Page 56 of Filthy Player

“Yes,” he groaned and slammed in deep. He came as my orgasm rolled through me. Our hearts pounded against each other’s chests and he collapsed onto me, giving me all his weight.

When he released my hands, I wrapped them around his back, clinging to him like I couldn’t get enough.

“Shit,” I breathed, my chest pained from the exertion and content at the same time. An odd mixture of adrenaline and pleasure coursed through me and made my body tremble as the aftershocks subsided.

I was still catching my breath as he slowly pulled out and looked down at me.

“Beautiful. You’re absolutely fantastic.”

“So are you.”

I pressed my hand to his cheek. He turned and kissed my palm. His eyes were fixed on me like they’d been so often over the last several hours, not examining; memorizing.

I melted further into the sheets. His softened look, his messy hair, and his gentle way of treasuring me after being so wild and crazed threatened to undo me.

“We need to clean up,” he said.

“Yeah.” My breath was a mere whisper as if sounds would be too harsh in the aftermath of what we’d experienced.

“I also feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”

“And look where it got us.” I grinned.

His eyes lit with the brightest blue and he dipped down to me. “Yeah. Look what it got me.”

Beautiful. I shivered from the depth of his emotion he poured out with a look.

“I’ll use the restroom. Be right back.”

He offered me a brief kiss, one I greedily took, and then I kept my eyes on him, turning to watch him stroll into the bathroom.

He came back with a wet cloth and he wiped me, the warmth from it and the gesture sent goose bumps skittering down my skin.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“Then use the restroom and get back in bed. I’ll go close up the house.” He opened a dresser drawer and tugged on a deliciously perfect fitting pair of boxer briefs.

I scooped up the T-shirt from the floor he’d discarded earlier and went to the bathroom.

When I was done, I sat back down on his bed, crisscross style and stared at the frames he had on his wall.

I’d been drawn to them earlier. They showed Beaux at various ages. There was an article titled, “Sophomore Quarterback Headlines at State. Gets The Win for Lincoln.” On the front page of the sports section of the Des Moines Register was Beaux, sitting on the shoulders of his teammates as they carried him off the field. He had his helmet in his hand, high above his head and his same hair was flopping and flying.

He was younger then, his face still more boy than man, but it was clear even then he’d grow up to be handsome as all get out.

Then the articles and a few endorsement photos filled the rest of the space. College, his year as a backup quarterback in Minnesota before he was transferred. There was even one of him wearing nothing and holding a football over his groin for an Under Armour Ad.

I kept going back to the photo of him in high school. It showed pure thrill, the pure love of the game and as I tracked the rest of the ads and articles, absolutely nothing had changed.

This wasn’t a job.

This wasn’t about the money.

He freaking loved the hell out of the sport he was playing.

“Here,” Beaux said, yanking me out of my admiration. “Call your dad.”

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