Page 10 of The Break Down

And pray for strength—but that last bit is for me alone.

Because deep down I know, if Koa Jackson makes a play for me, I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist.

CHAPTER FOUR-KOA

“Jackson, get your arse over here. Everyone else, hit the showers!”

Coach Dane’s voice slices through the sticky Southern air like a whip, and I drag myself toward him with every ounce of restraint I’ve got left.

I already know what’s coming—worst training session of my life.

And yeah, maybe I deserve the bollocking.

But can you blame me?

I’ve got Finley Adamo rolling around in the grass like it’s a goddamn boudoir shoot.

Cleavage on display.

Tits bouncing.

Arse outlined in tights so tight I could practically fucking count the little hearts on her goddamn thong, barely covering her mound.

And trust me. I will.

One day I’ll be up close and personal with her sweet slit, and I’ll rip those damn panties off with my teeth.

She’s everywhere.

On the sidelines.

On the grass.

Always behind the camera.

Permanently stuck in my head.

How the hell is a man supposed to focus when that is within twenty meters?

I can damn near taste her.

It’s maddening, this ache that coils in my gut every time she’s near.

And Christ, I can smell her from here.

Not sweat. Not the sour tang of effort and turf and blood like what I’m used to out here.

No. She’s all sweetness and sin, like warm vanilla tangled with something heady and ripe, something so soft and feminine it makes my jaw clench.

She doesn’t belong on the pitch. Not really.

She’s too clean. Too soft.

Too everything.

The kind of woman who should be tucked into silk sheets, not crouching in grass with a camera in her hands and fire in her eyes.

She’s a walking contradiction. Bright lipstick, smart mouth, thighs for days.

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