Page 57 of Off Court Fix

Crosby lets the condom fall to the floor, I climb into his lap with a vengeance, lowering and hovering above him, letting the tip run across my opening. As I coat him, Crosby hisses my name into the crook of my neck, and I never want to hearMaxineany other way than how Crosby says it in this moment—like he’s damn proud to worship me. It’s officially my favorite sound of his, followed closely by the groan that follows when I sink and let him fill me.

“Wait.” Crosby squeezes my hips, stilling me with a grunt, and his head falls against my shoulder. “God damn, I swear I feel past the end of you.”

And that’s exactly what it’s like—as if Crosby has filled me up past the brink and found another layer of me I never even knew existed.

“Please.” I’m so eager to move, to rock and ride, to let the throbbing pulse he holds beat me from within.

Tightening around Crosby, I force him to look at me, and as soon as he does, I rock forward, letting him stretch and fill me more.

And now it’s my turn to watchhim, the creases in his forehead as he furrows his brows, how he can’t seem to close his mouth, no matter how hard he tries. I lean in, running my tongue along the inside of his lip, and his hand tightens almost painfully at my waist keeping me where I am so he can lock his tongue with mine.

“You taste it, don’t you?” he whispers between deep kisses and I moan into his mouth because whatever it is, I’m hooked. “That’s what paradise tastes like—you.”

It’s not just me. It’s my taste right off Crosby’s tongue and it’s so erotic it pushes the gas pedal that happens to be between my legs rubbing against him, and I couldn’t hit the breaks even if I tried, even if I wanted to.

But this is how I get Crosby—smaller, shorter moments. So, I grind and rock harder, determined to make the most of them, as is he apparently. Crosby’s hands are surfing my body frantically, trying to take it all in at once.

It’s not too long until Crosby’s thighs grow tighter and more tense and the small lifts of his hips more urgent and frantic, matching his breathing. I know he’s close, and that the moment is coming to an end, but I can’t bear to be left behind.

“Wait for me,” I whisper into his neck. Licking the droplets of sweat like they’re small cherries on top of a sundae. “Take me with you.”

And wait, impressively, Crosby does, the two of us moving and colliding hard, chasing that peak we’ll jump over together. When my voice rises into small, short cries and I feel him spasm and bulge within me, we jump over that cliff. But we fall down the other side clinging and holding each other, sharing the same, shuddering breath.

* * *

I shut the shower door, leaving Crosby to have a minute alone, and wrap a towel around myself, slipping into my bedroom.

I find the mirror over the vanity and take in the skin not hidden by the fluffy, white terry cloth. I run my fingers over some red splotches along my neck and chest, places where Crosby abused the skin and then soothed it seconds later. A smile forms on my face as I drop the towel, reaching for my lotion. But I pause, taking a deep breath at this body I’ve resented more than I’ve loved considering all it’s given me.

Someone using me for my body, for my face, is an abuse of power, there’s no question about that. It’s a thought that captured my mind after my injury and during my recovery when my father’s business plan for my career shifted from capitalizing on the court to capitalizing on swimwear.

But right now? I love this body. I feel powerful in this body, thankful for it, how it moves, how good it can feel when I give it what it deserves.

And grateful for the man I hear humming in the shower, the noise making me chuckle. But I rein in my laughter when a grumble reminds me that this body of mine worked up quite the appetite and happens to bestarving.

Slipping on a robe, I head downstairs to the fridge, where I take out the sushi I had ordered and plate everything on a large tray. I’m carrying it over to the coffee table when Crosby appears on the stairs, fresh and delicious, his hair combed back. He’s peeking around.

“They’re on the end table,” I say about his glasses, which he flung off earlier. “I hope they didn’t break.”

Crosby picks up his frames, cleaning the lenses with his shirt before sliding them on. “Nope. You’re as gorgeous as ever.” He comes up behind me as I set the tray on the low table. “But I’d know that even if I couldn’t see.”

I hum, turning my head to kiss him before he releases me. “Sorry I didn’t ask what you prefer. I was craving sushi the whole time I was in London. I don’t eat it during tournaments. Can’t risk food poisoning.”

Crosby sits down, the hairs on his legs tickling my calf when he folds them. “Yeah? What other pregame kind of things do you have going on?”

Handing him a pair of chopsticks, I shrug. “I’m not really all that superstitious. Just nothing raw.”

“What, you don’t put your left shoe on first before every match?”

I snort and shake my head.

“Nope. Apart from hitting early in the morning, I go to the hotel and rest. Then head back, get taped up, warm up, and that’s it. I’m either going to win or lose. No correct order of shoes is going to change that.” I put a piece of a spicy tuna roll into my mouth, shut my eyes, and groan. When I open them, I find Crosby staring at me as he chews.

“What?” I ask.

“I think I’m jealous of tuna.” He swallows and takes a sip from the glass of water I’ve put on the tray. “I’m going to need you to be loud like that with me.”

Shrugging, I reach for an edamame pod. “I’m a quiet person in general.”

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