Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
MYA
H e’s coming for me.
That’s the only thought I can manage when Kingston makes a beeline for me, looking like he walked off the cover of GQ with a vendetta. He’s not in his gear anymore—not the pads and jersey I watched him wear like armor on the field. No, he’s in a suit. A jet-black, soul-stealing suit that fits his body like sin. The kind of tailored precision that screams Savile Row and seduction. Sharp lapels. Open collar. No tie. Just a hint of the man beneath, dangerous and deliberate.
He’s not storming into the family box. He’s already inside. Already owned the room the second he walked in.
And now?
His eyes—those deep obsidian oceans laced with guilt, fury, and want—lock on mine.
My knees wobble. My lungs glitch. Because the thing is? Watching Kingston Reign play football is a turn-on. An ache-inducing, hormone-obliterating, soul-stirring turn-on. But this—watching him command a room in a post-game suit, cheeks rough with stubble, mouth tight with disappointment?
It’s lethal.
We haven’t had sex. Not yet. Not even after all those nights sharing the same bed, our limbs accidentally tangled, his breath warm against my neck. We’ve stayed on our respective sides, pretending the electricity doesn’t exist, like we’re not slowly unraveling in the same silence.
But God, it’s getting harder to pretend.
The final whistle blew fifteen minutes ago, the scoreboard reading a brutal 17–20 loss against the Panthers. Close, hard-fought, painful. The kind of loss that sinks deep into the bones of a team and festers. And Kingston—Captain of the Giants, king of the gridiron—will carry it like penance carved across his shoulders.
I watched the whole game with breathless focus. Traced his every move like a pulse—his throws, the ones that looked like poetry midair; the brutal hits that made me flinch even from the box; the way he shoved back his helmet and yelled at the defense after a botched play in the fourth quarter.
He was a storm out there.
And now he’s all quiet thunder and smoldering wreckage.
I stand, slow and uncertain, as he approaches.
A couple of the other players have already peeled off toward the tunnel. Some wives and girlfriends are gathering near the door. There’s talk of a group dinner, a place downtown, someone joking about tequila therapy.
“King, you coming?” Cruz calls, one arm around Isabelle.
Kingston barely flicks his eyes toward him. “Not tonight.”
“C’mon, man. We need it after that dumpster fire.”
“I’ve got plans,” Kingston says, and his voice is low, final.
The door clicks shut behind them.
And then it’s just us. The air between us dense, humming, sharp-edged. He walks to me in silence, every step measured, every inch of his body pulsing with defeat and restraint.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head once. “You don’t have to be.”
He’s still wearing his game face. Only now it’s stitched tighter. Tired. Heavy. His eyes skim my face like he’s memorizing it. Like he needs to remember something soft in a night full of bruises.
“Dinner?” he asks, and it’s not casual. Not light. It’s bare.
I nod, voice caught in my throat. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
And we do.
He doesn’t say a word on the way to the car. Just unlocks it, lets me in, drives like the city isn’t real around us. I don’t ask questions. I know he’s not ready. But I glance sideways every few blocks, just to check if he’s still here, still breathing beneath that steel-plated grief.
We end up at a low-lit place near the penthouse. Nothing fancy. Brick walls, dark wood, the smell of garlic and red wine thick in the air.
He pulls my chair out before sitting across from me.
And when the waitress arrives and he orders—two waters, a bottle of Barolo, some kind of steak pasta with black truffle oil—I watch him fold the menu shut like it’s the last thing anchoring him to earth.
He leans back in the chair and exhales slowly. “I hate losing.”
“I know.”
His jaw twitches. “I hate losing like that. By three. After everything we gave. We were right there.”
“You played your heart out.”
He scoffs. “And still lost.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it.”
“I want it to be more than worth it.” He drags a hand over his jaw. “I want it to mean something.”
“It did.” I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over his. “It always does.”
His eyes meet mine, heat flickering behind them now. “I didn’t want to go out with them tonight.”
“I figured.”
He watches me for a long moment. Then: “I didn’t want anyone but you.”
It’s quiet for a beat too long. My pulse kicks, wild and irrational, because I swear the ground just shifted.
“You have me,” I say softly.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.
Just tightens his grip on my hand.
And for the first time all night, something in his shoulders eases.
Conversation with Kingston has always felt like a familiar rhythm—like a song we both know by heart, even if the tempo shifts. Over plates of grilled salmon and roasted potatoes at a quiet little spot tucked between a wine bar and a bookstore, we fall into that rhythm again. It’s easy. Too easy.
But under the ease, there’s an undercurrent.
A slow-burning, pulse-quickening, can’t-sit-still sort of awareness that’s making it impossible for me to focus on what he’s actually saying about the Panthers’ defensive strategy. I’m too busy watching the way his jaw ticks when he’s frustrated, the way he absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the corner of his cloth napkin, the way his voice dips low when he leans in to tell me something about the locker room atmosphere.
And, God help me, watching Kingston play football—really watching him—was a whole different kind of foreplay. Something about seeing him take control, reading the defense like a puzzle, shouting signals at the line, his biceps straining under his jersey—it did something to me. Even now, thinking about the way he moved, precise and powerful, has me squirming in my seat.
He’s still nursing the loss, I can tell. But when he looks at me—really looks at me—something softens around his eyes.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs as he signs the bill.
“Maybe I like what I see.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s laced with something rougher. Needier.
The sound shoots heat straight to my core.
The car’s idling at the curb when we reach it, but I stop short before the door opens. My hand wraps around his wrist, halting him.
He turns. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, I tug him down by the collar of his jacket and kiss him.
Hard.
I pour every last second of game-day tension, of simmering frustration, of unspoken want into that kiss. My tongue slides against his like I’m trying to taste everything he didn’t say in the locker room. Everything he won’t admit about how much the loss is eating at him. Everything I’ve been holding back, too.
His hands go to my waist, gripping tight. But he lets me take the lead. Lets me kiss him like I mean it. Like I’ve been thinking about doing it since kickoff. Like I didn’t just spend the last three hours clenching my thighs because damn, even a loss looks good on him.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
His voice is rough. “What was that for?”
I smile, brushing my thumb across his bottom lip. “Watching you play got me… excited.”
He groans under his breath, his hand flexing against my hip. “You’re killing me, Mya.”
“Just keeping it honest, captain.”
His eyes darken, that trademark Kingston Maddox smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “Get in the car before I show you what happens when I’m not.”
And just like that, I’m climbing into the backseat of the taxi with legs made of jelly and a racing pulse.
The air between us is thick. Electric. Like someone struck a match in the oxygen between our bodies and we’re both just holding our breath, waiting for the detonation. Kingston’s knee brushes mine and I flinch, but not because I want to move away. I want to climb into his lap. Straddle him. Rip that Savile Row jacket off and tug his shirt free of those pressed slacks and bury my face in the scent lingering on his skin—cologne, leather, and something innately him. Grit and heat. Power and precision. My fingers curl into fists on my lap, trying to resist the compulsion to reach for him.
I fail.
At the next red light, he turns toward me, and the low amber streetlight floods across the sharp cut of his jaw, painting him in gold. My breath catches. Because there’s fire in his eyes, but there’s also hunger. That same hunger I’ve seen every time he’s looked at me today—on the field, across the box, at the restaurant.
And right now.
I don’t wait for the green.
I lean in, wrap my fingers in the collar of his suit jacket, and crush my mouth to his. The kiss is a collision. Messy. Urgent. His hand cups the back of my head as if he’s been waiting for this too, as if it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity right now. I taste frustration and fire, and a need so fierce it feels like it’s going to swallow me whole.
When I pull back, breathless and blinking, he’s staring at me like I just changed everything.
“What was that for?” His voice is low. Rough. Like it got sanded down by emotion.
I smile. Slow. Bold. Confident in a way I haven’t been in days. “Just because.”
His eyes flash, jaw tightening as he exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to lose it completely. “You think this is a game?”
“No,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across the seam of his lips. “But it’s a damn good prelude.”
We make it back to the penthouse in record time, silence stretching between us like tension on a wire. The moment the elevator dings and the doors slide open, he moves. Fast. Like a storm breaking the horizon.
The door slams behind us.
And I’m in his arms.
His hands grip my waist, his mouth finding mine like he’s starved, and I melt into him, kicking off my sneakers as I reach for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, I pop them open, revealing the broad, inked chest beneath. I push the jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, and skim my fingers over the ridges of muscle and the brush of chest hair that makes my mouth water.
He peels my Giants shirt over my head and stares at me in nothing but a soft sports bra and my maternity leggings. “Jesus, Mya.” His voice is wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“I think I do.” I grab his hand and guide it to my hip, my voice a whisper against his ear. “And tonight, I don’t want you to stop.”
His growl is a promise.
He walks me backward, step by step, kissing me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.
Then he lays me down.
And undresses me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
Like he’s been starving for years and I’m the first bite of something that tastes like home.
My bra joins my Giants jersey on the hardwood floor. The air between us sharpens—charged, crackling, electric. His eyes devour every inch of me, but it’s not just heat in them—it’s reverence. Hunger wrapped in something deeper. Something terrifying.
Because the way he’s looking at me? Like this moment means something.
Like I mean something.
My leggings slip off with ease, gravity helping him out. He doesn’t speak. Just follows every movement of his hands with his gaze—slow, steady, intent—like he’s imprinting me into memory. Like he’s been waiting to worship at the altar of my skin and tonight, finally, I let him.
The second I’m bare, Kingston straightens. It takes only one tug for his belt to loosen. The rasp of the zipper might as well be a starting gun because my pulse bolts straight into overdrive. I watch with wide eyes and parted lips as he shucks off his tailored pants and boxer briefs, revealing hard lines and pure muscle—him, in all his brutal, beautiful glory.
And God. He’s big . Everywhere.
But I already knew that. The way he takes up space. The way his presence fills a room—and now, this room. My breath comes out shaky, uneven, thick with need.
He steps between my legs and I swear the air gets sucked out of the room. I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s standing in front of me, naked, raw, real. All six-foot-something of football-sculpted sin.
And he drops to his knees.
My lips part. “Kingston…”
But his hands wrap around my thighs before I can say another word. He pushes them apart gently—then firmly—spreading me wide.
He’s still got that look in his eyes. The same one he wore on the field, under the stadium lights. The one that said this is mine to protect. Mine to fight for.
Only now, there’s no ball, no scoreboard, no crowd. Just us. And what he’s about to do.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against the inside of my thigh. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
A shiver bolts down my spine, settles low in my belly. My fingers tangle in his hair, and when he looks up at me, his expression turns dark, unyielding.
“This okay?” he asks, voice hoarse. Rough.
I nod, but it’s not enough. I need him. Need this. “Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.”
And then his mouth is on me—hot, hungry, holy hell.
I arch off the bed with a gasp, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other buried in his hair. His tongue moves with purpose, slow at first, then teasing, circling my clit like he’s learning every inch of me by heart. Like he’s not just trying to make me come—he’s trying to unravel me. Thread by thread. Breath by breath.
“Kingston—” I choke out his name, a warning and a prayer all wrapped in one, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even hesitate.
He groans against me, the sound vibrating through my core like a fault line splitting wide open.
And I’m gone.
He grips my hips, holding me down as my thighs tremble and my spine curves like a bowstring pulled taut. My body ignites, wave after wave crashing over me as his tongue coaxes every last flicker of sensation from my skin.
When I finally start to come down, he presses one last kiss to the inside of my thigh—soft, reverent—and rises to his feet. His chest is heaving, jaw tight, eyes dark and full of everything I’ve never let myself want. Need. Hope for.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice all gravel and tension, like he’s barely holding himself together.
I nod, still breathless. “Better than okay.”
Kingston brushes his knuckles down my cheek, then leans in and kisses me—slow and deep and filthy. Like he wants me to taste what he just did to me.
And damn it, I moan into his mouth, gripping the nape of his neck as he moves us backwards, guiding me further up the bed until I’m beneath him.
He braces one arm beside my head and reaches between us with the other, lining himself up?—
But he stops. Just like that.
His forehead drops to mine, and his voice is low, rough. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
My heart kicks.
“Tell me you don’t want this, Mya,” he says, his gaze searching mine. “Because once I start, I’m not holding back. Not tonight.”
I stare up at him, every inch of my skin flushed and buzzing, every nerve-ending aching for him.
I curl my legs around his waist, my voice a whisper against his lips.
“Then don’t hold back.”
He peppers my mouth with kisses, slowly stoking the fire inside me. I drop my legs from around his waist, and he positions me on my side, straddling one leg while holding the other bent towards my chest. My body jolts when his fingers slide through the lips of my sex and finds me wet and wanting. He brushes his thumb over my already sensitive clit and my body jolts.
My thighs shake. My breath hitches.
And then he parts the lips of my sex and presses the head of his erection to my entrance, teasing me until I’m a squirming mess. Before I can beg him to fuck me, he slides his thick, veiny cock inside me. Completely bare.
And for a beat—just one breathless second—the world stands still.
My back arches. His name rips from my throat. And everything else falls away.
There’s no space for coherent thought. No logic. Just the searing stretch of him filling me, the press of skin on skin, and the sound of our bodies finding each other in the silence.
He’s big. Thick. Hot. Every inch of him fits inside me like he was built for this—for me.
Kingston groans, forehead dropping to mine as he sinks deeper. “Fuck, Mya…”
The sound of my name on his lips—raw, broken, reverent—nearly undoes me again.
He stills inside me for a beat, like he’s checking I’m okay. And I am. God, I am. More than okay. Every nerve ending is buzzing, every part of me burning, begging.
I grip his shoulders, nails sinking into the solid muscle there. “Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please.”
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s less sweet and more claiming—rough, unfiltered, wrecked. “Not stopping,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “Not ever.”
And then he moves.
Slow. Deep. Deliberate.
Like he’s trying to rewrite every memory I’ve ever had of being touched. Like he wants to burn himself into my bones and make damn sure I never forget what this feels like—what we feel like.
And I won’t.
I can’t.
Because this isn’t just sex.
It’s something else entirely.
“K-Kingston,” I stutter, trying to breathe evenly through every sensation in my body. “Harder. F-Fuck me harder.”
His body stills for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the air between us to crack like a live wire. His eyes, already dark and glazed with heat, go feral. The muscles in his jaw tighten. His breath shudders out, ragged and barely restrained.
“You sure?” he grits out, his voice low, almost guttural. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” My voice is barely a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a war drum. “I want all of you. Every part.”
That’s all it takes.
The restraint in him snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight for too long.
With a rough sound that’s half growl, half prayer, he pulls out just enough to make me ache with the loss—then slams back in, deep and devastating.
My back arches, a strangled cry ripping from my throat, and suddenly there’s no room for coherent thought. Just sensation. All-consuming, bone-melting, toe-curling sensation.
The rhythm he sets is punishing—powerful, rhythmic, desperate. But it’s not impersonal. No, this isn’t a man trying to scratch an itch or work off post-game frustration.
This is Kingston claiming me.
Owning me.
Loving me with his body in a way we’ve never dared to say out loud.
My hands claw at his forearms, slick with sweat. My name falls from his lips over and over again like a litany, each time more broken than the last.
“You feel… fuck, you feel unreal.”
Every thrust pushes the air from my lungs, every drag of his body against mine sets fire to my skin. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but it’s all background noise compared to the sound of our breathing—wild, raw, ragged—and the way our bodies crash together like waves breaking against the shore.
I’m close again. So close it’s terrifying.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Please. Don’t you dare stop.”
His mouth finds mine again—desperate, bruising, everything. “I’m not stopping, baby. Not until you fall apart for me again.”
And then he proves it.
His hips snap forward, deep and rough, and my body answers with a gasp that feels like it’s ripped from my soul. I cling to him—fingers digging into the hard curve of his forearm—like maybe if I hold on tight enough, I won’t shatter.
But I already am.
Piece by piece, breath by breath, I’m coming undone beneath him.
He moves like he knows my body better than I do—like he mapped out every gasp, every hitch in my breath, every place I ache to be touched long before he ever stripped me bare.
“Kingston—” My voice breaks, caught between a moan and a sob. “I’m—I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can,” he whispers, lips ghosting over the shell of my ear. “You’re already there.”
He angles his hips just right and hits something inside me that lights up every nerve ending like fireworks behind my ribs. The pressure coils tight, unbearable, delicious.
The sound I make isn’t human.
It’s primal.
And he groans, deep and wrecked, like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful like this,” he rasps, moving faster now, harder. “Let go for me. Come on, baby. Let go.”
I do.
And when I come, it’s not soft or quiet.
It’s wild.
It’s a wave crashing through me, relentless and punishing and so good I forget my name for a second. My body convulses around him, muscles clenching tight, and I cry out into his neck, nails dragging down his back, not caring if I leave marks.
I want to leave marks.
I want him to feel me tomorrow. Just like I’ll feel him for days.
He curses under his breath, hips stuttering. His control slips—just barely—and then he lets go too, with a low, broken sound that makes my entire body pulse all over again.
When it’s over, when I’ve cried out his name so many times it no longer sounds like a word but something elemental, we collapse into the mess of tangled sheets and sticky skin and soft, ragged breathing.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Heavy.
Sacred.
He presses a kiss to my collarbone, soft this time, reverent.
“I’m never going to get enough of you,” he whispers.
And something inside me twists—tight and terrifying and full of hope.
Because I think I feel the same way.
The air is thick with heat and something quieter, more intimate. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Only felt.
His hand strokes my hair, slow and gentle, like he’s trying to soothe the wildness still crackling beneath my skin. My cheek rests on the curve of his shoulder, my fingers spread across the center of his chest where his heart hammers like he just ran a hundred yards for me.
“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing my hairline.
I nod, my voice caught somewhere in the hollow of my throat. “More than okay.”
A heartbeat passes.
Then another.
“I didn’t think…” I pause, swallowing around the knot building in my throat. “That I’d still feel wanted. Not like this. Not… carrying so much extra.”
My hand slips to my belly, rounding gently under the sheet. I don’t say the word pregnant, but it lingers between us like breath on glass.
Kingston’s answer is a soft, reverent hush of touch. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his expression so open it makes my chest ache. “You’re more than I ever wanted. More than I thought I deserved.”
I laugh, shaky and quiet. “That’s not exactly a compliment, you know.”
But he’s not joking. Not even a little. He cups my cheek like it’s delicate. Like I’m delicate.
“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he says, low and hoarse. “You. All of you. The girl you were before. The woman you are now. The mother you’re going to be.”
And just like that, my eyes burn. Because I’ve never heard it like that. Never been seen like that. Not even when I tried so hard to believe I could be.
“You’re ruining me,” I whisper, burying my face in the crook of his neck.
His arms wrap tighter around me, anchoring me to this impossible moment. “Nah, baby,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m putting you back together.”