Page 88 of Endurance
“Did you have something else in mind?” he asks.
“We both had good days. I wanted to…celebrate.” My tone leaves nothing to the imagination.
A low growl vibrates through the line. “Woman, I’m going to celebrate with you so much tonight you’re going to need me to carry you home tomorrow.”
“Promises, promises.” I smile when he huffs out a laugh. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
We hang up and I hop in the shower, willing my hand not to touch myself like I so desperately want it to.
Tanner Harris deserves all the wrath of this sexual tension.
Charcoal slim suit, deep purple tie, brown leather boots, and belt. I’m looking fine and feeling on top of the world.
I ride the lift up to the thirty-eighth level, utilising the mirrored walls to flatten my blonde mane that I actually styled tonight. Well, styled in the sense that I blow-dried it and ran a brush through it more than a few strokes. That’s about the extent of my mane taming. I smooth down my freshly trimmed beard and my mouth curves into a half-smirk.Tonight’s going to be a great fucking night.
It feels like a celebration for so many things. It’s mine and Belle’s last fake date, even though we dropped the fake label; we’re celebrating Belle’s achievements at her new job; we’re helping a great cause; and lastly, the huge Bethnal Green win that included me back on the pitch. So many great things have happened. I hope that tonight is just the start of more to come.
I rap on her room door and am looking down to adjust my cufflinks when it opens up.
Belle’s voice croaks, “I’m nearly finished. Just struggling with this stupid earring…”
My eyes start a slow crawl up her body as her voice trails off into some faraway land where sound disappears to when you’re busy trying not to blow it in your trousers like a pubescent teenager.
Her curves—her perfect, beautiful, ripe-like-a-peach curves—are swathed in a floor-length champagne sequined gown. She glitters with every breath she takes and is the epitome of elegance.
She’s too good for me.
“What?” Belle asks, catching me gawking and smoothing down her dress self-consciously.
“You look like a bride.” The words fall out of my mouth.
She smirks. “I think brides wear white.”
I shake my head, mesmerised. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her dramatic, smoky eyes meet mine, accepting my crass phrasing as truth because that’s me and she knows it. Her dark hair is curled into soft tendrils down one side of her neck, making me want to reach out and run my fingers through it. I coincidentally know that that thought makes my vagina show a bit, so the fact that I’m standing here half-mast reassures me that I’m still a proper bloke.
She props a hand on her hip and her gaze drops down my body. “You clean up rather nicely yourself, Striker.” She winks up at me through her thick lashes with a disbelieving shake of the head. “But I would have loved to have seen how you looked on that pitch today. God!” She squeals and tightens her fists in excited frustration as she falls into my arms. I swear the world stops moving as she adds, “I’m gutted I couldn’t be there. I’m so proud of you.”
I snake my hands around her waist and pull her to me, overwhelmed by her adoration. I’ve never had someone like her to share football with. Sure, I’ve shared it with my family, but this feels different. This feels…extraordinary.
I connect our lips in a needful kiss, desperate to feel her words against my skin. To test the weight of them and commit them to memory. She tastes so good. Like a victory and a consolation prize all at once. I’d lose a thousand matches if it meant I got to continue kissing her like this.
I pull away, breathing harder than I’d like, my eyes wide and grave as they lock on hers. Her brow furrows with a silent question and I can’t find my voice to answer it. To answer her. To tell her what I need to tell her. I swallow hard. “Fancy a shag?”
She laughs and it feels so right. Licking her dark lips, she turns to grab her clutch on the side table. As she brushes past me, she replies, “Patience, beast. Good things come to those who wait.”
I follow while murmuring under my breath, “I’ve never been good at patience.”
We arrive at the ballroom located on the fourth level of the Shangri-La Hotel. It’s got a midnight starry sky sort of theme about it. Navy tablecloths, silver, glittery centrepieces, and sparkling accents decorate the room. Belle has to stop and say hello to several people as we make our way to our table. It’s a lot of white-haired, laboratory-looking blokes whose tuxes look like they were bought in the 90s and they’ve since outgrown them. Belle doesn’t seem the least bit nervous. She’s calm, cool, collected, and completely brilliant.
I do my best to not behave like the stupid footballer I’m sure the entire world assumes I am. There are several guests who congratulate me on my game. Many are probably not Bethnal fans but did their research before tonight since they knew so many of us would be in attendance.
When Belle gets pulled away by the caterer, I make my way over to the Bethnal Green sponsored table to find my people. In a sea of stiff upper-lipped, crusty old geezers, our group looks like it just finished a photoshoot forThe Great Gatsby. Booker is kitted out in a suit and is engrossed in conversation with his date—some blonde who grew up down the street from us in Chigwell. I’ve seen her around before, but he’s never dated her officially like this. Camden and Indie are here as well, dressed to the nines and quietly looking down at their mobiles.
“Why are you two so distracted? Did something bad happen?” I ask, mostly serious because these days you can’t joke about horrid world events.
Indie’s head snaps up. “No! They have a silent auction going and you have to text in your bid. I’ve been really fighting to win this trip to Spain.”
