Page 168 of Can't Always Get What You Want

And just like that, we head for the exit—grinning, hand in hand, with a stadium full of chaos behind us and whatever comes next stretched out ahead.

Preferably with less jail time—but who knows?

37

luca

Ithought I was in love with her before she got herself thrown in jail at the stadium—but now I’m in love with her more. Any woman that’s willing to be on the jumbotron, before getting mock-arrested, must be head-over-heels in love.

I am a goner.

Putty in her hands.

“Tell me again,” I murmur, lathering shampoo in my hands as she turns her back to me beneath the spray. “What exactly made you want to break into the penalty box?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Her voice is all silk and sunshine as she runs her hands over her breasts, drawing my gaze down her body.

I hum, dragging my hands through her hair, slow and steady, letting my fingers tangle at the ends before smoothing them down again. “You were that desperate to tell me you loved me?”

“Of course I was.” She shrugs. “You weren’t answering my texts. I didn’t know if you’d ever talk to me again. So yes—I was desperate.”

“Guess I’m not the only one who’s romantic.”

She turns in my arms, water sluicing between us, cheeks pinkand slick, eyes shining like she’s got secrets she hasn’t told me yet.

“I meant every word,” she whispers, and I believe her with everything I’ve got.

“You turned my worst game into the best night of my life,” I say, brushing a wet strand of hair off her cheek.

Then I tilt her chin up and kiss her—slow and firm. No more questions, no more fears. Just skin, steam, and the girl who broke into the penalty box because she couldn’t stand not telling me she loved me.

We part, barely, and she raises a brow. “You keep looking at me like that,” she warns, “and we’re never making it to bed.”

“Fun fact,” I murmur, grinning. “I’ve never had shower sex.”

She blinks. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Her lips twitch. “Neither have I.”

“Oh?”

She tilts her head, mock-inspecting the space like she’s an interior designer doing risk assessment. “It seems dangerous. You know—logistically.”

I snort. “Dangerous how?”

“Well,” she says, spinning slowly so her back’s against the tile again, “this entire shower is floor-to-ceiling tile. Slippery as hell. What if you drop me?”

Drop her? “Can’t you just bend over and let me do you from behind? Low center of gravity. Less risk of injury. It’s a win-win for us both.”

She squints up at me, biting her lip in mock-disapproval, but her eyes tell me otherwise. She’s excited. “This is what I get for dating an athlete. You’ve turned sex into a tactical maneuver.”

“Wrong,” I say, bracketing her hips and letting my hands slide down the backs of her thighs. “You like it.”

She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile. Like she’s fighting the grin—and losing. “Maybe.”

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