Chapter 58 How You Get the Girl
How You Get the Girl
Dylan
The lights inside the Superdome were blinding.
Dylan McKenzie stood in the center of it all, sweat still slick on his brow, confetti falling like a waterfall of glitter around him. The Tritons had done it. Super Bowl champions. He could barely hear over the roar of the crowd, but it didn’t matter.
His heart was thundering louder than anything else.
He held the MVP trophy in his right hand, still in disbelief. It felt weightless in his grip—because the only thing that mattered was standing thirty yards away in the front row, with tears streaming down her cheeks and a hand clutched over her heart.
Ali.
She was glowing. In a navy and teal dress, the same sandals he’d claimed months ago as his. Her hair loose in waves, her mouth trembling with joy. He’d seen her look at him with love a thousand times. But this—this was something else.
Something that changed everything.
The reporter said his name, tried to ask a question, but Dylan was already moving. He turned toward the mic. Toward the cameras. Toward her.
And then he did it.
Dropped to one knee, right there on the turf, MVP trophy at his side. Pulled a small velvet box from the taped edge of his cleat and opened it.
The crowd gasped. Then fell silent.
“Ali Presley,” he said, voice steady, sure. “You’ve been my peace, my storm, my favorite everything since the day we met. You’ve waited. You’ve healed. You’ve loved me when you didn’t have to. So now I’m asking—will you marry me?”
Her hands flew to her face. Her knees buckled.
And then—she nodded. Hard.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Oh my gawd, yes!”
The crowd erupted. His teammates swarmed. He barely felt the slaps on his back or the cameras flashing from every direction.
He felt her.
Ali launched herself into his arms, and he caught her midair like she was made for that exact moment. His hands cradled her back, the ring still pressed between them, and his mouth found hers.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
She nodded against him. “Always was.”
In the biggest moment of his life, Dylan didn’t just win a ring.
He gave one away.
They skipped the afterparties.
No champagne-soaked banquet halls or velvet ropes. No media circuit or club table to celebrate the biggest win of his life. He’d smiled through the press conference, dodged Rocky’s teasing, and passed his MVP trophy off to the Tritons’ equipment guy with a wink and a, “I’ll get it later.”
Because there was only one thing he wanted.
Ali.
Now she was standing in the middle of their hotel suite—naked except those fuck-me sandals, her eyes full of something that made his knees weak all over again.
“How about some wall things for the MVP?,” she murmured, voice soft and teasing.
His grin was slow and sinful. “Abso-fucking-lutely baby.”
She stepped toward him, hands drifting up under his shirt, tugging it over his head. He let her, drinking in the way she looked at him—like she couldn’t believe he was real.
“Fiancé,” she whispered, testing the word.
He groaned. “Say it again.”
She pressed her palm to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. “My fiancé.”
Dylan’s breath caught. “God, I love you.”
Then she dropped to her knees.
The air left his lungs in a rush. She looked up at him through thick lashes, her fingers already undoing the zipper of his pants. He brushed a hand through her hair gently, reverently, until she took him in her mouth and he forgot how to breathe entirely.
“Ali…” he rasped, hips stuttering forward. “Fuck, baby…”
She sucked him slow and deep, one hand curling around his thigh, the other pressing flat to his stomach to keep him grounded. But nothing could anchor him now. Not when she was loving him like this. Not when her eyes flicked up and he could see it—the joy, the possession, the promise.
His hand trembled as he reached for hers and kissed the ring now sitting on her finger. Right there on the hotel room floor.
“My fiancée,” he whispered, like a vow. “Mine.”
She released him with a soft pop, her voice wrecked and breathless. “Yours.”
He groaned and gently threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her there, thumb brushing her cheek. “Open up for me again, baby. Just like that,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Wanna feel that pretty throat take all of me.”
She obeyed, lips parting, eyes locked on his. He eased back into her mouth, guiding her pace, slow and deep.
“Fuck,” he whispered, hips flexing. “So warm—so tight. That mouth was made for me.”
Her throat fluttered around him and he nearly lost it, groaning through clenched teeth.
“You feel that?” he rasped, barely holding on. “That’s what you do to me. Every goddamn time.”
He pulled back before he could come, chest heaving, and hauled her up—his mouth on hers before she could say a word. She melted into him, breath ragged and wanting.
He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently, crawling over her like he couldn’t get close enough.
“You’re not just my forever,” he whispered against her collarbone, kissing a path to her jaw. “You’re my everything.”
Then he slid inside her, slow and thick, filling her in one deep, claiming stroke.
Her gasp turned into a moan as her back arched, legs wrapping around him.
“Jesus, Ali,” he choked out, forehead pressed to hers. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
He didn’t rush it. Not this time.
He moved slowly, reverently, kissing her face, her jaw, her hand again—never letting it go. The ring glinted under the hotel lights, and every time he caught a glimpse of it, it drove him deeper.
“Say it,” he begged softly.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He dropped his forehead to hers, breath ragged. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Dylan. I love you, I love you…”
Her words fell apart as he brought them over the edge together, his name breaking from her lips like a song.
Later, they lay tangled in the sheets, his arm under her neck and her hand resting on his chest, fingers tracing the Tritons logo inked just above his heart.
“Still want wall things?” she teased, drowsy.
He chuckled, kissing the crown of her head.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But tonight I just wanted you.”
And he had her.
They didn’t sleep.
Not really.
Just pauses in between—her head on his chest, legs tangled, breath coming back to center—before one of them reached for the other again. It wasn’t just desire. It was years of longing, of almosts and what-ifs, finally finding a home in skin and sighs and whispered I love yous.
She rode him slow, her hands braced on his chest while his thumb traced lazy circles over her clit.
He bent her over the back of the hotel couch, kissing her spine while she shook from the second orgasm in as many hours.
She begged for him to stay inside after, to keep her full and warm while they curled together, and he did.
She was boneless in his arms, lips swollen, legs shaking, still gasping from the last round when he scooped her up and carried her to the wide floor-length mirror beside the closet.
“Dylan,” she murmured, already breathless again. “What are you—?”
He turned her gently, their bodies flush, her front against the cool glass and his chest warm against her back. One hand curved around her hip, the other trailing up her arm to lace their fingers together. Their eyes met in the reflection.
“Look at us,” he said roughly, his voice dark and thick with emotion. “Look at you.”
Ali’s eyes flicked away, a self-conscious flicker, but he brought their joined hands to her chest, holding her there.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Every inch of you. This body. This skin. This heart. All mine now.”
She trembled as he nudged her legs apart, dragging the head of his cock through her folds. She was slick and sensitive and still aching for more.
“Dyl…”
“Watch, baby,” he whispered, lining up and pushing in slowly. “I want you to see how it looks when I love you.”
He filled her in one long, thick thrust, and her eyes fluttered closed again.
“No,” he rasped, brushing her hair back from her shoulder. “Eyes on me.”
She forced them open, biting her lip as he began to move—slow and deep, grinding into her in long, deliberate strokes.
“You take me so good,” he breathed, watching her reflection unravel. “Every single time. My perfect girl.”
Her hands reached for the mirror for balance, but he caught them, holding them in place against the glass.
“Can’t go anywhere,” he murmured. “You’re mine now. My fiancée.”
That word. That word lit her up like fireworks.
Ali moaned, her body clenching around him as he fucked her slow and hard, hips smacking against her ass.
“You feel that?” he groaned. “That’s how I’ll always come back to you. Like I was made for it. For this.”
She was shaking now, her breath turning to sobs of pleasure. Her release built slowly, then consumed her all at once, her body clenching so hard it dragged him under with her.
He let go inside her with a guttural moan, their eyes locked in the mirror the entire time.
They stayed like that—tangled, trembling, breathless—until her knees gave out and he caught her.
Then he carried her back to bed, tucked her close, and kissed the ring on her hand one more time.
By the time morning hit, the suite smelled like sex and room service, and his back was sore in the best possible way.
Ali was curled under the blanket now, hair wild, cheek pressed to his bare chest.
Dylan smiled at the mess they were, kissing her temple.
“I’m pretty sure I can’t feel my legs,” she murmured sleepily.
He chuckled. “I take full responsibility.”
“You should.” She turned her face into his skin, sighing deeply. “That was…a lot.”
“Best win of my life,” he said, stroking her back. “And I don’t mean the ring.”
Ali peeked up at him, lashes still heavy with sleep. “What time’s check out?”
“Late. Kallie made sure of it.”
She grinned. “Of course she did.”
They stayed in bed until noon, ordering waffles and fruit and enough coffee to caffeinate a small nation. Ali wore one of his oversized Super Bowl shirts, the hem barely brushing the tops of her thighs. Dylan couldn’t stop touching her—couldn’t stop looking.
She was his. Finally. Forever.
And he planned on spending the rest of his life showing her what that meant.