âWeird? Baby, I know weird and you are not it,â Colin softly reassured her, laughter spilling breathily from his lips in a move that he hoped read as soothing rather than mocking. When you bumped elbows with the sporting elite, you were exposed to just about every brand of whack job out there. Whatever Missy was dealing with, he was certain heâd seen far worse.Â
Besides, Colin Nash wasnât exactly the poster boy for mental stability. The difference was, he buried his shit down as deep as he could and let it eat him alive every day of his life. And heâd been doing the same since he was a teenager. In her own, fucked up and maybe slightly unhealthy way, Missy was asking for help. There was nothing conventional about her methods, but sheâd come to Colin looking for some sort of relief. Maybe he couldnât give it to her in the ways sheâd hoped, but that didnât mean he wouldnât try.Â
His large hands rested against the small of her back, easily taking up a large expanse of the space there. He kept her secure as she straddled his lap, pointedly ignoring the way she perfectly fit against him. Colin might not think the best option for either of them was to let her bounce on it and ignore what was bothering her, but that didnât mean he wasnât semi-hard and a little horny already. Heâd already been half-way aroused before she even arrived, having spent the better part of an hour watching compilation of Tyâs career highlights on ESPN. Heâd been pent up and ready to get himself off alone by the time sheâd shown up.Â
He obliged with ease, allowing her to guide his hands to exactly the right position, wherever she needed them. His thumb brushed absently at the stitching on her shirt, enjoying the satisfying press of the fabric to his skin. He wondered if that was how it felt for Missy, but to a higher degree? Most people knew the gentle satisfaction that came with doing mundane tasks in a very particular order, the routine of it all. Or feeling the seam of your sock press against your toes in just the right place, comfortable and smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. Colin even had his own, private tells; The way he liked to take a certain amount of steps along the green before delivering a backhand, jostling himself into position by twisting his wrist just so with the perfect rally. Colin was a calculated player, knowing exactly when he wanted the ball to bounce before a return and when he didnât. It was OCD in its purest, most innocuous form. In sports, it was whittled down to simple superstition, championed even for the way it helped an athlete play. In everyday life, it could rear its ugly head more violently and more often. Colinâs quirks were harmless and inconsequential, but where Missy was concerned, it seemed as though it might break her.Â
âDoes this happen often?â Colin whispered, keeping his hand steady and secure against her chosen spot. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to her hair where she remained slumped, before resting his chin atop her head. He would sit there all day if she needed him to. âWhat usually helps?âÂ
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