17. Killian #2
The guys are roaring, slamming hands on the table, completely delighted with my public evisceration. But I don’t give a single fuck about their jokes. All my focus is on the woman in my lap, the press of her body against mine, the way her green eyes are daring me to prove them all wrong.
I lean in, my lips brushing her earlobe. “You want a personal demonstration, Coach? I’m more than happy to schedule a private viewing.”
Her laugh is a low, husky thing that makes my gut tighten. “Promises, promises.”
I chuckle low and growl against her ear, “If you remember, I don’t make promises I can’t keep.
” My hand slides from her waist to the bare skin of her leg underneath the table, my thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle on the inside of her thigh.
Her skin is impossibly soft, and when I feel her shiver against me, I know she’s just as affected by this as I am.
It’s a small victory, one that fuels the fire she’s been stoking all night.
“I suppose I could find sixty-three seconds to spare.”
It’s been a few days since we had that moment together in my home gym where she dry-humped me until she came on my lap.
Where I came in my shorts just from the contact.
I’ve been dying to really finish what we started that morning, but I didn’t want to push Isla to do something she has said before she doesn’t want.
I might love a good fuck from time to time, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend my night making Isla feel good, but I won’t lift a finger without consent. Tonight though…tonight feels different.
Isla has been different.
A little flirtier and a lot more affectionate, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
It’s now or never.
“Alright, that’s our cue,” I say, standing up and lightly smacking Isla’s ass as I take her with me as if she weighs nothing.
Her surprised yelp turns into another laugh as I set her on her feet but keep her hand firmly in mine.
I throw a wave at the guys, not even bothering to make an excuse.
Bishop gives me a knowing smirk and a thumbs-up, which I promptly ignore.
We weave through the crowd, every catcall from the guys fueling the fire she lit under me.
“Hey, watch out for those piercings, Fallon!” Someone shouts from the table as we walk away.
Assholes.
The hotel hallway is too bright, too quiet after the chaos of the bar as we make our way back to my room. The door clicks shut behind us, and the sudden silence is a physical thing, thick and heavy with everything we haven’t said, everything we’ve been teasing all night.
She leans back against the door, that infuriating, gorgeous smirk still playing on her lips. “So. The infamous Killian Haynes’s bedroom skills. I’m ready to be underwhelmed. Shall I set a timer?”
I cage her in, my hands flat against the door on either side of her head, leaning in close enough to smell the beer on her breath and the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo. “Keep talking, Coach. See where it gets you.”
“Oh, I plan on it,” she breathes, her eyes dropping to my mouth. “I’m gonna have a lot to say. A running commentary of my own.”
“Why would I expect anything less?” I dip my head, my lips a hairsbreadth from hers, but I don’t close the distance. Not yet. The anticipation is a live wire between us, and I want to savor it. I want her to feel it, too.
Her chest rises and falls a little faster, her playful mask slipping just enough for me to see the raw want underneath. It’s the same look she had in my gym, and it fucking undoes me.
“Sixty-three seconds,” she whispers, her voice husky. “Ticktock, Haynesy.”
That’s all the permission I need. I crash my mouth onto hers and it’s anything but a gentle kiss.
It’s hungry, all the pent-up tension from the bar, from the singing, from the morning on my gym floor, from the weeks of pretending this is just an act exploding between us.
She tastes like victory and cheap beer and pure, unadulterated Isla.
My hands drop from the door to her hips, hauling her flush against me. A small, breathy sound escapes her throat, and I swallow it greedily. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and any last shred of my control snaps.
I pivot and walk her backward, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed.
She falls with a soft gasp, pulling me down with her.
I land half on top of her, bracing my weight on my forearms. “Oh, so this is where all that control goes,” she breathes against my lips, her hands already working the button of my jeans.
“All that precision. Wasted on baseball when you could be doing this.” Her fingers dip below my waistband, and I hiss, my hips bucking against hers.
“Keep talking,” I growl, capturing her mouth again, my own hands sliding under her shirt to find the warm skin of her back. I fumble with the clasp of her bra, my usual dexterity gone, replaced by a frantic, aching need.
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest. “Having trouble there, ace? Need me to call the bullpen for help?”
I finally get it, and the bra gives way. I break the kiss to look at her, her hair fanned out on the hotel pillow, her pupils dark with want and mischief. “Not necessary,” I growl. I dip my head, taking a nipple into my mouth, and her smart-ass remark dissolves into a sharp, breathy gasp.
“Okay,” she pants, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Okay, that was…a decent pitch. Good velocity.”
I switch to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, and she arches beneath me, a low moan tearing from her throat. “Strike two,” she manages, though her voice is shaky now, losing its teasing edge.
I grin against her skin, my hands sliding down to the waistband of her shorts. “Two? I don’t recall hearing a strike one. You’re keeping score now, Coach?” I ask, popping the button with a flick of my thumb. “Gonna give me a performance review?”
“Someone has to,” she gasps as I hook my fingers into her shorts and panties and drag them down her legs in one rough motion.
Her legs fall open, and the sight of her, bare and wanting and still grinning up at me, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Quality control is... oh, God...so important.” Her laughter is a low, breathy sound against my lips. “The crowd’s watching, Haynesy.”
“The only crowd here is you, Coach. And you’re about to be very distracted.” I shuck my own jeans, kicking them off the bed, and her eyes drop. The playful smirk on her face falters, then vanishes completely. Her jaw goes slack. “Whoa.”
I freeze, my own arousal momentarily forgotten under the weight of her stunned silence. Her green eyes are wide, fixed on my cock, tracing the line of steel beads along the shaft and the single ring through the tip.
“Holy shit, Killian,” she breathes, her voice full of genuine awe. She pushes up on her elbows for a better look, all traces of her teasing gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated curiosity. “Is that...a ladder?”