27. Scottie
Scottie
The gray light of the morning filters through the gap in the beige curtains, cutting a sharp line across the comforter.
Beside me, Cash is breathing in a slow, deep rhythm that vibrates straight through the mattress. His left arm is slung over me, a solid weight pinning me to the bed.
The memories of last night hit my brain in a violent, unorganized rush—the smack of his fist against the blonde guy’s nose, the dark parking lot, and then the motel bathroom floor. The soap. The small white towels. The words that came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
A cold knot of awkwardness instantly drops into my stomach.
I stiffen realizing I spent last night unloading a years-old trauma into a client’s chest. It lacks basic dignity.
I reach down carefully, my fingers trembling as I try to lift Cash’s forearm off my hip without waking him. I need to get to my own room across the hall and put on a blazer that signals I am a professional who does not weep on the floor.
“If you move any slower, Scottie, you’re going to start growing moss.”
He doesn’t open his eyes, but his arm tightens, pulling me backward three inches until my spine is pressed firmly against his warm chest.
“I have emails to check, Cash,” I say, my voice sounding tight and brittle.
“I have a desk here, too,” he mutters, his chin brushing the top of my head.
He finally opens his eyes, those clear, dark gold-flecked circles looking right down at the side of my face. He notices the tightness in my shoulders instantly. The lazy morning smirk drops off his face.
“Scottie.” His fingers gently catch my chin, turning my face until I have no choice but to meet his gaze.
His knuckles are swollen, the skin red and slightly split from last night, but his touch is incredibly soft. Too soft. It feels tentative, like he’s handling a cracked vase that might shatter if he breathes too hard.
“You okay?”
I swallow hard, the pity in his eyes making my defense walls instantly slam down. “I’m fine, O’Connell. And honestly, stop looking at me like I’m a wounded bird. I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you last night. It’s an old story. It’s handled.”
“It’s not an old story if it keeps you awake at night,” he says gently.
“I’m an adult, Cash,” I say, my voice dropping as I sit up. “I need you to understand something. I am not broken. What happened was a long time ago, and I have had plenty of great, entirely consensual, normal sex since then. I am not fragile, and I don’t need you to tread lightly around me. Okay?”
Cash stares at me for a long three seconds, his jaw setting as he processes the sharp edge in my voice. Then, the cautious, careful look melts off his face, replaced by a familiar, dangerous glint in his eyes.
“Message received, Sharky,” he says, his voice losing that gentle edge, turning back into the cocky, solid tone I’m used to. “Good to know you’re still a pain in my ass first thing in the morning.”
The tension breaks, and I let out a genuine, sharp breath of relief. “Good. Now, we have six hours before we have to hit the road. What are we doing?”
Cash glides out of bed, his long strides carrying him over to the small laminate table in the corner. He rummages through a dusty drawer and pulls out a battered, taped-up cardboard box.
“The front desk guy said the previous guests left this behind. Connect Four. Prepare to get dismantled.”
“Dismantled? At a children’s plastic vertical checker game?” I slide out of bed. “Drop the checkers.”
We sit cross-legged on the floor between the two double beds, the yellowing plastic grid set up on the low nightstand between us.
Ten minutes in, the easy morning energy turns hostile.
Cash plays like he defends the crease—aggressive, territorial, and entirely focused on shutting down my lanes. He drops a yellow checker with a loud, metallic clack, blocking my diagonal line.
“Watch the flank, Scottie,” he smirks. “You’re leaving the back door wide open.”
“Don’t lecture me on the back door,” I mutter, my tongue poking out between my teeth as I slide a red plastic disc into the third slot. It clicks into place, blocking his row of three. “I see exactly what you’re doing. It’s predictable. It lacks creative vision.”
“It’s efficient,” he says smoothly, instantly dropping another yellow disc straight down the center column. “Connect four. That’s game three, Scottie. You’re down by two.”
“The grid is defective,” I say. “The plastic is warped on the left side, it’s throwing off the gravity of the red discs.”
“Right. Gravity,” Cash laughs. “Just admit that your mind can’t handle a basic defensive trap.”
“I am going to handle your face in a second,” I snap. “Again. Drop the first piece.”
We are moving faster now, the plastic discs slamming into the slots with a rhythmic, aggressive pace. Cash is leaning forward, his broad shoulders crowding my space, his breath warm against my forearm every time he reaches for a checker.
I drop a red piece, locking him out of the top row. “Boom, asshole.”
Cash doesn’t even blink. He slides a yellow checker into the adjacent slot, his knuckles brushing against my wrist as he pulls his hand back. “You missed the bottom row.”
I look down.
He’s right. A perfect row of four yellow discs is staring back at me from the base of the grid.
“Oh, go to hell,” I say, and before my brain can process the sheer, juvenile impulse, my hand flies out.
I smack the side of the yellowing plastic grid, sending the entire game tumbling off the nightstand. The board clatters against the wall, and forty plastic checkers explode across the brown carpet, rolling under the beds and bouncing off Cash’s sneakers.
Cash freezes, his hands still holding a final yellow disc, a massive, slow grin spreading across his face. “Did you just flip the board?”
“Fuck that game.”
“You’re a maniac,” he laughs. “All that legal training and you have the emotional control of a toddler.”
He stands up, stretches and groans. “God, I’m starving. I’m going to call down and see if they can slide some room service under the door before we pack up. You want something?”
He reaches for the motel phone on the nightstand, his eyes lingering on mine.
I look at him—the split knuckles, the hard, unyielding line of his jaw, the absolute lack of pity in his expression. The competitive fire from the game instantly twists into something entirely different, something thick, heavy, and hot that settles straight into my lower stomach.
“I want you,” I say.
The motel phone stays on the cradle. Cash’s hand stops an inch above the plastic receiver. He freezes, his shoulders locking tight beneath his t-shirt as he stares at the wall for a second before slowly turning his head to look at me.
“Scottie,” he warns, his voice dropping an octave. “Don’t play games right now.”
“I told you,” I say, my voice steady, though my heart is practically trying to kick its way out of my ribs.
My fingers reach down to grab the hem of my sweatshirt. I pull it up and over my head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the pile of discarded board game pieces on the floor.
I’m left in just my black cotton tank top and leggings.
“I am entirely here, Cash. I want this.”
I push myself to my feet, my pulse hammering as I cross the short distance to the bed. I sit on the edge of the mattress, turning toward him.
A low grunt escapes his throat, and the last string of his control snaps.
His large hands find the hem of my tank top, his knuckles brushing against the skin of my stomach, sending a violent shiver straight up my spine. Cash pauses, his eyes checking mine for a green light.
“You sure, Sharky?” he rasps, his chest heaving. “Because once I take this off, I’m not stopping.”
I nod, my throat too dry to speak, and lift my arms. He pulls the shirt over my head and flings it somewhere behind him, leaving me in a black sports bra. His gaze lingers for the briefest moment before one corner of his mouth lifts.
“Still hiding from me?” he tsks.
I roll my eyes. “Are you going to keep talking, or…”
“Bossy,” he says with a quiet laugh.
He slides his hands to my sides, his thumbs brushing lightly against my ribs before he catches the hem of the bra. “Arms up, Sharky.”
I lift them again, and he eases the sports bra up and over my head, letting it fall beside my tank top.
The cold motel air hits my bare skin, and I instinctively tense.
His gaze drops down to my chest, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Oh, look at you. Look how red you’re getting. Is the big, bad sports agent getting shy on me now?”
“Cash, shut up,” I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t be a dick.”
He leans down, his eyes locked onto mine. “Fucking beautiful, Scottie. I knew you would be. You’ve been acting so tough all week, but you’re shivering.”
“It’s just cold,” I lie.
“Right. Keep telling yourself that,” he teases, his mouth meeting mine.
His tongue slides against mine, claiming my mouth while his split knuckles scrape pleasantly against my hip, pulling me tighter and higher against his chest until my breasts are crushed against him.
I let out a shaky sigh into his mouth, my hands wrapping around his neck, my fingers burying into his hair.
My gaze flicks down between us. “You’re forgetting something.”
His brow furrows for half a second before his eyes drop to my legs. “Right.” A crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Can’t leave you half wrapped.”
He eases back just enough to hook his fingers beneath the waistband of my leggings, peeling them down my hips. “Lift up for me.”
I do, biting my lip as he works them over my thighs, then my calves, tugging each ankle free before tossing the leggings toward the growing pile of discarded clothes.
His eyes travel back up to mine, the last hint of teasing disappearing from his expression. Without taking his eyes off me, he grabs the back of his T-shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing it aside.
“Now, where was I?” he murmurs.
He shifts his weight, his large body crowding over mine. With one hand, he traps both of my wrists, pinning them gently above my head against the pillows.
“Finn—”