Chapter Twenty Eight - Asher
I don’t even know how to start.
The girl I love, is standing in front of me waiting to hear the truth. I can’t even tell her the truth because I don’t know if it’s the truth and I don’t even know if she will believe me anyway.
God, I wish I could text my therapist right now.
How do you explain a night that’s blurry at best and haunting at worst?
I fumble the football again. It hits the turf with a hollow thud.
“I was at a party,” I say slowly. “One of the guys was celebrating a contract. There were drinks. Too many. I had one…maybe two. I don’t remember.
All I know is—when I got in the car, I shouldn’t have been driving.
But I know I wasn’t drunk. I don’t do drugs either, I’ve been trying to piece that night together for a year. It’s why I got to therapy.”
Scarlett doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t crash. Not really. I swerved to avoid something—a dog, a person, hell, I don’t know—and clipped a tree. It wasn’t major. Airbags didn’t even deploy. Everyone walked away with nothing but a few bruises.”
My voice tightens.
“But seven days later… Caleb’s girl, Darcy collapsed at home. Brain aneurysm. They said it wasn’t the crash. But Caleb never believed that. He also swears I was on something like he knows I was for certain, but I would never jeopardise my chance to start fullback like that.”
I look up at Scarlett, eyes burning.
“And I can’t prove he’s wrong.”
She exhales, lips parted like she wants to say something—anything—but can’t.
“I don’t remember parts of that night,” I whisper. “I can’t. I’ve tried. Therapy. Hypnosis. The whole damn checklist. But I was out of it. I’ve seen the toxicology report, there were sleeping pills in my system but I don’t take them, I’ve never had to before so how they got there I don’t know.”
I turn away. “That’s the part that scares me most. Not the crash. Not the guilt. But the not knowing. What if I missed a sign? What if I ignored something? What if I could’ve saved her?”
The silence between us is loaded.
And then she steps forward. Her hand brushes mine.
“Could you have been drugged, Asher?” she asks quietly. “What if it really wasn’t your fault?”
My throat tightens. This woman is a saint or she’s so much more fucked up than I am.
Because I’ve thought it. I’ve wondered. The last thing I remember is being handed a drink from someone who told me it was lemonade.
But hearing her say it?
It feels like someone cracking a window in a room I’ve been locked in for a year.
Why isn’t she mad? She should be furious with me, I don’t deserve this girl. I know that.
As if she’s read my mind her lips part again “I’m still furious at you, I am, for the article. I know it was coming from a good place but Asher I can do damage control myself. Not telling me your real identity is a huge red flag, whatever your self righteous reasons are.”
“I know, it just comes with a price being a Kingsley. I wanted to do the football thing myself no handout.” I explain cutting her off.
“I wasn’t finished” her eyes scold me like my second grade teacher when I forgot to put my hand up before asking a question.
She continues her face softening “but I understand wanting to hide where you come from and not using a name to get ahead, I understand it very well.”
“Does this mean you don’t hate me?” I lean forward, cupping her face in my hands, waiting for a sign—any sign—that I can kiss her.
Her eyes flick down to my lips, then back up to meet mine.
And there it is.
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have time to.
Because the next second, her mouth is on mine—crashing, claiming—and her tongue fills the space I’ve been aching to give her. She’s kissing me with urgency, like if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll change her mind and pull away.
My hand slides into her hair as I press her closer, trying to etch the feel of her into my skin permanently like a tattoo. My shirt clings to her, soaked from the sweat of a brutal, self-loathing post game training session. She doesn’t care. She’s everything. And somehow, still more.
Her hands roam my body, breathing ragged and uneven. God, I need her. I want her. It’s late. It’s just the two of us. Is hiking her skirt up right here on the cool grass too far?
Just the thought sends heat surging through my blood, straight to my groin.
My want for Scarlett Walker becomes a need.
She must feel it—hear it in the way my breathing stutters, sense it in the way my hands tremble as they slide down to the edge of her patent leather skirt. I let my fingers trace the hem, dancing over her bare skin, savouring the way her breath hitches in response.
Then she leans into my ear and whispers, “Do it now… before I change my mind about how reckless this is, and remember how mad I’m supposed to be.”
Fuck.
She doesn’t even get a chance to kiss me again before my fingers slide up her thigh, slowly, seductively, until I find the edge of her lace underwear. I pull them to the side and slip one finger in—then two—into her soaked centre.
She gasps. My girl is ready. My girl wants me.
Even after everything—even after the truth’s been laid bare and my secrets are no longer secrets—she still wants me.
Her leg hooks around my waist. Her hands dip beneath the waistband of my silk training shorts, freeing my cock, stroking in rhythm with my fingers. I groan into her mouth. She’s stroking me like she owns me. And maybe she does.
This is everything. I’ve never been so turned on. Scarlett Walker is hot. My girl is fire.
She wraps her other leg around me, perfectly positioned to sit, and grind, and bounce like she’s been waiting for this all week.
I back her against the goalpost and ease her down onto me. She takes me in with a moan, riding me, grinding with desperation, every movement a ragged, needy cry. I thrust to meet her pace, one hand braced behind her, the other gripping her waist.
Our breaths sync. Our mouths devour. The heat builds, thick and heavy between us.
“I need to come,” I manage between gasps.
Her eyes lock on mine. “I need you to.”
And that’s all it takes.
We unravel—together. Falling apart and pulling tighter, giving in to every pent-up emotion that’s boiled beneath the surface all week. She moans into my neck, and I lose myself inside her.
When our breathing slows, when her head rests against my shoulder and I know I’ll never feel this close to anyone again—I say it.
“I love you, Scar.”
She lifts her head. Her eyes burn through me.
But she doesn’t say it back. Then, with that fire that makes her mine she scolds “don’t ever fucking lie to me again.”
God, there she is.
My girl.