Page 5 of You Owe Me

Heaven, help me.

I kiss her hard with no warning, no finesse, just teeth and want. She moans into it, one hand tugging my hair, the other clawing at my shirt like she can’t get close enough.

I lift her, the couch groaning beneath us, her back pressed against the cushions as I settle between her thighs. Her body arches, grinding up, searching for friction. For more. For me.

“You wear that mouth out there like you want attention,” I murmur against her jaw, trailing kisses down her throat. “But you forget who it belongs to.”

She shivers. “Then remind me.”

Oh, I will.

My hand drags beneath her shirt, fingertips grazing up her stomach until she arches. I don’t rush. I never rush. I take my time peeling the cotton over her head, baring inch after inch of skin.

Untangling her legs from around my waist, she takes off her shorts, tossing them with a flick of her foot.

“You’re overdressed.” Her voice is breathy.

“So undress me.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers yank at my belt, pop the button, and slide the zipper down slowly, teasing, dragging her nails along the waistband just to mess with me.

“Dammit, you’re infuriating,” I mutter.

“I’m the best decision you’ve ever made.”

She’s not wrong.

I let my jeans drop, shove them off, and settle back over her, skin to skin, chest to chest. Her hand skims my side, tracing the lines of my tattoo like she knows every inch of me.

I press my forehead to hers. “You with me?”

She nods, voice breaking. “Always.”

That’s all I need.

I give her everything.

Slow. Deep. Intentional. Her gasp is the only sound that matters. The way she clutches me with nails in my back, legs locked around my hips, lips whispering my name is the only confirmation I need.

We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like we belong. My rhythm stays controlled and deliberate. She likes it when I lose control, but not until she does first.

And when she breaks?

When her body bows beneath mine and she chants my name like a prayer and a curse?

That’s when I lose it, too.

That’s when I let myself come undone.

I bury my face in her neck, every muscle locked, every nerve alight. She holds me through it, soft kisses to my temple, her fingers threading through my hair.

When the aftershocks fade, we lie there, tangled on the couch, our bodies sticky and warm and too intertwined to care.

She breathes against my shoulder. “You still mad I tackled you?”

I smirk. “No.”

“Good.” She presses a kiss to my jaw. “Because I’m doing it again next game.”

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