Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Camille
When Love’s on the Line
I’m standing outside the Crawford family house, my heart doing this ridiculous fluttery thing it shouldn’t be doing. For a moment, I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to see him—I do. But something about this feels . . . different. A week ago, he was just Killion, the guy I met at a party. Now, he’s Killion Crawford, first pick in the draft, future star of the New York Gladiators. No pressure or anything.
I’m still working up the nerve to knock when the door swings open.
And there he is, hands shoved into his pockets, that familiar grin on his face—the one that says he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on me.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, his voice warm against the cool night air.
Before I can think of a sarcastic response, he closes the distance between us and kisses me. Hard.
Sucking the breath out of me while giving me his. One of my hands grip his hoodie for balance because apparently, I’ve forgotten how to stand. His lips are demanding but somehow still soft, like he’s trying to show me just how much I missed him before I even realized it myself.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Well, hello to you, too.”
“Hi,” he says sheepishly.
“You’re going to New York,” I say, taking a shaky breath. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close. “Congratulations. First pick, huh? I heard that’s kind of a big deal.”
“It’s . . . you know, cool,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. Like it’s not everything.
I step back, giving him a once-over. He looks the same—messy dark hair, that worn sweatshirt that I’m 90% sure he’s had since high school, the guy who pulled me out of a loud party and took me to a tiny diner for pie and fries. But there’s something in his eyes now, something quieter, more thoughtful.
“You’re not freaking out?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Not yet,” he says with a small grin, holding the door open for me.
The smell of tomato sauce and cheese hits me as soon as I step inside. It’s comforting in the way only a family home can be.
“Do you want anything?” he asks, heading for the kitchen. “I ordered us half meat lovers, half just cheese. Got water or juice if you’re thirsty.”
“Water’s fine,” I say, trailing after him.
He pours two glasses and hands me one, leaning against the counter like this is just another night.
“So,” I say, taking a sip, “how does it feel? Being the guy everyone’s talking about?”
He shrugs again, but his grin falters just a little. “Weird. Good weird, I guess.”
I lean against the counter across from him, studying his face. “You’re underselling this, Crawford. First pick? Future star? This is your moment.”
“Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a lot, you know? Everyone’s expecting me to—” He stops himself, shaking his head.
“To what?” I press, stepping closer.
“To be as perfect as my father,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “And maybe I’m not ready for that. Maybe I should’ve waited until I graduated. Been more mentally prepared.”
I set my glass down and close the distance between us, taking his hand in mine. “You don’t have to be perfect, Killion. You just have to be you. That’s the guy they drafted. And for the record, I think he’s pretty damn great.”
He looks at me for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“Why? Because I’m right?”
“No,” he says, his grin widening. “Because you make me want to believe it. Though, it’s scary too. A lot’s about to change.”
I nod, because what else can I say? He’s right. Everything is changing—for him, for us, if there even is an us.
“When do you leave?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, though the question weighs more than I’d like to admit.
“I’m not leaving Boston just yet,” Killion says, his tone calm, like he’s thought this all through. “Dad and I worked out a schedule. I’ll be in New York for minicamp and whatever else they’ve got lined up for the rookies. But I’ll be here from mid-June until the end of July.”
He says it like it’s simple, like the thought of him juggling two cities isn’t monumental. But all I can hear are the words ‘leaving’ and ‘New York.’ The rest is white noise.
I nod, my lips pressing into a tight line as I try to process what that means. It shouldn’t feel like a goodbye—not yet. But it does. And I don’t want to think about endings. Not now. Not when everything feels so new and full of potential.
Before I can stop myself, I step forward and wrap my arms around him, burying my face against his chest. His body tenses for half a second before he relaxes, his arms coming up to pull me closer.
“I don’t like thinking about you leaving,” I mumble, my voice muffled against his sweatshirt.
“I’m not gone yet,” he says softly, one hand sliding up my back, the other settling at my waist.
The warmth of his touch makes it both better and worse. I tilt my head to look up at him, my breath catching at the way his dark eyes meet mine—steady, thoughtful, like he’s memorizing this moment.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not rushed, not desperate. It’s deep and deliberate, the kind of kiss that says everything we’re both too scared to put into words. My fingers grip his sweatshirt, and I press closer, as if I can keep him here, in this exact moment, just a little longer.
When we finally pull back, I’m breathless, and his forehead rests against mine.
“You’re really not leaving until July?” I ask softly, needing to hear it again .
“Not until July,” he confirms, his lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss. “And even then, I’ll still be close. We’ll figure things out. You’ll see me more than you want to.”
“That’s not possible,” I say with a shaky laugh, my chest tightening at the thought of missing him anyway.
He cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone, his touch both tender and grounding. “You don’t have to worry about the end, okay? We’re not there. We’re just getting started.”
Before I can respond, his lips crash onto mine. There’s no hesitation, no holding back—it’s fierce, claiming, the kind of kiss that steals my breath and makes my knees go weak. I barely register him stepping forward, pressing me against the wall, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.
In one swift motion, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my leggings, tugging them down past my thighs. The cool air brushes my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating off him as he works his jeans open, shoving them and his boxers down in one fluid motion.
He lifts me effortlessly, his strong hands gripping my thighs as he pins me against the wall. His body presses into mine, hard and hot, and I gasp at the intensity of it all. His steely gaze locks on mine, his dark eyes burning with desire.
“Stop me,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, “if you don’t want this. Stop me if you don’t want me inside you.”
My heart is racing, my breaths shallow, but I don’t hesitate. “I want this,” I whisper, my voice trembling but sure. “I want you.”
A growl rumbles from his chest as he reaches for his wallet, pulling out a condom and tearing it open with practiced ease. My legs tremble in his hold as I watch him roll it on, the sight making heat pool low in my belly.
He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock brushing against my slick folds. The anticipation is electric, my body tensing in a mix of excitement and nerves.
“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice steady but laced with raw need. I do, and the intensity in his eyes makes me feel completely exposed, like he’s seeing every part of me.
Slowly, he pushes inside, the stretch almost too much, and I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he groans, his head dropping to my neck as he pauses, letting me adjust to his size. “You feel so good, baby. So tight. So perfect. So mine.”
The burn fades into a deep ache, a need that builds with every second he’s still inside me. I rock my hips against him, and he takes the hint, thrusting in deeper, filling me completely .
“Oh my God,” I gasp, my head falling back against the wall.
He moves, his rhythm slow at first, deliberate, each thrust driving me higher. His hands grip my thighs tighter, holding me up like I weigh nothing. The wall behind me is solid, grounding me as he fucks me, his cock sliding in and out, hitting just the right spot with every stroke.
“You feel incredible,” he growls, his lips brushing against my neck. “So wet, so perfect for me.”
My moans grow louder with each thrust, my body completely under his control. His grip is firm, his hand sliding from my thigh to cup my ass, pulling me even closer, deeper, until I’m gasping, the pleasure building into something unstoppable.
“Touch yourself,” he growls against my ear, his voice rough and commanding. “Show me how much you want this, Camille. Let me see you fall apart.”
I hesitate, my breath catching, and his gaze locks onto mine, intense and unyielding. “Do it,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I want to see you touch that pretty clit while I fuck you.”
My trembling hand moves between us, my fingers finding my swollen, sensitive clit. The moment I touch it, the sensation is overwhelming, a jolt of electricity shooting through me as his cock fills me completely, thrusting deep and steady.
“That’s it,” he groans, his thrusts quickening as he watches me. “Good girl. Keep going. Make yourself come for me.”
The combination of my fingers working my clit and his relentless pace is too much. My body trembles, the pressure coiling tight in my belly, ready to snap.
“Fuck, you’re so sexy like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. “You have no idea how good you look. How good you feel. Come for me, Camille. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”
His words are my undoing. The orgasm crashes over me, blinding and intense, my fingers faltering as my body tightens around him. I cry out his name, my nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me.
“Jesus, Camille,” he groans, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time, his own release hitting him hard. His body trembles against mine, his breaths ragged as he rides out his climax.
The only sound in the room is our labored breathing, our bodies still tangled together. Slowly, he pulls back, his hands gentle as he brushes a strand of damp hair from my face.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his lips finding mine in a soft, lingering kiss. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
As the last tremors of our climaxes fade, he holds me close, his strong arms steadying me as he gently lowers me to the couch. My body feels boneless, utterly spent, but he doesn’t let me go—not even for a second .
“Stay here,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod, too dazed to respond, watching as he disappears into the bathroom. Moments later, he’s back with a warm, damp towel, his jeans hastily pulled up but unbuttoned, the sight of him both endearing and devastatingly sexy.
He kneels beside me, his touch soft as he cleans me up, taking his time, his movements unhurried. “You okay, baby?” he asks, his voice gentle but firm, his eyes searching mine for any hint of discomfort.
“I’m perfect,” I whisper, my lips curving into a small, content smile.
“Damn right, you are,” he says, his grin softening as he leans down to press a kiss to my lips. “You’re mine, Camille. My girl.”
The words make my heart stutter, warmth spreading through me as I reach up to cup his face. “Yours,” I echo, the truth of it settling over me like a blanket.
He tosses the towel aside, pulling me into his arms. His hands move soothingly along my back, his fingers tracing idle patterns that make me shiver.
“I love you,” he murmurs, the words quiet but certain, as if he’s known it for a while and couldn’t hold them in any longer. “You have no idea how much.”
I freeze for half a second, the weight of his confession hitting me—but then I melt into him, pressing my face against his chest, my arms wrapping around him tightly .
“I love you, too,” I whisper against his skin, the words spilling out before I can overthink them.
His hold on me tightens, his lips pressing to the top of my head. “You’re everything, you know that?”
I smile faintly, nuzzling closer, but the words slip out before I can stop them. “I’m scared. This feels too soon.”
He tilts my chin up, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You can’t stop yourself from falling, Camille,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “But we can make damn sure that while we’re falling, we take care of each other’s hearts.”
And I hope he’s right, because I don’t what’s going to happen if he suddenly realizes I’m not enough. I’m too little for the kind of person he’s about to become. I just pray I can survive the fall.