Page 66 of Worth the Scandal
She doesn’t even get a chance to kiss me again before my fingers slide up her thigh, slowly, seductively, until I find the edge of her lace underwear. I pull them to the side and slip one finger in—then two—into her soaked centre.
She gasps. My girl is ready. My girl wants me.
Even after everything—even after the truth’s been laid bare and my secrets are no longer secrets—she still wants me.
Her leg hooks around my waist. Her hands dip beneath the waistband of my silk training shorts, freeing my cock, stroking in rhythm with my fingers. I groan into her mouth. She’s stroking me like she owns me. And maybe she does.
This is everything. I’ve never been so turned on. Scarlett Walker is hot. My girl is fire.
She wraps her other leg around me, perfectly positioned to sit, and grind, and bounce like she’s been waiting for this all week.
I back her against the goalpost and ease her down onto me. She takes me in with a moan, riding me, grinding with desperation, every movement a ragged, needy cry. I thrust to meet her pace, one hand braced behind her, the other gripping her waist.
Our breaths sync. Our mouths devour. The heat builds, thick and heavy between us.
“I need to come,” I manage between gasps.
Her eyes lock on mine. “I need you to.”
And that’s all it takes.
We unravel—together. Falling apart and pulling tighter, giving in to every pent-up emotion that’s boiled beneath the surface all week. She moans into my neck, and I lose myself inside her.
When our breathing slows, when her head rests against my shoulder and I know I’ll never feel this close to anyone again—I say it.
“I love you, Scar.”
She lifts her head. Her eyes burn through me.
But she doesn’t say it back. Then, with that fire that makes her mine she scolds “don’t ever fucking lie to me again.”
God, there she is.
My girl.
Chapter Twenty Nine - Scarlett
He was on drugs. Well, he was drugged.
The words keep echoing in my head.
I’m driving home after our hot and steamy post fight post game make up sex. I’m still unravelling everything he’s told me and everything Caleb said too.
I watch Asher, jaw tight, posture rigid, like saying it out loud might rip him apart. But we need to get to the bottom of this. I know he’s probably told the same story a million times, but I’ve only heard it once. So I press him again.
“My family’s lawyer had me tested the morning after,” he says, voice low. “He didn’t want to take chances with the media. He had the test sent to a private lab.”
“And?” I whisper.
“There were traces of sleeping pills I’ve never touched. Ever. Some kind of Xanax. Sedative. Not alcohol. Not weed. Something serious.”
My heart skips.
“Only my parents know, about that part,” he says. “And now… you. Everyone else thinks I was injured, but I was forced to attend some weird weekly rehab program for 12 months and wasn’t allowed to play. That was the deal my lawyers got.”
I sit there, stunned.
He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to change my mind.
