Grasping Air (Flipped Book 2) Read online

  Grasping Air

  Flipped Book Two

  Carrie Aarons

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2016 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  Prologue

  Jared

  Four Years Ago

  All I see are heels flying through the air, one following the other.

  “I told you I could do an aerial while drunk!”

  Her ink black hair streams behind her as she skips down the hallway, cackling as she spins with her arms wide. I trail behind her, a goofy grin spreading my lips just admiring her wildness.

  No one will ever be able to cage Peyton Adams.

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t, I said you shouldn’t.” I fold my arms over my chest, the need to fiercely protect her filling my veins.

  “Lighten up, Uncle Sam! You should come with a warning label: ‘Afraid of Fun.’ Besides, all of our medals are won, the meets are over. We’re in London for a week, no rules, no parents, no coaches. Let go for once!”

  Her free attitude is infectious, and for once in my orderly life … I do. I sprint for her, her hazel eyes lighting with playful initiation as that beautiful, athletic body whizzes through the dorm hallway.

  I’d been crushing on Peyton for as long as I could remember, my female counterpart on the USA Olympics Gymnastics Team. We’d both won gold last night, bringing glory and pride to our country. But as far as similarities went, they stopped there. I approached our sport, as I approached life, with dead seriousness and dedication. I didn’t let up for a minute, taking every minute of my life as if it were a test I needed to pass with flying colors.

  But the minx doing cartwheels down the hall is as wild as they come. She’s like a tornado, get too close and you’ll be swept into her orbit. Peyton is addicting, breaking down your defenses until all you can do is follow her, hoping like hell you’re able to hang on to her.

  Take tonight for instance. I hadn’t intended to go to the crazy party the Norwegians were throwing in The Olympic Village. But she’d come to my door in a barely there red dress, with those black waves tumbling over her collarbone, and I was a goner.

  Now I was five beers deep and feeling good, alone and sprinting through the night with the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on.

  I scoop her up, throwing her over my shoulder as she shrieks. “You don’t want to know what it looks like when I let go.”

  Talented fingers skate up under my shirt and into the waistband of my khaki shorts; nails raking at the top of my ass cheeks. My balls draw up tight, zings of lust trailing up my spine to the base of my neck.

  “Oh on the contrary, my southern peach, I very much want to see what you look like wild.” I can hear the wink in Peyton’s voice.

  I reach my dorm, pulling the key out of my pocket with Peyton’s ass still resting snugly against my cheek. My heart and cock throbbed in unison as I pushed open the door, the darkness inviting us in. I don’t put her down until I reach my bed, the flirty dress bunching on her toned thighs.

  “Well, are you going to show me what you’re made of?” Peyton tiptoes her foot up my thigh, landing on my junk and massaging it with all five digits.

  It’s crude and bold, something I’d usually frown upon on a normal day. But in the dark quiet of this Olympic dorm room in London, I wasn’t Jared Hargrove. I could shed the hard exterior and just be with her, any way we wanted.

  “You see me half naked all the time. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked your fair share.” I smirk at her as I pull my shirt up and over my head, tossing it behind me.

  “Of course I have, with those abs for days. But I’ve never seen what you’re working with below the waist.” Peyton props up on her elbows, spreading her legs.

  I can’t see between them, the shadows from the darkness of the room landing just so on her body. I itch to push them a little farther apart, to reach my fingers between and see if her folds are as wet as I think they are. But she’s challenged me, and I have to comply.

  So I unbutton my khakis, hooking my fingers into my boxers too, pushing them both past my waist and off as I kick my sandals off in unison. My dick hits the coolness of the air-conditioned room and I hiss, so swollen with the need to be inside of Peyton that the change in temperature pains me.

  “Well, now I know you. You are a champ in more ways than one. Impressive, Hargrove.” She tries to play it slick, but I can tell the way her jaw slacks open. She can’t pry her eyes from my thick meat.

  “Get over here,” I growl as I place my knee between her open thighs, pulling her down the bed until my cock hits the perfect juncture of her body.

  We work together to pull the dress over her head, my hands fumbling on her smooth skin. I run my fingertips over her naked breasts and ribcage, the silk of her stomach quivering as I stroke her there.

  “Talk to me in that southern drawl, baby.” Peyton wiggles beneath me, the lace of her tiny thong rubbing against my aching cock.

  I lick up the column of her neck before planting my lips on her ear, my ego puffing as a shiver works down her body. “Oh, yeah? What do you want me to say, you little minx?”

  “Tell me what you want to do to me.” She breathes, raking her nails gently down the grooves of muscle on my back.

  Using one hand to pin her wrists to the bed, I stretch my body completely over hers, essentially trapping her. My other hand trails down her hip, slipping under the thin fabric of her underwear.

  “First, I’m going to see how excited you are to be completely at my will.” My fingers glide to her core, slipping between her wet lips. “God, Peyton, you’re so wet for me.”

  A cursing moan slips from her lips as I push one finger inside of her. “You feel this thick finger? Imagine how good my cock is going to feel inside here.”

  I’m biting my tongue as I talk, so hard and turned on that it’s a strain for me to keep myself under control.

  “Do it, then. Let me feel it. Don’t hold back.” Those hazel eyes spark with challeng
e again, and I feel my soul being swept up by the storm that is Peyton Adams.

  We move in a flash, her pulling off her thong and me grabbing in my suitcase for a rubber. I roll it over my length, my eyes boring into her as she smirks at me, her legs wide open, her lips glistening in the moonlight that filters through the window.

  “Be wild with me,” Peyton whispers as I thrust into her, my vision going black.

  Her destructive spiral pulls me in, winding me so tightly around her that I’m not sure where she ends and I begin.

  1

  Peyton

  I almost don’t feel the vibration of my phone in the tiny clutch under my arm. But then it hits in the exact right spot to alert me to it, pulsing against my nipple as the bag rubs against the thin pink bandage dress painted to my body.

  My hands are full as it is, occupied with a tequila shot and a beer. I slam the shot, relishing the burn of the poison as it slides down my throat. Sucking on the beer bottle, I wash it down with the cold suds.

  “Give me one minute,” I drag one finger down the suit jacket of the male model in front of me and bat my lashes.

  He tips his head, his eyes raking over my body. I choke back the roll of my eyes and make my way through the thick crowd of the hottest club in New York City. The sound of the music is deafening, the sweat and movement of the bodies swamping the place in humid, rain forest-like heat.

  Stalking through the dark hallway, I finally push through the heavy oak front doors. The chilled November air hits me full blast in the face, and even though I’m completely exposed in my sleeveless mini-dress, I welcome it. The city pulses with life, its own breathing, moving entity.

  Flicking open the expensive clutch, I pull out my ringing iPhone and slide the bar across to connect the call just as it’s about to go to voicemail.

  “Hello?” Not knowing the phone number, my tone is a mix between business and bitchy.

  “Peyton Adams?” A woman’s polite voice asks through the other end.

  “This is she. Can I ask who is calling?”

  “This is Michaela Kilmer, I’m the event coordinator for the 2016 USA Gymnastics Tour. We’ve had a last minute dropout, and your name was suggested as an alternate to take her place for the duration of the twenty-city tour. Would you be interested?”

  My mouth goes dry. The word gymnastics, just hearing it, fills me with anger and sadness.

  Of course I know who she is talking about. Grace Jenkins. Everyone knows what happened in Rio, and it was expected that she wouldn’t join the other Olympians on the tour. Not that I’ve been keeping up on news from that world.

  “I think you must be mistaken. I’m retired.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that. We are wondering if you might want to come out of retirement for this special event.” I can tell her patience is drawing thin.

  “I don’t compete anymore. I’m no longer a gymnast.”

  A long sigh from the other end. “Listen, I know what went down at Filipek’s. It sucked. But this is a sure thing, a three-month tour where you’ll get to do gymnastics for fun. And make money. That sounds pretty good to me, how about you? Plus, Natalia Grekov recommended you. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your best friend, right?”

  She’s backed me into a corner, using all of my weaknesses against me. Gymnastics, money and Natalia. There was no way I could say no.

  My heart thuds against my chest, nervous sweat pooling between my breasts despite the cold autumn air. “Fine, say I did agree. When does it start?”

  “We’d need you on a bus tomorrow.”

  It was too quick. I needed more time to regroup. Five months away from the embarrassment and rejection hadn’t even been enough. To pop back up in their lives, in their world, tomorrow? I thought I might lose the tequila shot swimming around in my stomach.

  “Say yes, Peyton,” Michaela prompts me.

  I suck in a lungful of crisp New York City air, my heart and head in agreement and begging my mouth to comply.

  “Okay, fine. Yes.”

  The cab pulls up in front of Garden State Gymnastics and I sit there marveling for a second. I can’t believe someone finally stood up to Novak Filipek, least of all Spencer Russell. Before he’d gotten together with Nat he’d seemed like the ultimate slacker, content to settle in his coaching job at someone else’s gym.

  A clean, giant warehouse, GSG is impressive in only a way that a gymnast could appreciate. My hands begin to sweat thinking about how they’ll look at me. I can take disgust or judgment. What I can’t take is pity or sympathy. I don’t need anyone to feel fucking sorry for me.

  Shielding myself in my invisible cloak of confidence, I plant one stiletto clad heel on the pavement. I pull out my bright pink suitcase, my entire life packed inside, and wheel it after me to the entrance of the gym.

  When I walk through the door I’m transported back into the life I used to know. The scent of chalk and sweat creeps into my nose, the blur of tumbling gymnasts and funky leotard prints invading my vision.

  “I can’t believe I’m back in a fucking gym.” I drop my suitcase with a thud, a few heads turning my way.

  Good, I’d announced my presence. They needed to know that trouble was back in town.

  Nat starts moving towards me, a chastising smile on her face. She looks happy. Really fuck happy. I’m a little jealous.

  “Look what the cat dragged in …” she stalks up to me.

  I hold my arms wide open. “Give me a hug, bitch, I know you’re happy to see me.”

  Nat tells me how good I smell, and I know everyone is watching our interaction.

  “Try getting out of a gym for once, the scent of chalk will slowly evaporate from your skin.” I lift my face-hiding sunglasses from my eyes and plant them on my head. “This place isn’t half bad, the man-child has done well. I can’t believe I’m fucking going on this tour, by the way.”

  “If I can’t take my boyfriend, you bet your ass I’m bringing my best friend.”

  She slaps me on the shoulder, and I notice the commotion to my right.

  “No one told me she’s coming on tour …”

  That voice. The rich, southern drawl that licks at me in the most intimate of places, sending my entire body melting.

  Jared Hargrove. The tallest, brawniest glass of water to ever travel north past the Mason-Dixon Line. Damn, does he look good. His blond hair, cropped close on the sides and longer on the top. Those chocolate brown eyes that hold too many feelings he never voices. The physique that looks like the definition of an ancient sculpture of one of the Greek gods or something. He’s got that Olympic glow, the post-victory shine so opulent on his skin.

  For a brief period of time, so short it was like a shooting star, all of that was mine. And I was his.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Now I had to resort to cruelty or sarcasm to get him to engage with me.

  “Nice to see you too, Jared. Did you miss me?” I just have to pick at him.

  Disgust radiates off his body, his brown eyes glaring daggers in my direction. Good, disgust I could deal with. As long as he hated me, we never had to talk about what had happened. I never had to get into the emotions of it all.

  After a few more minutes of his scrutiny, he stomped off.

  Leaving me by myself again.

  2

  Jared

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “Get out of the bathroom, please!” My fist aches from pounding on the flimsy door.

  Finally the coffin-sized door unlatches, and out comes a woman so sexy and vivacious, I have to take a step back in fear of getting bowled over.

  “Aw, Jared. It’s so refreshing to see you still can’t curse to express yourself. Did you need something?” Peyton blinks up at me in innocence, batting her eyelashes at me while those hazel pools spark with amusement.

  She always did catch me off guard. Devastatingly sweet when she wanted to be, she could turn wicked at the snap of my fingers. Unpredictable … it defined Peyton to a tee
.

  “You’ve been in the bathroom for over an hour! There is only one on this bus, you need to be more conscious of those around you.” I couldn’t help letting my temper off its leash a little.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t just look like this. I needed my beauty prep time before we got to the first location. After all, the press will be there.” She sank her teeth into her plump lower lip, the dark plum lipstick staining her white smile and doing something lethal to my balls.

  Which only serves to piss me off more. “The press won’t be there to see you. If you don’t remember, you didn’t make it to the Olympics. Unlike the rest of us.”

  My comment is loud enough that the entire bus hears, and the whispered “oh, shits!” of teammates pumps my ego up. Yeah, I dissed her something fierce.

  That is, until I see Peyton’s face. Her hazel eyes are glassy, and there’s now a tremble in the bottom lip she’s still biting. I reach for her arm, the movement more one of habit than anything else. Except when my hand makes contact, she jerks away like I’ve burned her, moving quickly around me and back to her seat.

  Crud. And yes, even in my own thoughts I can’t curse. You try growing up with a mother who would wash your mouth out with soap without the slightest hesitation.

  I move into the bathroom, locking the door before resting my hands against the sink and studying my reflection in the mirror. I was a jerk, the biggest kind, to her just now. But it’s just how she got me. She wound me up until my head was about to pop off, like those Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em Robots.

  I didn’t know if I’d be able to survive the next three months with her on the tour. It was only the first day, all twenty of us loaded onto the charter bus heading towards our first stop of the tour in New York City. And already I could feel my nerves grating like someone was putting them through a cheese shredder whenever she was within a hundred feet of me.

  I was also pissed at Spence because he hadn’t told me that Natalia had recommended her to replace Grace.