Page 37 of Worth the Scandal
There it is.
“You weren’t meant to win tonight,” I say. “You were meant to remind them what you’re capable of.” The manager in me is tempted to pull up his stats in the short time he was on compared to Caleb’s lengthy stint, but I know that will not meananything to Ash. If he doesn’t believe something himself then it is not worth believing.
His eyes meet mine. “Did I?”
I walk toward him, slowly, letting the silence stretch. I nod once. “Yeah. You did.”
“Is that Scarlett Walker the rugby league fan talking or Scarlett Walker manager?”
He stands as I approach, towering over me, chest rising and falling. For a second, we just stare at each other—like the space between us is sparking, fragile, about to catch on fire. Neither of us daring to make the first move, but someone must make the first play here.
“It’s Scarlett Walker, whatever you want me to be for you Ash” I whisper up to him, and God, I mean it.
I don’t know if it’s the energy of watching him in motion today, or the way he looks like testosterone personified in this dim lit and sweaty dressing shed, but I can’t take it. I reach up, threading my fingers through the towel around his neck using it as a vice, and pulling him down to kiss me.
He groans against my mouth, hands gripping my waist like he’s been holding back since the moment the whistle blew, and he locked eyes with me, watching from afar. I kiss him deeper, dragging my fingers across his bare, moist skin, his muscles taut from the game, from everything he’s been carrying on his shoulders and no doubt in that head of his. I can feel his thoughts rolling around in there as he toys with himself to softly pull back.
“This is a bad idea,” he mutters against my lips, but he doesn’t move away. His mind is telling him one thing, but his body is saying something else. His body is all I’m listening to right now because there is no rationale when it comes to the way I react to Asher Kingston, especially after I’ve just watched him move out on that field.
I push him back gently until he hits the changing station behind him, the cool timber squeaks faintly under his sweaty skin.
“We’ve had worse ones, and we will probably have worse yet,” I breathe.
He laughs, low and hungry. “You’re not wrong.”
“I can stop if you think it’s a bad idea” I’m giving him the opportunity to tell me if this isn’t what he wants.
He doesn’t answer me with words, instead his hands slip beneath my blazer, pushing it off my shoulders. I shrug out of it, kissing him again, harder this time. He slides his hands down to my thighs, lifting me as effortlessly as he scoops up the football, like I weigh nothing, and spinning to pin me against the timber backing now.
My legs wrap around him instinctively.
We’re both still half-dressed, breathless, aching.
He growls into my neck. “Tell me to stop.”
Now he’s giving me the opportunity to stop this, but I have no free will here. I’m running on instinct, and my instincts are telling me to run headfirst at this man. The man I met two years ago at that party, the one I bared my soul to because I thought I’d never see him again.
I press my forehead against his. “Don’t you dare.”
Then in a flurry of motions he’s pulling aside my lace g-string underwear, fingers sliding between my legs, testing, teasing. There’s a low throbbing feeling meeting him where his finger delicately hovers over my wet centre. A current of want and need that’s travelled from where our lips touched all the way down.
“You’re soaked,” he whispers. “Was that before or after you snuck your way in here to seduce me darling?”
“I’m always like this thinking of you Asher.”
He pushes his shorts down just enough to free himself and aligns us, sliding into me in one smooth, hot stroke that ripsa gasping moan from my lungs. It feels like the first time he’s touched me all over again. The humid air in here is adding to the mayhem. I know he’s trying to make quick work of what we are doing because anyone could walk in or worse—still be here. The danger of it all adds to the excitement and our bodies become more frantic.
I clutch at his shoulders, my fingernails gripping into his skin as he thrusts into me, deep and steady, the cool of the timber behind me a sharp contrast to the heat blooming between us. Our movements are rough, desperate, bodies slamming together in time with the pounding of our hearts.
It’s messy. Urgent. Electric.
But it’s alsoreal.
This is a post game ritual I want every single time. I’m putting this in his contract. Hell, I’ll even add it in there as a pregame ritual.
When I finally let go, it’s with my head against his shoulder and his name on my lips. Ash—sh,Ashhh—Asher.
He follows with a groan, burying his face in my neck as he loses himself completely inside me. The warmth and closeness send me over the edge again, clenching and rocking deep into him.
