Page 183 of Break Point

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She kisses me again as I set her down. Every sound she makes threatens to cancel the Champions’ Dinner altogether.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I ignore it.

Twice.

Three times.

She breaks the kiss, lips pink and swollen, looking dazed.

“Might be important,” she says. “I’ll meet you in the shower.”

I watch her walk away, her tiny pajama shorts coming off, my heart restarting when I see she’s wearing nothing underneath.

Blinking, I pull out my phone.

Rafa Nadal: Solid match. Big year.

Rafa Nadal: Keep going.

Rafa Nadal: See you tonight at the Champions’ Dinner.

How did this become my reality?

I stumble toward the bathroom, tossing my phone on the marble counter, peeling off my sweaty clothes, and leaving a trail behind me.

“Hey,” I say behind her, stepping under the hot water. I brush her hair aside, press a kiss to her neck, and slide my hand down her body.

She gasps. Low and shaky. It turns into a moan when my fingers find that sweet spot between her legs.

I might lose it.

“God … how did I get so fucking lucky?”

“I love you,” she says, leaning back into me, her fingers wrapping around my length.

I love you.

I fucking adore you.

Marry me.

Not tonight. But someday.

I don’t say any of it. I’ll show her.

I’ll worship her until this entire facility runs out of hot water and the All England Club’s driver starts tapping his watch in the hotel’s motor lobby.

“More,” she begs. “Henry …”

“Take what you need,” I rasp, her touch unraveling me. “Greedy, little necia.”

Four days later …

We’re at my mom’s place in Jersey, finishing lunch. It’s a small but charming apartment in a quiet street. She’s been living here since she moved back almost two years ago. Having her closer is a blessing. Makes seeing her easier, even with all the travel.

“Pie?” she says, pulling out her famous cherry cheesecake.

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