Chapter Twenty-Three
David
I walk into the conference room already keyed up.
Not from the meeting.
That was easy.
They flagged the track, I proved it was mine, lawyers backed it, and now everyone’s scrambling to move faster because Major League Rugby wants the drop in two days.
In fucking California, of course.
Fast turnaround.
Big stage.
Big moment.
Any other time, I’d be riding that high.
Today? I don’t give a damn.
Because the second I step into the room—I see him.
The same pencil dick fuckface who called me this morning, who spoke to her yesterday like he had any right, is standing way too close to my girl. Talking to her like he belongs there.
And her—my Sunshine—is standing there in that pink wrap dress that hugs her just right, yellow polka dots like something out of a daydream, those red sneakers grounding her in a way that makes her feel even more real.
Her short curls are wild again.
Untamed. Perfect.
She’s smiling.
Polite. Sweet.
Being exactly who she is.
And that’s the problem.
Because men like him? They see that and think it’s an invitation.
It’s not.
It never was.
I’ve been holding it together all morning.
Playing nice.
Playing professional.
Handling business like I always do.
But hearing him ask her that—if she’s single—that makes something in me snap clean in half.
My control.
Maybe part of my sanity.
Poof. It is just gone.
And it’s replaced with something colder.
Sharper. Certain.
I move before I think.
Before I weigh it.
Before I give myself the chance to do the smart thing.
My hand finds the back of her neck.
Firm.
Heavy.
Serious.
I need her to know I mean this. And I turn her toward me and I slam my lips to hers, kissing the fuck out of her in front of the whole damn world.
Not soft.
Not subtle.
A statement.
A correction.
A reminder.
When I pull back, I don’t look at him.
I don’t need to.
“She ain’t single.”
My voice is low.
Final.
And my eyes?
They’re on her.
Because she’s the only one who matters here.
And I see it.
That flicker.
That heat.
That pulse that jumps when I touch her.
That look that tells me she felt last night the same way I did.
Good. Because one kiss?
That’s not enough.
Not even close.
My dick is thumping inside my pants, and fuck me if I can even think about working with that going on.
I take her hand.
No hesitation.
No apology.
“Come on.”
She doesn’t argue.
And that’s all the permission I need.
I lead her out of the room, down the hallway, not stopping until I find the executive restroom—private, quiet, away from everyone.
I push the door open, step inside, and pull her in with me.
The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
Silence.
Except for her breathing.
Except for mine.
I turn to her slowly.
Take her in again.
Every inch.
Every reaction.
“You want to tell me what that was?” I ask, voice low, controlled—but there’s something under it now.
Possession.
Expectation.
Need that I’m done pretending I don’t feel.
Because after that? I think I’ve made myself clear.
Now it’s her turn.