Chapter Sixteen #2
Her legs hook around my waist, her mouth devours mine, and I sink my hands into her hair, undoing her ponytail and letting the curls fall down her back.
I’m definitely not cold anymore. She pulls back, her breathing heavy, her lips swollen.
Her eyes are alight with lust. I know she can feel my hardening cock through the gray sweatpants I wear.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, her eyes flicker down.
Her hand curls over my shoulder, trailing down the front of my hoodie, over my heaving chest, and to the waistband of my sweatpants.
I watch as her red nails play with the fabric for a moment before they disappear, her warm hand gliding down my groin.
Then, her fingers wrap around my cock and squeeze.
“Uh, fuck,” I groan, dropping my head to her shoulder as she gently pumps me in her hand. As much as I would love to fuck her, right here and right now, I can’t help but catch a glimpse at the clock behind the bar. It’s almost two in the morning.
“One day,” I say, kissing her neck and then her jawline.
“I’m going to take you on this bartop.” Her hand squeezes me again, and I suck in a breath.
I tangle her hair around my fingers and tug, angling her face upwards a little so I can trace a path with my tongue down her neck.
“It’s going to be so hard, and so rough, that you won’t be able to serve anyone without thinking about me and my cock. ”
She whimpers, her steady rhythm breaking as I bite down gently on her neck. I suck at the spot and release my grip on her hair. Immediately, she kisses me, her hips rolling, seeking some sort of friction.
“And, you’re going to love it,” I murmur against her lips before kissing her hard again. When I pull back, I gently remove her hand from my pants and smooth her hair down a little. “But, it’s two a.m. and I have a game tomorrow. Let’s go home.”
“Can we fuck at home?” Her words are pleading and desperate. Fuck, I just know she’s soaked through her panties and maybe even her jeans. I hold myself back from checking. I know if she is, I won’t be able to contain myself, and I might actually rip her jeans off and fuck her right now.
But I can’t. I have a game in the morning, the snow is finally letting up, and we need to get some sleep.
“Please?” she begs, almost knowing that my answer should have, would have, been no. As always, though, I cave. When she hops off the bar, looking mighty pleased with herself, I swat her ass.
“You’re a brat,” I grumble.
“You like me this way.”
Fuck yeah, I do.
***
“Flynn Reed, tight end for the Boston Broncos, is here with us now.” The reporter looks directly into the camera, the microphone held up to her face as she speaks in a high-pitched tone. “Flynn, hell of a game for you and the Broncos. Seven touchdowns. You were on fire today.”
“Thanks, Ash.” I smile tightly. I was on fire but running on empty.
“The team has clinched a playoff spot, and you’re early favorites for the Super Bowl. Does that add any pressure on the team?”
I scratch the back of my head nervously.
The Super Bowl talk has been going around all season.
We’ve been almost unbeatable. We’re in the best shape of our lives, and the Super Bowl seems like it might be in the bag for us.
But I’ve been here before with the team, and we always seem to fail at the last hurdle. The conference finals.
“Yes. I mean, I think any team would feel the pressure if they were in our position. We’ve worked hard this year, and it’s paying off.
The boys are an absolute unit, and every single player on the team is an integral part of where we’re at.
” I smile at Ash. “But the pressure is a pleasure in this business. We’re athletes, so it’s what we thrive on. ”
“And what about you off the field? How’s it going with that gorgeous girlfriend of yours?
I think half the population is likely jealous of her for taking you off the market!
” The reporter’s eyes shine. I can’t help but laugh.
I glance over at Hollie, who’s standing off to the side.
Another new Louis Vuitton bag, which I’m pretty sure she bought as a gift for herself from me for Christmas, is tucked under her arm.
She rolls her hand, gesturing to me to answer the question.
I shake my head. “She’s good. We’re good. Thank you for asking.”
“You two make the most gorgeous couple. Is she here today?”
“She is. She’s up in the coaches’ box with Ivy Booker.
” I point up toward one of the boxes. Flashes of early this morning go through my mind.
Katie’s hair wrapped in my fist, her back arched, moans muffled into the mattress as I made her come not once, but twice, while fucking her from behind.
The little minx is the reason I’m running on empty today.
I barely got in more than four hours, and that was with a sleep-in.
“Will you be attending Scott Harvey and Ivy Booker’s wedding together? Can you give us any details on how the plans are going for football’s golden couple?” Ash pushes the microphone closer to me.
“I can’t, but we will both be there, yes.”
Ash looks disappointed with my answer, but doesn’t let it deter her. “Any plans for you to propose and settle down? You’ve gone from being filmed punching someone outside a bar to the perfect boyfriend this season. Huge change for someone to make if it’s not serious.”
“It’s serious. I lo—” I stop myself, the words catching in my throat. “It’s serious. I like spending time with Katie, but we’re not in a rush. We’re both still young.”
Ash narrows her eyes a minuscule amount, and I glance over at Hollie, begging her with my eyes for help. As if she could sense it, she’s already striding—well, striding as far as her small legs will take her—toward us.
“Okay, that’s plenty. Thanks so much, Ash.” Hollie intervenes, creating some distance between me and the reporter. “You have plenty for your report later.”
“Come on, Hollie. That was barely five minutes,” Ash whines. Hollie flicks her hand at me, dismissing me quickly as she takes Ash’s arm and leads her over to Coach. A few quick words in his ear, and Coach stands straighter as Ash takes her place next to him and the cameraman sets up in front.
Thank god for that.
Not sure the world finding out that I’m in love with Katie Murphy—before I’ve worked up the courage to tell her myself—is the best way for things to go.