39. Kate
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kate
Jordan didn’t win the title in Montreal, but he made the final.
A top-four finish was huge, especially on hard courts. I was so stupidly proud. Watching him tear it up out there like he belonged, holding his own under pressure, brushing off nerves like they couldn’t touch him. Chris called it his best hard-court performance of the year.
But with every match, the spotlight grew hotter.
There were more headlines, more gossip, more speculation.
Who is Jordan Taylor’s new mystery woman? British psychologist turned courtside WAG?
Jesus, how did they even get that information?
I tried to laugh it off. Gwen texted every day with memes and emotional pep talks.
Maggie was a steady anchor, always calm, always warm.
And Jordan…Jordan was everything. He’d slip an arm around my waist when the cameras crowded in, cut in before a reporter could ask something personal, steer me toward the car like it was second nature.
He kept telling me the gossip was just noise.
But this world wasn’t built for me. I was used to quiet spaces and messy emotions. Not camera flashes and designer name tags.
Tonight was the players’ dinner, semi-formal, full of ATP politics and sponsor smiles. I hadn’t planned on going. Jordan didn’t push, but Maggie had gently insisted.
“You want people to know you’re not just passing through,” she said, pinning her hair up as I curled mine. “Just go and have fun. Let them see for themselves why he’s serious about you.”
I hadn’t packed for anything like this. The nicest thing I had was the navy dress I wore in Wimbledon that I’d thrown in on a whim. But Jordan took one look at it and shook his head.
“Nuh-uh. We’re not doing that,” he said, his arms folded. “Come on. We’re going to find you something.”
I’d argued, told him he didn’t need to do that. That I didn’t want to make a scene.
He’d grinned like I was speaking a different language. “It’s not a scene, Katie. It’s a dress. And I want to spoil you. Let me.”
So I let him give me my Pretty Woman moment. Reluctantly.
He picked the dress himself. We’d wandered into a boutique in Montreal that smelled of expensive candles and was softly lit in a way that was designed to stop you noticing the price tags.
A dress in the window had caught my eye— black velvet on top, satin on the bottom.
Fitted, strapless, falling just past my ankle.
Understated but devastating. I reached straight for the price tag out of habit, just as a shop assistant appeared with two glasses of champagne, but Jordan caught my wrist and shook his head.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “If you like it, try it.”
I tried it on and emerged from the changing room feeling more exposed than I’d expected. I smoothed my hands down the fabric, ready to say it wasn’t me.
Then I saw his face. His jaw slackened. His eyes dropped to the hem and slowly climbed back up my body.
“Holy shit,” he said quietly, standing like he needed to get closer. “We’re buying it.”
I flushed, half-laughing. “It’s a bit much.”
“No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He stepped forward and kissed me right there in the middle of the boutique. “That dress is mine now,” he murmured. “Just like you.”
I’d never been looked at like that before.
Like I was the prize. Andrew never looked at me that way.
He’d ask why I was so dressed up, why I was “trying too hard.” As if wanting to feel beautiful was something to apologise for.
Jordan couldn’t be further than that. He wanted me to feel beautiful; he thrived on making me feel incredible, like the world stopped when he looked at me.
Later, as we arrived at the event, the cameras flashed and I did my best not to flinch. Jordan’s hand stayed laced with mine, steady and certain. He made me feel so safe, so protected.
Inside, the room glittered with names I half-recognised. Legends. Rising stars. And women, impossibly glossy women who looked like they’d stepped straight out of a fashion magazine spread. I clung to Maggie like a lifeline.
“Jesus, this is fancy,” I said, scanning the room.
“Yeah,” Maggie laughed, “get used to it, darling. This is your life now.”
God. It still didn’t feel like it, but the night started better than expected.
Maggie introduced me to some of the wives she knew.
The normal ones. I met the wife of a Scottish player who was funny and gloriously grounded, a former lawyer with a wicked laugh.
Jordan rarely left my side, and his hand barely left my arse.
I started to feel like maybe I wasn’t completely out of place.
Until I left to use the loo.
On the way there, I passed a group of girls who were model-thin, all legs, glossy hair, and pouty lips. They couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.
“She’s pretty…that one Jordan’s brought,” one said, her voice laced with a bite. “But not that pretty. He could’ve done better.”
Another one laughed. “The last one was stunning. This one’s giving…therapist with benefits.”
I didn’t stop. Just kept walking, head down, pulse pounding in my ears. I shoved the toilet door harder than necessary, eyes already burning, and locked myself into the nearest stall. I sat down hard on the lid, hands shaking.
“Fuuuuuck,” I hissed under my breath, furious at the sting behind my eyes.
This. This was exactly why I didn’t belong here. Hearing out loud the thoughts I’d been trying to keep buried, spoken by the very people I already felt threatened by? It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. God, it did.
The words cut deep. Just when I’d started to believe I wasn’t some novelty or fling, this had to happen. A reminder that I could be temporary. Or worse…forgettable.
I stood, forced a breath, and unlocked the stall. Wiped away the one tear that escaped. Fixed my lipstick. Stared myself down in the mirror.
“Fuck them,” I whispered angrily.
I took a deep, steadying breath. Then I plastered on a smile. Walked out like nothing had happened. Pushed through the rest of the night and said nothing. But the pull in my stomach wouldn’t ease. That sick, twisting certainty that I wasn’t good enough to be seen with him.
I slipped back to the table and eased into my seat like nothing had happened.
I kept my eyes down, because if I looked at anyone, I might’ve burst into tears.
The clink of cutlery, the hum of polite conversation, it all felt suddenly too loud.
Too bright. My food was still warm, but untouched.
I pushed it around my plate, willing my heart to settle.
I didn’t say a word. But it must’ve been written all over me, because Jordan’s eyes tracked me the moment I sat down. He leaned in, voice low and close.
“Everything okay, babe?”
I nodded too fast. “Mhm,” I chirped, pairing it with a smile I hoped passed as convincing. It wasn’t. My body was as stiff as a rod.
His gaze lingered on mine. Searching, but he didn’t push.
He just sat back slowly, his hand slipping onto my shoulder, thumb moving in gentle, steady strokes like he was grounding me.
Reminding me he was right there. I didn’t lean into it, but I didn’t pull away, either. He didn’t need to say anything else.
Back at the hotel, I peeled off the heels as I stood by the mirror, fingers lingering at the back of my neck, fiddling with the clasp of one earring, then the other.
Jordan emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a hand through his hair, already down to his boxers and half-smiling at me like I was still the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said, stepping into the space behind me. “You okay?”
I nodded too quickly again. “Mhm.”
He didn’t buy it.
A few seconds passed, then he sat at the edge of the bed, watching me in the mirror. He knew there was something I wasn’t saying and he was giving me space to find the words myself.
My chest ached, because I knew he was waiting. I took a deep breath. Turned around.
“Okay fine…I wasn’t going to say anything,” I admitted. “Didn’t want to make a big deal. But…”
I exhaled, long and slow. “I heard some of the girls talking. At the dinner.”
His posture shifted, his brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“They didn’t know I heard. Or…maybe they didn’t care. Said I wasn’t as pretty as your last girlfriend. That I looked like a therapist with benefits.”
I laughed, bitterly. “I mean…psychologist, obviously. So points for effort, I guess.”
I looked down, trying to swallow the burn in my throat. Jordan stood quietly and crossed the room.
He took the earrings from my hands first and he set them down gently on the dresser. Then he reached for my chin and tipped it up so I had to look at him.
“First of all,” he said, “they’re jealous.”
I huffed and tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let me.
“I mean it. You walked into that room tonight and every guy there nearly choked on their drink. I’ve never seen anything like it. You were electric. Elegant. Fucking impossible to look away from.”
My breath caught.
“I had to sit through two hours of small talk pretending I wasn’t thinking about dragging you home and bending you over this bed the whole time.”
I smiled, reluctantly.
His hand slid to my waist. “But more than that…you don’t belong in their world because you’re not pretending. You don’t need to fake it. You don’t need to smile at people you don’t like, or care about someone’s follower count. That’s what makes you different. That’s why I want you next to me.”
I blinked hard, my throat tight.
He kissed my cheek. My temple. “You’re real, Katie. You see people. You understand things most of them wouldn’t even think to look for. And you’re so fucking beautiful, it ruins me.” A tear slipped down my cheek, and he caught it with his thumb.
Then he stilled, his touch faltering slightly as something shifted behind his eyes.
“You should’ve told me,” he said quietly.
I looked up.
“Back at the dinner,” he said. “You should’ve said something.”
My lips parted, but my voice didn’t come out.
His voice softened, but it was laced with something tighter now. Hurt, maybe. Frustration he was trying to swallow.
“I could’ve said something. Shut it down. Looked them in the eye and made sure they knew exactly who you were to me.”
“I didn’t want to cause a scene,” I said too quickly. “It wasn’t the time.”
“I don’t care about the time.” He stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair. “I just…” He exhaled, steadying himself. “I hate that you still think you have to handle everything on your own. That you still don’t believe someone’s got your back.”
My heart throbbed.
“Because I do,” he said. “I’ve got you. Always. You don’t have to push through everything alone anymore.”
I took a shaky breath. “I’m not used to anyone standing up for me.”
He closed the distance again, gathering me close like he could shield me from everything. Like he wanted to.
“Well, get used to it.”
His fingers threaded into my hair, tilting my face up again. “You’re mine, Katie. And I’ll fight every person in every room if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”
I leaned my forehead against his lips, letting him place a kiss there. This man had said all the right things to me, and he meant them. Then why did their words still cut through me like a knife? I closed my eyes and let another tear slip down my cheek.
“I hate it when you cry,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to mine. “Come here. Let me remind you who you are.”
He slid the zipper low, steady and unhurried, like he couldn’t quite believe I was his to touch.
He eased it from my body with aching care, his mouth brushing each inch of newly bared skin. When it slipped to the floor, he stepped back and just looked at me for a moment. His eyes swept over me like he couldn’t get enough of me. Like he’d never seen anything more worthy of worship.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
Then he came forward again, walking me back toward the bed, kissing the curve of my neck, the slope of my shoulder, the dip of my collarbone.
He unhooked my bra and let it fall. His mouth closed over my nipple with a low groan, stubble dragging hot across my chest, his hands strong and firm on my hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.
“Kate,” he rasped, his voice shredded. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I let myself feel it.
The heat of his breath. The roughness of his jaw. The way his touch silenced every whisper of doubt still echoing in my chest.
Then he knelt, slowly but surely. His eyes never left mine as he dragged my underwear down with his teeth, hands on my thighs like he needed to hold me open.
“Fuck, Katie,” he breathed. “Let me taste you. Let me take all of it away.”
And he did.
He worshipped me with his mouth, deep, devoted, unrelenting.
Like this was what he’d been born to do.
His tongue found every aching, perfect place.
His fingers curled inside me in a rhythm that he knew hit my G-spot every time.
My back arched. My thighs trembled. I came hard, unravelling on his tongue with a cry that didn’t sound like me.
When I pulled him up to kiss me, I tasted the mess of us between us. He was already hard, already grinning that sinful, cocky grin that told me he knew exactly what he’d just done.
“Please,” I whispered, clutching at his shoulders.
He didn’t make me beg again. He was sitting at the edge of the bed when I crawled onto his lap, straddling him.
He lined himself up, nudging against me, and slid in slow, inch by devastating inch, until he was buried to the hilt, groaning like the feel of me might just break him.
“Jesus, Katie…” His voice cracked. “I’ll never get over this. The way you feel around me. Like you were made for me.”
He moved slowly at first. Teasing his long, hard cock fully out of me each time. Then each thrust became deliberate, like he was carving his name into me so I’d never forget. Like he was teaching my body something so I’d remember this very moment.
I wrapped my legs around him, hauling him deeper, greedy for every inch.
He was mine. Only mine. Nobody else got to feel Jordan Taylor spill inside them, nobody else got this version of him.
My arms tightened around his neck as his mouth closed hot around my nipple, teeth catching just enough to send me over. I shattered, crying out his name.
“That’s it, babe,” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel. “That’s who you come for. Me. Only me.”
His rhythm broke as he chased his own orgasm, hips grinding deeper until I could feel him harden further as he came with a raw, hoarse sound, spilling inside me and burying his face against my shoulder like he needed to feel something solid to hold onto.
After, he didn’t let go. He kissed my face. My lips. My collarbone. His hand settled over my heart like he needed to feel it beating.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, his breath catching. “Fuck anyone who tries to make you feel less than that.”
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t just hear it. I believed him.