CHAPTER NINE
Reese
I can't sleep.
My body is wound tight with confusion and want and frustration that has nowhere to go.
Finally, I give up on sleep and head downstairs for water. Maybe chamomile tea. Maybe something stronger if I can find where they keep the liquor.
The kitchen light is already on.
Zane stands at the stove, stirring something in a pot, wearing sweatpants and nothing else.
The warm light catches the definition in his shoulders and back, muscles moving as he stirs.
His chestnut hair is messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it.
Even from behind, he's beautiful in that effortless way that makes my stomach flip.
"Can't sleep either?" I ask softly.
He jumps slightly, then relaxes when he sees it's me, turning to face me fully.
God, he's unfairly attractive - all warm brown eyes and easy smile, even at this hour.
His chest is broader than you'd expect from his lean build, tapering to narrow hips.
There's a dusting of hair across his pecs that trails down past his navel, disappearing beneath his waistband.
"Hey, sunshine. Yeah, my stomach's all fucked up. Happens when I get anxious."
"From today?"
"From everything." He keeps stirring, but I notice his hands are shaking slightly. "The inspection, the probation, Quinton showing up like that. When everyone's tense at dinner, I can't..." He trails off, looking embarrassed. "It's stupid."
"It's not stupid."
He glances at me, something vulnerable flickering across his features.
That's when I really look at him - the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders curl in slightly, protective.
This isn't just anxiety. This is something deeper.
"I had some issues in high school. With food.
Eating stuff. Got bad for a while before my parents got me help. "
The admission hangs between us. Zane, golden retriever Zane who's always laughing and baking and making sure everyone eats, has his own demons.
"Is that why you bake?" I ask, moving closer to the stove.
"Started as exposure therapy, actually. My therapist thought if I could control making food, I could control eating it. Turns out I'm pretty good at it. And feeding other people makes me feel... useful, I guess."
"You are useful. You hold this team together in ways you don't even realize."
He turns to look at me fully, and there's something different in his eyes. Darker. Hungrier. Not for food.
"Do I?" His voice has dropped lower. "Sometimes I feel like the weak link. Everyone else is so... intense. Gray with his control, Jackson with his brooding, Bo with his protectiveness. I'm just the guy who makes jokes and cookies."
"You're the one who makes us human," I say, stepping closer. "You remind us there's more to life than just rowing and winning. You make us laugh when we want to break things. You feed us when we forget to take care of ourselves."
I'm close enough now to see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the way his pupils dilate as he looks at me.
"Reese," he says softly. "Why are you really down here at two in the morning?"
"I couldn't stop thinking."
"About?"
"Everything. The team. What we're becoming. What I want versus what I should want."
His hand comes up slowly, giving me time to step back if I want to. When I don't, his fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before sliding to the ends.
"What do you want?"
"Right now?" I lean into his touch. "To stop thinking for five minutes. To just... feel something uncomplicated."
"Nothing about this is uncomplicated," he points out, but his thumb is stroking along the curve of my jaw now.
"I know. But with you it feels... easier somehow. Less heavy."
We're standing close now, close enough that I can smell him - cinnamon and vanilla and something uniquely Zane that makes my skin warm. His scent is stronger than usual tonight, richer somehow, like it's calling to something in me I don't quite understand.
"Reese," he says quietly. "You smell different."
"My suppressants are wearing off. Sorry."
"No, not that." He leans closer, inhaling against my throat. "You smell like... us. Like the team but also like... you belong."
Neither of us knows what to make of that, so we just stare at each other, something shifting in the air between us.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Can I kiss you?"
"We shouldn't—"
"That's not what I asked."
I consider his question for a moment then rise up on my toes instead of answering, pressing my lips to his.
He makes a sound low in his throat and pulls me closer, backing me against the counter away from the stove.
The kiss is different from Gray's desperate possession or Eli's surprising dominance.
Zane kisses like he bakes - with patience and skill and attention to what makes someone melt.
But there's something else too - a rightness that makes no biological sense. Like my body recognizes his in a way that goes beyond simple attraction.
His hands slide down to my waist, lifting me onto the counter easily. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer, and we both groan at the contact.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth. "I've wanted this since the bus. Since you let me taste you."
Heat streaks through me at the memory, the way he’d buried his face between my thighs while everyone else was within earshot. The way he’d looked at me after, like he couldn’t believe what he’d been given.
"Zane—"
"Do you know what it did to me?" His lips drag along my jaw, down to my throat. "Having you come on my tongue while everyone was right there? Knowing I was the first one to taste you like that?"
His hand slides between us, fingers pressing against me through my sleep shorts. I'm already wet, have been since Jackson ordered me around earlier, and Zane groans when he feels it.
"So responsive," he murmurs, pushing the fabric aside and running his fingers along my folds. Teasing through the edges of wetness. "Is this for me or from earlier?"
"Both," I admit, gasping as he slides two fingers inside me. The stretch makes me gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "All of it. Everything."
My head falls back against the cabinets as he works me with a steady rhythm, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit.
Each curl of his fingers sends sparks up my spine.His thumb finds my clit and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
With his free hand, he pulls the neck of my tank down so he can suck a nipple into his mouth. I whimper at the dual sensations.
"Let me hear you," he says around my skin. "Everyone's asleep. Let me hear what I do to you."
I try to bite back the sound, but when he crooks his fingers just right I break, moaning his name like it’s a confession. He grins against my neck and speeds up, thumb circling my clit until I’m writhing on the counter, clutching at him like I’ll drown without his hands on me.
"That's it," he encourages, increasing his pace. "God, you're so wet. So perfect."
"Zane, please—"
"I've got you," he promises, and then he’s gone, dropping to his knees before I can protest. His mouth replaces his hand, tongue stroking over my swollen clit with obscene focus. He licks me like he’s starving, every movement purposeful, greedy, reverent.
The combination wrecks me—his fingers thrusting inside, his mouth sealing over me, the low growl vibrating against my skin. My thighs clamp around his head, but he just groans into me and pushes deeper, relentless.
I shatter around him, hips bucking, cries spilling unchecked. He doesn’t stop. He drags every last aftershock from me, tongue stroking softer now, fingers easing until I’m trembling against the counter.
When he finally stands, he licks his fingers clean with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on mine. “Better than anything I could cook,” he says, voice gravelly.
I’m still panting, hair sticking to my damp face. “My turn.”
His brows draw together. “Reese, you don’t have to—”
"I want to. I've wanted to since that day on the bus." I slide off the counter, legs still shaky. "Will you let me?"
His pupils are blown wide, only a ring of brown visible. "Fuck. Yes. God, yes."
I sink to my knees on the kitchen tile, looking up at him.
He looks wrecked already, just from the sight of me here.
I tug his waistband down, freeing him, and his cock springs heavy into my hand.
He’s flushed, thick, already slick at the tip.
I stroke him once, slow, savoring the way his mouth falls open.
"Christ," he breathes as I wrap my hand around him. "Your hands are so small."
"Good thing I have a mouth too," I say, then lean forward and take him in.
Zane's hand flies to the counter for support, his other threading gently through my hair. He doesn't push, doesn't demand, just holds on as I work him with lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth.
His taste floods me—salty, hot, intoxicating. I swirl my tongue over the head, then slide down inch by inch until he hits the back of my throat. His fingers thread through my hair, not pushing, just trembling with restraint.
"Fuck, Reese. Your mouth... Jesus, how are you so good at this?"
I pull back to answer. "I like it. Always have. Like the weight, the taste, the way guys fall apart."
"You're going to kill me," he groans as I take him deep again. "The whole team is going to die and it'll be your fault."
I hum around him and his hips jerk, the sound vibrating through him. He nearly loses it, teeth grit as he tries not to thrust deeper, but I grip his thighs and set the pace, working him with lips and tongue, taking him farther each time until tears sting my eyes.
"Close," he warns, tugging gently at my hair. "Reese, I'm—"
I don't pull away. Instead, I swallow him to the base, throat flexing, and that’s it. He comes with a guttural groan, spilling down my throat. I hold him there, milking every last shudder, until he finally slumps back against the counter, chest heaving.
He stares down at me like I'm some kind of miracle.
When I rise, he drags me into a kiss without hesitation, tasting himself on my tongue like it’s nothing, like it’s everything. His hands are still shaking as they frame my face.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed, the kitchen thick with the smell of sex and simmering soup.
"Fuck," Zane mutters against my mouth. "I can taste both of us now."
"Good," I say, and his eyes darken.
"We should probably talk about this," he says, but his hands are sliding down to cup my ass, pulling me against him.
"Tomorrow," I say. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." He kisses my neck, right where it meets my shoulder. "Tomorrow Coach Torres starts watching us."
"Then we better be careful."
"Or," he says, voice dropping as he nibbles my ear, "we could just let them all know you taste better than anything I've ever cooked."
"Zane."
"What? It's true." His hand is in my hair, his lips on my throat, and his hips flex against mine. "Could eat you out for hours. Will, if you let me."
Heat floods through me again despite just coming on his face. "Promises, promises."
"Oh, sunshine." His grin is wicked now, not his usual golden retriever smile. "That's not a promise. That's a warning."
He steps back, adjusting himself in his sweatpants where he's already getting hard again. "Want some soup? I'm actually starving now."
The casual shift while we're both still flushed and breathing hard makes me laugh. "Sure."
We eat soup at 2 AM, but the air between us is charged. Every time our eyes meet, his gaze drops to my mouth. I deliberately lick my spoon and watch his jaw clench.
"You're trouble," he says.
"You have no idea."
"I'm starting to get one." He reaches over, thumb wiping at the corner of my mouth. "Missed a spot."
He licks his thumb clean, maintaining eye contact, and I have to press my thighs together.
"I should go to bed," I say when he follows me to take our dishes to the sink. "Practice in four hours."
"Probably smart." But he crowds me against the counter one more time, caging me in from behind with his arms. "For the record? This wasn't just stress relief. Not for me."
"No?"
"No." He leans in close, lips brushing my ear. "I wanted to know what you taste like since day one. Ever since that day on the bus, I’ve wanted another taste. And another. I’m not going to get enough. Fair warning."
He steps back, letting me escape, but the promise in his eyes follows me.
As I pass Jackson's door, I hear movement inside, then Eli's low voice. They definitely heard everything. The thought makes me shiver and leaves a tight feeling low in my stomach. Whatever that feeling is, I don’t think it’s embarrassment.
Tomorrow we face our new reality with Coach Torres watching our every move. Tomorrow I have to pretend Zane didn't just make me come harder with just his mouth and hands than I thought was possible. Or that I don't know what he looks and sounds like when he comes.
But tonight, I can still taste him, still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers, and I'm already thinking about when I can have it again.