Page 80 of Player Misconduct
“It is to me.”
He’s close enough that I can smell the faint mix of soap and his skin—clean, masculine, familiar. The towel around his waist shifts when he moves, a single drop of water sliding down his chest and disappearing against the hard lines of his stomach. And then I see it, he’s hard under that towel.
God help me. I bite down on my lip as I stare down at the towel raised from his erection.
“You look like you need someone to take care of you. I already told you Doc, I’ll give you anything you want.”
“I don’t need—” I stop, because the lie feels too heavy to finish.
His hand rises, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “You’re allowed to need things, Kendall.”
He says it so gently it almost breaks me.
The hormones, the exhaustion, the relentless tug of wanting him. It all blurs together until I can’t tell where logic ends and need begins. I don’t even realize I’ve leaned forward until his breath ghosts against my lips.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I don’t.
Instead, my hands fist in the damp fabric at his waist to pull him closer. The kiss is rough, clumsy, desperate—two peopletrying to remember how to breathe through the ache. He groans, deep and low, like I’ve just given him permission, finally.
The towel hits the floor.
His hands find my hips, my thighs, his touch careful but claiming all at once. He lifts up on my shirt and I respond, lifting my arms over my head, giving him permission.
It doesn’t take long before we’re both bare in my office, his hard cock bobbing between us. When he lifts me onto the table, the metal creaks, and I gasp, half laughter, half disbelief.
“This is so wrong,” I whisper, lips brushing his ear.
He smiles against my throat. “Then why does it feel so good?”
I can’t answer. I don’t want to.
His mouth trails lower, slow kisses along the edge of my jaw, my collarbone, down the front of my t-shirt until my thoughts scatter. My hands slide into his hair, tugging him closer, anchoring myself to the only thing that feels solid right now—him.
Every movement is careful and filled with need. He touches me like I’m breakable, like the baby between us is already his whole world.
“I don’t have a condom with me,” he says.“I think we’re past condoms at this point,” I tease.
“I haven’t been with anyone since you,” he tells me, and I already told him that I haven’t been with anyone else when I told him I was pregnant.
I nod, giving her permission to take me bare. And I want it. I want to feel Aleksi with nothing between us.
When he finally pushes inside me, the sound that leaves my throat isn’t words—it’s release. Relief. Need. His forehead drops to mine, his breath uneven.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Better than okay,” I whisper, arching into him.
He moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing me all over again. My fingers dig into his shoulders, the rhythm of his body syncing with the uneven beat of my heart. Each thrust pulls me further from the guilt.
And when it breaks—when everything inside me unravels—he catches me, holds me through it, mouth pressed to my temple, whispering something in Finnish that sounds like a promise.
For a long time, there’s just the sound of our breathing and the hum of the overhead lights. He brushes his thumb over my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. I just…” I trail off, because I don’t know how to explain it—the exhaustion, the release, the terrifying comfort of being held by him again.
