Page 84 of Winning Match
“We lost.”
I nod, pressing my lips together.
“I missed the fucking goal.”
“You can’t always shoulder all the blame,” I say gently, stepping closer to him.
He heaves out a breath as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and I suppose, most days, it feels that way when you’re wanting to lead a team, be a beacon of light for a city, and uphold a legacy.
“It was my fault,” he disagrees, his tone low. Biting.
I step closer, stopping inches from his face. He cranes his neck to look at me. Want and frustration and pain claw for precedence in the lines of his face.
I drop to my knees and reach for him.
He swears as my arms snake around his waist. I press the side of my face into his abdomen, nestling between his thighs.
“Tell me what you need,” I beg. Pulling back, I look up at him. “I miss you, Ale. I hate the space between us.”
Pain lashes over his face as he closes his eyes, as if to block out the grief.
“Tell me what you need,” I repeat. “Let me help you. Be here for you.”
His jaw tightens, that muscle fluttering and popping. He grasps the back of my head, his fingers twisting tightly in my hair.
“I don’t—” he starts. But he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Marlowe.” My name is a guttural growl on his lips.
“Tell me,” I urge, sliding my palms up his thighs. He’s clad in shorts and his skin is hot to the touch. “I can make you feel better,” I promise, biting my bottom lip. “I’m here for you.”
He sucks in a shaky breath, his eyes locked on mine as the air around us charges, heats, expands.
“Marlowe, please,” he rasps, and I don’t know if it’s an invitation or a warning.
I can’t read him anymore—not the way I could at my birthday party. Everything seemed so simple then. Bright and natural and sincere.
But now…
My eyes dart down, and he hardens under my gaze. My cheeks heat and I bite my bottom lip, my eyes flickering to his.
“Fuck,” he breathes out between parted lips. His eyes are half-mast, his hold on my hair nearly painful. “I can’t.”
I reach for him, cupping his length over the silky material of his shorts. “Then let me,” I say, stroking him through his clothes.
He shudders, his eyes dropping closed. “Marlowe.”
I tug down the band of his shorts, taking him out. My mouth waters at his impressive length. So fucking smooth, like velvet. So fucking hard. I shift on my knees, a throb forming between my thighs at the sight of him.
I wrap my hand around his shaft, fisting him.
He moans.
I slide my hand up and down a few times, testing to make sure this is okay. That I’m doing this okay. Here, now, with so much tension and confusion between us.
“Marlowe,” he repeats, but I can’t read the intent behind his tone.
Fuck. I need to go all in or back down.
Ale slumps before me—defeated and hurting. And I feel as lost as he looks.
