Epilogue #2
It’s a performance. It’s all attitude. Hips sliding, body twisting around the line of carbon fiber, dress riding up and falling back in slow waves. Sometimes she faces me, dragging her hand up the stick as she arches. Sometimes she turns away, giving me the curve of her back, the sweep of her legs.
Every time she passes the point of no return, where she could topple forward, where gravity should have her, she catches herself with the stick.
And I’m losing my mind.
Downstairs, I can still hear the team faintly. A burst of laughter. The bass of whatever playlist they’ve put on repeat. The world is still moving.
In here, it feels like everything’s boiled down to her and the scrape of wood against my floor.
The stick taps my thigh again, a small command. I spread a little wider, and she steps into the space she’s made, one hand sliding from the shaft to my shoulder to steady herself.
From this angle, she’s towering over me, dress hanging in translucent lines around her, stick behind her like a spine.
“You know what I remember?” she says, leaning down just enough that her hair brushes my cheek. “The first gala. You looked at my dress like you hated it for covering my body. It’s how you’re looking at this dress now.”
She drags the butt end of the stick up the inside of my thigh, stopping a breath away from where I’m straining against my shorts.
My hands snap to the armrests again.
“Stop teasing me,” I grunt.
“You threatening me, Captain?” She smiles, pleased.
“No,” I say. “I’m begging you.”
Her smile grows at my words and she moves. The stick slides away from my leg and comes up under my jaw, the curve of the blade nudging my chin up. It’s barely any pressure, but my head tips back all the same, instinct pulling at my muscles .
She looks down at me like she’s found her favorite view.
“Look at you,” she says softly. “Captain’s benched.”
I let out a strained breath. “Enjoy it. Doesn’t happen often.”
“Trust me,” she says. “I am.”
She keeps the blade under my jaw as she leans in. Not close enough to kiss. Just close enough that I can see the way her chest rises and falls a little faster than she’s pretending.
“I love you, you know,” she says conversationally. “That’s why I’m doing this the kind way.” She bends down in front of me, getting even closer.
“This is the kind way?” I arch a brow.
“Mm-hmm. I could have done this downstairs. With an audience.”
“Try it,” I say, a laugh catching in my throat. “See how fast I ruin the fucking party.”
Her eyes heat. She drops the stick away from my face, leaving my skin tingling where the blade was. Then she climbs into my lap. Weight, heat, the whisper of that useless dress against my skin.
My hands go to her hips on instinct .
“That’s better,” she says, looping her arms around my neck. “You’re much easier to handle when you’re not in motion.”
“I’m about two seconds from being in motion,” I say, fingers tightening.
She wiggles once, testing the leash. “You gonna be good?”
“Not a chance.”
“Me neither,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone and starts gliding down my body until she settles between my legs.
She’s on her knees in front of me, chin tipped just high enough to meet my eyes.
Her hands smooth over my thighs and I feel the muscle tense as they slide up.
I watch as her fingers slip under the waistband of my shorts.
She pulls them down slowly. My cock springs free, hard and already leaking precum, and her gaze drops to it immediately.
Her mouth parts and her pink tongue slides out to wet her lips.
My fingers grip the armrests so hard they hurt.
She meets my eyes again, heat pouring off her in waves .
Then she leans in and presses her mouth to my stomach, trailing kisses across it. I shift in the chair, watching my own chest rise and fall with each shallow breath I take.
“How long do you plan on torturing me?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Because I’m not a patient man, Jessica.”
She smiles then shifts her hand, wrapping her fingers around the base of my cock. She gives me one slow stroke, testing.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, my head tipping back against the headrest.
“Who knew you could be so obedient,” she says.
My eyes snap back down to her.
She’s glowing. On her knees, back arched just enough, the curve of her ass framed by her bikini, with one hand wrapped around my cock.
Then she leans forward and drags her pink tongue across the flushed tip of my dick, gathering the leaking precum.
My hips thrust up on instinct, my teeth grinding down.
“You taste so good, Captain,” she murmurs, lips ghosting over the tip .
Her hand stays firm at the base, keeping my hips down, and then she does it again.
A ragged groan slips out of me but she doesn’t give me any time. She parts her lips and takes me in. Just a few inches, but it’s enough that my vision fuzzes at the edges and my lungs can’t pull air.
“Fucking Christ,” I bite out through gritted teeth.
Her mouth is hot and wet. Her lips glide down slowly, cheeks hollowing as she draws me in like she’s starving.
And her eyes stay locked on mine the whole time.
I can’t do this. I can’t fucking handle this.
“Jessica,” I choke, every muscle in my body pulled so tight I might snap.
She hums around me, vibrations traveling through my dick. And I almost lose it. My hands twitch toward her but don’t dare interrupt. The sting of sweat prickling my spine.
And then, with one last swirl of her tongue that makes me groan, she lets me go and leans back on her heels, licking the corner of her mouth.
She looks completely power-drunk.
She taps the side of my thigh. “Still breathing? ”
Fucking barely.
“Get up,” I grit.
“Oh?” She raises a brow. “Too much for you?”
“Get the fuck up, Jessica.” Her name sounds like gravel when I say it.
When I stand, it’s on shaking legs. When I lift her off the ground, it’s with my hands full of her ass and my mouth crashing into hers.
Playtime’s over.
Now it’s my turn.
By the time we make it downstairs, the sun’s lower and Jessica has that just-been-fucked flush in her cheeks. I don’t think anyone else clocks it, probably thinking it’s sunburn.
The table itself is ridiculous—three identical outdoor tables shoved together to make one long monster that can fit the whole roster. I had to buy two more this week. Chairs are crammed side by side, there are plates everywhere, and condensation runs down glasses.
Jace is mid-story, standing because of course he is, one foot on a chair, telling a blow-by-blow of the last ten seconds of Game Six for the twentieth time.
“…and I swear to God, I look over and Zed’s just staring at this guy like he’s picking a cut of meat. I bet the bastard peed a little.”
Laughter ripples down the table.
Zed is at the far end, nearest the grill. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a tiny tick at the corner of his mouth that, on him, qualifies as hysterical.
Jess slips into the empty chair beside mine and I pull her closer automatically, my hand finding the bare strip of her thigh under the table.
She leans into the touch with a smile and sets her plate down.
Our plates are a mess of color. Grilled vegetables, some kind of salad, three different things Zed put over fire that look damn good. Mine is mostly protein, because playoffs might be over but my body doesn’t know that yet.
“Here,” she says, spearing something off her plate I definitely did not put on mine. “Open.”
“What’s this?” I give her a flat look .
“Just try it.”
I do what she says, because apparently that’s my thing now, and she slides the fork between my teeth. Something charred and smoky and sweet hits my tongue.
It’s good.
“See?” she says, smug. “Carbs won’t kill you.”
“Jury’s still out,” I say around the bite, but my free hand squeezes her thigh in thanks.
She grins, eyes bright in the string lights we threw up a few nights ago when the Cup first came home.
She’s different now. Same laugh. Same stubborn mouth. Same need to do everything herself. But there’s more of her now. I could say the same about myself.
Her phone’s been buzzing nonstop all week.
Sometimes she checks it, sometimes she doesn’t.
When she does, it’s names I recognize. Houses.
Magazines. Brands. They want her as a junior designer, as head of a capsule, as the name on a collaboration.
Her runway lit a match under the right asses and now everyone’s scrambling to pretend they’ve always believed in her.
She did that .
I still haven’t told her about what I did. She doesn’t know I wired money to wipe out her parents’ debt. It took days to convince them to let me help, and they eventually relented with promises to pay me back, even though I told them not to worry about it.
I don’t like secrets. Not after all the years of smiling for cameras and saying things I didn’t mean to save other people’s faces.
But some secrets are better left as such.
Same as the show. She still thinks it was a last-minute miracle—this unheard-of guest designer slot at a major event, the director “just happening” to have space, the PR people “just happening” to see her work and put her on the list.
Truth is, I called in favors. Pulled strings I hadn’t earned in rooms she’d been trying to get into for years. Put my weight behind a list of names and made sure hers didn’t get lost.
In the end, I wasn’t the reason she got the offer. Her talent was. I just made them notice it.
So yeah, I’ll keep that part to myself. I don’t want to be the ghost behind her every success. I want her to stand in front of it and know, with all that bone-deep certainty she carries, that she earned it.
Her head tips onto my shoulder for a second. Her hand finds mine under the table and laces our fingers together.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she murmurs.
“You can’t afford them,” I say.
She snorts.