Page 91 of Enemies Off Camera
“Damn,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You’re so wet.”
And then, in a blink, he grips my hips—tight, commanding—taking back control the only way he can.
He enters me with a gasp that escapes both of us.
He thrusts.
Deep.
Full.
I toss my head back, biting my lip, and ride him, slowly at first, savoring the heat, the stretch, the way we still fit—like we were built for this.
For each other.
His hands stay locked to my hips, guiding me, grounding me. Even wounded, he makes me feel like I’m the one who’s being consumed.
This isn’t just sex. It’s a reclamation.
A return.
A promise.
And I don’t want it to end
SIXTY-SIX
Satisfied, with my head resting on Jaxon’s chest, I listen to the steady rhythm of his heart. The sun is just beginning to rise, and we’ve been talking about everything. I told him about Trey, about my father, about my sisters.
“Are you clear-eyed about it?” he asks, sounding exactly like a professional athlete. That’s something I’ve come to respect about Jaxon—how he thinks. He always weighs his actions, considers the possible outcomes before making a move. I get it. That’s what it means to play at the highest level. It’s easy to armchair coach or play pretend. But the real work? That’s something else entirely.
It’s not so different from my career, I realize.
That’s why my brows furrow as I seriously consider his question. I respect everything that comes out of his mouth—even the things that used to annoy me—because they’re almost always laced with some kernel of wisdom.
“What do you mean?” I ask, wanting to understand what’s behind the question.
“Do you understand why you helped your father?”
I rest my chin on top of my hands, which are stacked on his chest. We look into each other’s eyes.
“I guess… because he’s my father.”
“Do you forgive him?” Jaxon asks, no hesitation.
I sigh, thoughtful. “That’s a good question. When I first heard from my brother, Trey, that my dad was sick, I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to care. I went to a drugstore that day and was planning to shoplift something. But for some reason, I didn’t. And then I started thinking… about the kinds of things I’ve always taken. And it hit me—that my shoplifting was the little girl inside me, trying to steal what she was denied. Bookbags. Lipstick. Pens. Barrettes. Even face cream.”
“Wow,” Jaxon says softly. “That’s… really insightful.”
His praise warms me. That compliment—coming from him—feels huge. And true.
“Thank you, Jaxon.”
Like I weigh nothing, he shifts me gently, guiding me back on top of his solid body—and the parts of him that are newly alert.
“You’re welcome, babe,” he says.
My eyes go wide in mock surprise. “Babe? Wow. I’m in the pocket now?”
