Page 115 of Scoring the Player
I push in slowly, and we moan in unison. It’s never felt like this. Nothing feels better than being connected to her, body and soul. She owns me. It’s too soon to be as gone for her as I am, but I hardly had a choice. She came into my life like a snowstorm in the desert. Quiet and beautiful and completely unexpected.
She arches into me as I find a rhythm that has us both burning hot and fast. She comes first, squeezing my dick so hard I see stars and follow along after her.
Her breathing, quick and shallow, is the only sound above the steady thump of the music outside. I pull out, then tie off the condom and trash it.
“What are you thinking now?” I ask, taking in her rosy cheeks and limp body.
“There are no thoughts right now. You screwed them out of me.”
“Mmmm.” I drag my thumb along her bottom lip. “Want to know what I’m thinking?”
“It’s pretty clear what you’re thinking,” she says as she eyes my dick. It’s true, part of me is already ready for round two.
“I’m always thinking about being inside you, babe. Next time I want you in my bed so I can see my name across your back as I pound into you from behind.”
She laughs lightly, hops down off the vanity on wobbly legs, and pulls on her panties and shorts. I get dressed too, but before we leave our little haven and return to the party, I hug her to me.
Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and I run my hand down it and tug gently so her head tilts up. The smile on her face is a straight punch through the chest. So fucking beautiful.
“Ask me what I’m thinking.”
Her expression is happy and amused. Or maybe that’s just my own happiness reflected back.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
My pulse kicks up before I even say the words. “I love you.”
Her lips part and eyes widen. Her body tenses.
Oh shit.Panic hits me all at once. Maybe I misread her. She tells me she likes me so much, or likes me an insane amount, or some variation, constantly. I assumed that was her way of saying the words that feel way too early to say, without really saying them. I’m second-guessing that now as she stares back at me dumbstruck.
“If you’re not there yet—”
Her hand shoots up and covers my mouth. “I love you too.”
I exhale audibly.
“Of course, I do. How could I not?”
The relief I feel makes me dizzy. “It’s my abs, right? Maybe my charm and wit. Or my magic fingers.”
“It’s all of you.” She tangles her hands into my hair and kisses me.
That’s the thing about Dahlia. She sees past all the superficial bullshit. I’m not just a guy with terrific arms (her words, obviously), or a successful college quarterback, or a guy most likely heading to the NFL. That stuff doesn’t mean anything to her. I have no doubt she’d support me the same way if I were playing beer league softball. And as long as she’s there cheering me on, the rest will work itself out.
I’m considering lifting her back onto the vanity for round two, when the door opens.
“Oh, sorry,” Jordan says, quickly averting his gaze, then does a double-take and realizes it’s me and Dahlia. He shakes his head at me. “How do you know about this spot?”
“How do you?” I fire back. “And what the hell are you wearing?”
“He’s Shawn Mendes,” Daisy says, coming in behind him.
My brows lift when I get a good look at her. Ripped, skintight black jeans, a mesh tank top with a black bra underneath. Big hair, big lashes. I don’t know who the hell she’s supposed to be until she unfolds a poster in her right hand and holds it up. In big, glittery letters it reads I heart Shawn.
“You’re his groupie?” I ask.
Her smile is big and pleased at my guess. “Number one groupie.”
