Page 20 of The Coach

I collapse forward onto the bed, spent.

I feel him shift behind me, his movements slow, deliberate. His hands trail up my spine, soothing, grounding. Then, he turns me toward him, gathering me into his arms.

I melt into him.

Our bodies are a tangled mess of limbs, heat, and exhaustion.

I press my cheek against his chest, listening to the rapid thud of his heart. His arms tighten around me, holding me close, fingers lazily tracing circles on my back.

Neither of us speaks.

We don’t need to.

The silence is thick, heavy, charged with everything we just did.

“Damn, Ivy.” His voice thick and filled with awe. His fingers are still gripping my hips, his touch possessive even as our bodies slowly begin to relax. He shifts slightly, brushing damp strands of hair from my face, his eyes wild, still feral with hunger.

“That was…” He trails off, exhaling roughly.

“Yeah,” I whisper, my body still trembling, my mind still reeling. “It really was.”Incredible.

We lay there for a long moment, our breaths mingling, my skin buzzing with aftershocks. But then my stomach rumbles—loud.

Jackson smirks, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on my thigh. “You hungry, baby?”

“Starving.” I sigh, pushing my damp hair off my forehead. “I think I burned about a thousand calories just now.”

His smirk deepens. “Oh, I plan on burning at least a thousand more.”

I swat his arm, biting back a grin. “And how do you want to do that?” I joke.

“I have a pretty good idea of how. But…food first. Do we have any good late-night pizza in this town?”

“You’re in luck.” I stretch, already reaching for my phone. “Fonzo’s is open till four.”

Jackson whistles. “Fonzo’s till four? That’s commitment to the late-night crowd.”

“The best,” I confirm. “Thin crust. Greasy. Perfect.”

He rubs his jaw. “Alright, what are we getting?”

“Well…” I bite my lip. “The real question is onions or olives?”

His face twists in exaggerated disgust. “Olives. Who the fuck willingly eats onions on pizza?”

“Excuse me! Onions add flavor.”

“Onions make your breath lethal,” he counters. “And I plan on kissing you again. A lot.”

I narrow my eyes, huffing. “Fine. Two pizzas. One with olives, one with onions. We both win.”

“Now that’s a compromise I can get behind.” He leans in, nipping at my lower lip. “Call it in.”

Forty-five minutes or so later, we’re curled up on the couch, devouring slices and watchingWhen Harry Met Sally, because I insist that it’s the perfect late-night movie. Jackson grumbles at first, but he ends up watching, his arm draped around me, fingers idly stroking my shoulder.

I smirk, chewing my last bite. “Told you this was a classic.”

He huffs. “Yeah, yeah.” But his hand tightens on my hip like he actually gives a shit about the plot.

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