Page 120 of Through the Flames
Calloused hands gripping my hips like manacles, he drove up into me, brutal and claiming, his breath ragged, curses spilling from his lips until he roared my name and came deep in my ass.
We collapsed in a tangle of sweat and limbs, my body wrecked, my throat raw, and his arms locked around me like letting go wasn’t an option.
His lips brushed my shoulder tenderly.
“Told you I’d claim all of you,” he whispered with reverence.
Once we’d cleaned up and showered, I lay sprawled across him, his big hands working slow, deep circles into my back and sneaking the occasional handful of my ass.
My body hummed, satisfied in the knowledge it was his.
“You’re gonna go pro and leave me here eating peanut butter out of the jar while I figure out if I want to hit balls for a living,” I muttered playfully.
His thumbs pressed harder into the dips of my lower back, making me gasp.
“If you want to play professionally,” he said like it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I’ll make it happen.”
“Oh yeah? You gonna bribe the WTA?”
“Already checked top coaches in Florida and California,” he shot back, as if it were obvious. “If you need a place to train, we’ll figure it out.”
My laugh faltered. “You’re not even drafted yet.”
“I will be.” His words had a quiet fierceness to them, heavy with meaning. Then his sharp, piercing gaze met mine. “But you? You’re the real variable. I just want to make sure you don’t shrink your dreams to fit next to mine.”
I hesitated, my voice small. “What if I don’t know what those dreams are yet?”
Something in his gaze softened, but the intensity never left. “Then I’ll wait. I’ll support you. Tennis, whatever the fuck you want. I’ve got you. You figure it out at your pace, and I’ll make sure nothing gets in your way.”
Relief coiled in my chest, softening the tight anxiety I hadn’t been aware I was carrying. My heartbeat slowed a little. This was what I needed to hear. I could stumble and explore without judgment or pressure, knowing he had my back.
My brain short-circuited. This wasn’t control; this was commitment on his own terrifying, obsessive scale.
I lifted my head to peer up at his face before asking softly, “You really think about all this?”
“Not just think. I plan. Because I’m not going anywhere you’re not.” He said it like it was a fact.Undeniable. “I don’t care where the draft sends me. I’ll build you a place that feels right for you. You just … need to be there. With me.”
He wasn’t promising what he couldn’t control, but he’d control everything he could. Maybe this was love inhislanguage.
Thirty Four
Ella
If testosterone had a smell, it would be whateverthiswas.
Indianapolis during the Combine felt like someone dropped a protein shake into a cologne factory and set it on fire.
Every guy looked like a Greek statue in joggers, and every agent wore a suit costing more than anything I’d ever owned in my life. The air practically buzzed with ambition, thick enough I half-wanted to swipe at it to see if it would stick to my fingers.
Hunter navigated the chaos like he owned the building. Broad shoulders cutting a path, head high, calm in the storm while I was over here drowning in a sea of NFL hopefuls and testosterone fumes.
But now that I knew him so well, I could see the deliberate way he avoided contact, how he twisted out of people’s reach and anticipated their movements.
“This feels like wolves sniffing each other’s stats,” I muttered as we passed a cluster of guys comparing their wingspans like this was something normal people did.
“You’re not wrong,” Hunter said without missing a beat. “Except they’re sniffing paychecks.”
I snorted so hard I almost tripped over my own feet. “God, you make this sound so romantic.”
