at the moment. When it dings again, though, I pull it out and see who's bothering me.

Rylie sent me a text.

I open it, letting my mouth fall agape when I see the picture she sent.

She's in my bed, wearing a t-shirt I can see her nipples through, even in the picture. I can see my sheets and my nightstand in the background.

The text says: Long day of working on your apartment. Hope you don't mind I sleep here.

Holy shit. She looks sexy as hell. In my bed.

My dick hardens at the sheer thought of Rylie between my sheets. I wonder if she's wearing pants or not. She used to like sleeping in only a t-shirt and underwear.

My pants tighten even more at the thought of Rylie, only wearing underwear, lying in my bed. And I'm not fucking there! I'm on the other coast. This has to be some sick joke.

I text back: Don't mind at all... a little jealous of my pillow.

Seconds later she replies: Wish I wasn't alone.

If she doesn't quit fucking around, I'm going to end up on a red-eye to Atlanta and she's going to wake up to me in the morning.

I try to reply with something a little flirty, but not so much that it pushes her away. Before I can, a new picture pops up on our message thread.

She's torturing me.

Watching Friends to keep me company.

The picture is of my TV, that's now hanging in the corner of my room and no longer a mess of wires on the floor, thanks to her expertise. But that isn't what I'm focused on.

I'm focused on her bare legs that made it into the picture, and the way my comforter is draped over one thigh. I can see the reflection of her holding up the phone in the window, and the way she's propped up, exposing that she's wearing exactly what I thought she would be.

She's got to know how sexy these pictures are, right? I mean, no way she's sending these casually. I wonder if she's been drinking?

Another text from her: I remember when we used to sneak down to the basement and watch this show. Miss those days, and how the episodes would usually end.

She isn't talking about the actual episodes. In fact, most of the time we didn't even watch them. I know she's referring to how we'd end up all over each other. I bring my palm to my jeans, needing to relieve some pressure. Rylie and I did some dirty things on the couch in that basement. What's gotten into her tonight?

I type back: You're killing me, Ryles.

She replies: Goodnight, Max. ;)

I toss my phone beside me on the bed. Fuck.

No longer wanting to lie down, I get up and head into the bathroom.

The steam fills the room as I strip down and step in.

I miss Rylie. I miss her body. I miss having her all to myself. I miss watching her fall apart for me. I miss her mind and her soul. I miss our banter. I. Miss. Her.

I palm my erection, gripping it with slow strokes.

Rylie's got to be mine again. I need her. It's taking everything in me right now not to call my manager and get the pilot of my jet to take me home tonight.

I lean my head back, letting the hot water rush down my chest and over my stomach. I pump faster and harder, letting my mind wander to the only fantasy that has ever mattered.

Rylie. Myself. Grown up versions of the kids we used to be. Rylie tells me that she's all mine, and I tell her I love her. It's not about her body, or the sex. It's about the intimacy. Rylie is the only person who ever got me like that.

I can have sex with anyone. Girl's love to hookup with rich NBA players.

The sex with Rylie was always great, but the best part of the whole thing was knowing I had not just her body, but her mind and soul, too.

I come hard, allowing the tension in my muscles to melt away.

Then, I finally wash myself off, but my thoughts are still on her. It's almost like an obsession at this point, but I don't want to be a creep.

I remember obsessing over basketball like this at one point in my life. Like I would've stopped at absolutely nothing to make my dreams come true.

That how I am with her. I don't see an end in sight until I know for sure that Rylie is mine again.

That's going to be terrible for me if she never gets to a point of trusting me.

I need to up my game a little, maybe do another one of those grand gestures my sister was talking about.

I also need to tell her the whole story. I haven't because I'm ashamed. But I think it's time. I can't let my pride get in the way of me getting the girl of my dreams.

I make a vow to myself that I will tell her. I don't know how or when, but I will tell her. The whole story, no bullshit, and hopefully she will believe me. Hopefully, it will make her change her mind.