Page 95 of Broken Play
I can barely look at him, standing in his sweatpants, which hang low on his hips, shirtless, with his trail of hair leading to the promised land. His hair looks like he's been digging tunnels through it for hours, and anxiety is etched into every angle of his face.
"I can't do this." My voice cracks, and my words fall out, beaten and worn. The ache in his gaze is palpable. "I have to put Paulina first. I can't risk something happening to me and jeopardizing me getting custody of her. I don't want my private life, much less my body, bared for the world to gawk at and share because some psycho has a phone."
He reaches for me, but I turn just enough so that his hand falls back to his side. His jaw tightens, and those little muscles pop in the porch light. Pain reflects in his eyes. "Don't do this, Sutton. Don't let this asshole win. You said you loved me. Is this what you do when you love someone? Turn your back on them? Turn your back on a good chance at happiness?"
Every instinct I have wants to close the distance between us, to let him hold me in his arms, and to wash all the doubt away, but I step back, even though I don't want it to end. "I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice, and you're making the wrong one. Do you want to know how I know?" I shake my head no. He steps forward, placing his large hands on my cheeks and neck. "Because you're mine. All mine."
His mouth crashes against mine, and the heat of his kiss exceeds any he's given me before. It's hungry and angry. Greedy, taking what he needs.
My hands slide up his muscular back, and before I know it, we're inside the house, ripping off each other's clothes. He isn't wearing a shirt, so it's mainly him undressing me in haste, as if he needs to prove a point.
His mouth skates up my skin as he bites my nipples, causing me to arch my back and push into his erection. It's like a hurricane when it makes landfall—desperate, wild, every touch drawing out a thousand unspoken words we're too broken to say. It isn't just about bodies; it's about needing to feel alive, to anchor ourselves to something real before it all slips away.
I love the way Greyson makes me forget everything outside this room—how his hands and mouth make me feel seen, cherished, like I'm worth fighting for, even when I'm about to let him go. I lose count of his orgasms after three. I think he senses it's really over and that as long as he keeps making love to me, I'll forget all the reasons I need to leave.
He sucks and fucks me. He loves and worships every inch of my skin. He utters over and over, "I know you love me the same way I love you," as he hovers over me, his elbows beside my ears.
When it's over, he gathers me against his chest, his breathing ragged. There's a tremor in his voice when he whispers, "Please don't leave, Sutton. Not tonight. Not like this."
I place a soft kiss on his lips. "This isn't just about me. It's about Paulina." I ease myself from his grip.
"Sutton," he pleads, with tears threatening in his eyes. "I need you. You and Paulina both. Please give me a chance to work this out."
Tears sting my eyes as I frantically put on my clothes. "I'm sorry. You'll always be my Ten. Maybe one day, but not now." I force myself out the door, letting the cool, crisp air slap me in the face.
He yells my name, his voice shattering like glass. "Sutton, please. Please." I don't look back, knowing if I do, I'll never be able to leave, and I can't let a little girl be all alone in the world. I could never forgive myself.
FIFTY-THREE
GREYSON
Grown men don't cryis bullshit. My therapist taught me that if you need to cry, don't hold back. So I sit hunched over in my den, fists planted on my knees, letting the tears streak down my cheeks, hot and silent, seeping into the creases of my palms and trailing down my wrists.
My wrists.
The same pain.
The ache there is too familiar, with old memories threatening to pull me under. I rub my thumb over the inked scar, tracing the rough line that once meant the end—and somehow became a mark of survival. The pain is fresh, raw, demanding to be felt. That old blackness claws at the edges of my mind, whispering how easy it would be to slip just once.
I don't even hear the door open until my brother's voice cuts through the fog, low and steady. "Greyson? You in here, man?"
I don't have the energy to answer, but J.D. stands in frontof me, and just like that, the dam bursts open. All the feelings from the past and the present engulf me in a flame of pain. He gets on his knees in front of me, holding my hands. "Look at me. I'm here."
Sucking up the tears falling from my lips, I fall forward into his strength. "She's gone. We're over. She chose the blackmailer over me."
"Shh," he says as he squeezes me hard. "She called me to come over. Sutton didn't want you to be alone. She loves you, even if it doesn't seem like it right now." He pulls my head back, peering into my eyes. "We'll get through this. Witt will find out who this fucker is and destroy them. Then you and Sutton can be together."
"You think so?" I ask with an unsteady voice.
"Yes. Now, go take a shower. You smell like sex, so it must not have been all bad," he jokes. He slaps my back. "Up. Now."
As much as I want to roll my eyes, I can't. My eyes are painfully swollen, so I stand and walk up the stairs with my brother right behind me. He sits in the bathroom, pretending to trim his beard, making sure I don't get tricky with my razor.
After a hot shower, some of the muscle aches are gone, but not the one in my heart. "Thanks for coming. I couldn't ask for a better brother or friend." I laugh. "I could ask for a better coach, though."
"You run Broken Play one more time, and you're getting benched... again."
