Chapter Fifteen #2
After the end of the game and the media, I wait with the other wives and girlfriends until he emerges, exiting the locker room dressed out of his media suit into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and smiling with a win on his face.
He sees me, and his whole face softens.
“KitKat.” He pulls me into his chest and holds me like he’s been waiting all day.
“Are you ready to celebrate?” he murmurs against my hair and then kisses the side of my temple.
“More than ready.”
The rest of the night is a blur of celebration. The Hawkeyes win, my win… it can’t get any better than this, and I know it.
“Bro, your wife made the Jumbotron,” Hunter adds with a grin. “She’s officially more famous than you.”
“She already was,” Luka smirks.
I elbow him, and he smirks like the protective big brother he pretends not to be.
Scottie curls his arm around my waist, not possessively, but steadily. Like he’s keeping me close without even thinking about it.
And I love it more than I should.
Drinks come out, and someone hands Scottie a beer he doesn’t even drink before he sets it aside to grab my hand instead.
“Come with me,” he says, pulling me behind him through the crowd of people. He stops at one of the pool tables.
“This is it,” Scottie says, tapping the edge. “The exact table where I made the best losing bet of my life.”
“The best losing bet?”
He turns to me, his hands landing on my hips as he faces me. He lowers his head to my ear, and I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck to welcome him closer. His voice is low enough that only I hear.
“That bet gave me you.”
My breath catches, and then he pulls back, just long enough for our eyes to catch, and then he stares down at my lips, wetting his. I send up a small prayer that he kisses me… right now.
His mouth finds mine like I hoped it would.
His kisses me once, twice, then deeper. He kisses me like we’re alone, like there are no eyes, no noise, no universe but this.
His hands slide up the sides of my torso, leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches, until his hands cradle my jaw, tilting my mouth exactly how he wants me, kissing me like he’s been waiting since the second he saw me on the jumbotron.
The bar goes feral behind us. Cheers and whistles… someone banging a glass on the table, but all I feel is him.
“GET A ROOM!” someone yells.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless.
Scottie just smiles down at me, not caring about the surrounding people, still holding me close. “Best losing bet,” he repeats softly.
My pulse is a runaway rhythm.
The walk back to The Commons feels too long and too short at the same time. That kiss inside Oakley’s flipped every switch inside me, lit every fuse. Scottie keeps glancing over at me as we walk with the rest of our group, like he’s trying to figure out if I felt the same explosion he did.
There’s a connection between us. Something that’s been building since our wedding night, humming under every breakfast, every touch, every look. Something snapped loose in the back alley of the Roadhouse, only for both of us to pull back at the last second.
And now… now it feels like it’s going to burst at the seams.
Fighting this was manageable at first. A subtle ache. A maybe someday. But tonight, I can see it in his eyes. It’s the same feeling I have. He doesn’t want to fight it anymore. And the truth is… neither do I.
We say goodnight to the last of our group as everyone steps off onto the floors of their apartments, and by the time the penthouse door clicks shut behind us, something in me gives way.
I step into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, needing him close. Needing him like I’ve never needed anything.
“Scottie,” I whisper.
He barely gets out a reply before I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It’s gentle at first. Searching and almost tentative.
My lips are asking a question I don’t have words for.
He makes a low sound in his chest, something between a groan and a sigh, and then his hands slide instinctively to my waist, pulling me in flush against him.
That’s the moment that everything inside me spirals.
The kiss deepens because he deepens it, and I don’t protest. I want him as much as he wants me.
His mouth moves over mine with a hunger that steals my breath, his tongue sliding against my bottom lip until I open for him. He tastes of Gatorade and mint. He never touched the beer tonight that he was offered, and all I can think is how much I want to drown in this moment.
I melt into him, like I’ve been waiting for this, because I have been. Ever since the honky-tonk, and the alley, and the moment in the hotel room when he said he’d get on his knees to beg.
My body understands what I want before my mind catches up.
This was always going to happen tonight.
His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my face so he can kiss me deeper, slower, like he’s savoring every second.
My fingers curl into his shirt, wrinkling the fabric, and I don’t care.
All I care about is the heat of his body, the way his heart pounds against my chest, the way he’s holding me like I’m precious and breakable and his.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen and red from my kiss, and the look on his face is raw need barely restrained. It sends a thrill straight through me.
I don’t think. I just act.
I drop to my knees right there in the entryway.
The cool hardwood bites into my skin through my dress, grounding me even as my pulse races. I reach for him, hands sliding up his thigh before I can think about how I’m probably the least experienced woman to ever do this to him, but I can’t care because he makes me bolder than anyone ever has.
I feel the muscles tense beneath his jeans. “Kat...” His voice is already rough. “What are you—”
I look up at him as my fingers find his belt. His breath catches audibly.
“Let me,” I whisper.
For a moment, he just stares down at me, chest rising and falling rapidly, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Then he nods, just once, and I watch his throat work as he swallows hard.
I unbuckle his belt slowly, the metallic clink loud in the quiet entryway. My hands are steadier than I expected as I unbutton his pants, slide the zipper down tooth by tooth. The sound makes him inhale sharply.
I can see the outline of him through his boxer briefs. He’s hard and straining against the fabric, my mouth watering at the sight of how perfect and powerful he looks, and all the things he could do to me with it, as heat pools low in my belly.
I touch him lightly through the thin material at first. Just enough to feel the heat of him, the rigid length pressing against my palm… the heavy weight of him.
He groans, his fists clenching at his sides like he’s afraid that if he touches me, he’ll lose whatever fragile restraint he’s holding onto.
“KitKat...” His voice is strained, desperate. “Baby, you don’t have to—”
But I’m already leaning in, pressing my lips to him through the fabric. Soft, exploring kisses that trace the shape of him. He jerks against my mouth, a strangled sound escaping him.
“I want to,” I whisper against him, and I do. I want to make him feel the way he made me feel in that alley with his fingers inside me. I want to unravel him completely, as he did to me. “Let me.”
His head tips back against the door, jaw clenching like he’s in pain.
His fingers twitch, curl into white knuckled fists, and I can see the war happening in him—the desire to stop me, pull me up, protect me from feeling like I have to do this…
. and battling against the desperate need to let me continue.
I know he needs this, too. And ultimately, need wins.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs and slowly pull them down along with his pants.
He springs free, and my belly flips at the size of him.
He’s beautiful.
Hard and thick and flushed dark with arousal.
I can see his pulse throbbing, can see the bead of moisture at the tip.
He’s bigger than I expected—not that I have much basis for comparison, but men’s ballet tights don’t exactly keep much for the imagination, and many don’t have any issue with changing out in the open backstage—but none of them have been as impressive as Scottie, and for a second, nervousness flutters in my chest.
But then he makes a broken sound above me, and my inexperience outweighs my need to taste him.
I wrap my fingers around his shaft… hot and silky-smooth, and impossibly hard. He hisses through his teeth.
“You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?” he groans.
The idea that I can make someone as strong and controlled as Scottie look like he’s coming apart thrills me in a way I’ve never felt before. I might not be experienced, but I have power here. And I want to use it.
I lean in, guiding him to my lips until they connect.
His breath punches out of him, his hips shifting forward before he can stop himself, and one hand finally slides into my hair with a broken sound like he’s losing his mind.
I open my mouth and take him in.
The taste of him floods my senses—salt and skin and pure male—and I hear him curse above me, his fingers tightening in my hair.
I start slowly, using my tongue to explore him, learning the shape and texture of him. The prominent vein along the underside. The way he pulses against my tongue. The contrast between the smooth head and the rigid shaft.
“Jesus, Kat...” He’s trembling now, the muscles in his thighs jumping under my free hand. “Your mouth... fuck, your mouth feels so good.”
The praise makes me bolder.
I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, tricks I’ve heard dancers talk about between rehearsals, using my hand to stroke what won’t fit in my mouth. I find a rhythm—slow and deliberate—that has him gasping my name like a prayer.