Page 70 of Run the Play
Not with Rowan.
Never with Rowan.
Rowan lifts and moves to lie next to me, her head on my chest. Hesitantly, she reaches out and strokes her index finger through the release on my belly. “You enjoyed that,” she says. It’s not a question, more an observation.
“You’re my favorite meal, baby,” I tell her.
She lightly smacks my chest. “Be serious. Is this something that happens a lot?”
“Only with you.”
She lifts her head to search my gaze. I push her hair out of her eyes and shrug.
She surprises me when she moves to my abdomen, and licks the tip of my still hard cock. She does it a few more times, and I growl, and she giggles. She pumps me a few times, making my eyes roll back in my head, even though I just blew my load, before she settles back against my chest.
“I’m happy here,” she whispers so low I almost don’t hear her.
Her words strike a match inside my chest, lighting a flame that burns only for her. “Because this is where you belong.” I kiss the top of her head and hold her for a few more minutes. I never want to let go, but I’m a mess. We both are. “How about a shower?”
“Yes.” She lifts her head, scrunching up her nose, and I can’t help but kiss the tip. This is what’s important—these moments with her.
Chapter Eighteen
Rowan
Landry comes limping off the field, and I have to remind myself that he’s not my boyfriend right now. He’s a colleague and a player on the Rampage who might need my help. My eyes trail after him as he moves to the bench and plops down with a wince. My boss, and the head physical therapist, is immediately at his side, addressing the situation. He examines Landry’s thigh and nods, before his eyes scan around. When they land on me, he waves me over.
“I don’t think it’s a sprain, just gonna be a bad bruise,” John tells him. “Rowan, take him to the locker room. Apply some ice and see how you feel. There are four minutes left on the clock before half-time. Give it a rest and we’ll see how you feel at the start of the third.” With that, John walks off, his attention already back on the game.
“Do you need help?” I ask Landry. My eyes rake over him, looking for other injuries.
“Nah, just stay close,” he says, standing, helmet in hand, and limps off toward the locker room. A few of his teammates call outto him, and he waves them off. I don’t know who, because I’m too focused on my patient—on my man—while worry gnaws at me.
In the locker room, Landry moves to the treatment table and hops up. He winces just a little, but it’s enough that I catch it. “I’m going to need to see it,” I tell him. “Take off your pants.”
“Baby, we’re at work,” he teases.
I whip my head around to face him, from where I was getting an ice pack. “You’re hurt. I need to assess the damage myself,” I tell him.
“It’s fine. I took a cleat to the thigh. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Just a bruise. That’s part of the job.” He shrugs.
“Then why did John send you back here?” I ask him. I stay rooted in my spot while he stands, pulls down his game pants, and hops back up on the table. I can see the bruise that’s already starting to form on his thigh.
“He’s just being cautious.”
Exhibiting my own caution, I approach him slowly, my eyes locked on his injury. Placing the ice pack on the table, I use a gentle touch to examine his leg. It is just a bruise, but damn, knowing he’s hurt does something to me.
Picking up the ice pack, I place it on his thigh, and finally peer up at him. His eyes are hooded as he watches me. “I’m okay,” he says softly.
“I don’t like you being hurt.” I’m fighting back tears, but you can still hear them in my voice.
“That’s part of the job, Roe,” he says gently.
“I know that,” I say, swallowing my feelings. I have no idea why I’m emotional, but here we are.
“Baby, it’s not that bad,” he says, resting his palm against my cheek.
“Then why are you in here and not out on the field?”
