“Fuck.” The word rips from my chest, raw and reverent, because she’s taken the last of my control with one slow sweep of her tongue.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against me before dragging her mouth the length of my shaft, deliberate and slow, like she’s savoring her favorite sin.
“For what?” My voice is a growl, my grip tightening in her hair, but I can’t think of a single reason this woman should ever apologize.
“For assuming the worst of you,” she says, tilting her head just so, before she swallows me whole—deep, perfect, her throat tightening around me until my visionblurs.
“Good fucking girl,” I groan, the words pulled from the center of me as I fist her ponytail, guiding her mouth over me again and again.
The windows are fogged, the air thick with heat, and the backseat pulses with the filthy, unrestrained sounds of my wife taking me deeper. It’s all so beautiful—her gasps, her sucks, her chokes as she strains for air—breaking me apart with every inch that she takes me deeper.
And heavens me, my wife is apologizing in the only way she knows how…with devotion on her lips and the most devastatingly sensual surrender I’ve ever witnessed.
Each movement of her mouth is a confession, each gasp a vow. She’s unraveling me, until there’s nothing left but need and the violent thrum of desire coursing through my veins.
“Look at me,” I rasp, and when her eyes lift—dark, glistening, locked on mine—it’s over. I’m done. Ruined. I’ll always be ruined for her. My wife. My salvation. Mrs.fuckingAgassi.
She doesn’t falter. Doesn’t stop sucking. Doesn’t stop taking me deeper, like her only purpose in this world is to bring me to my knees.
“I want to see what my wife’s face looks like when I empty myself down her throat.”
She nods, giving me permission, giving me everything. Approval. Access. Her devotion, written in the silent shimmer of her gaze.
I cradle her face in my palms, the only softness I have left to give, before I surrender to the hunger that’s been clawing at me all night.I thrust into her mouth, hard, desperate, relentless, until my release tears through me and I spill every last piece of myself down her throat.
And as she swallows me—every drop, every ragged moan—I realize this is what forgiveness feels like. This is what it feels like to absolve the only woman who has ever had the power to destroy me.
For her, I’ll forgive anything.
Chapter forty-two
Popcorn & The Pope
Eslin
Growing up the way I did—bounced from one house to another, suitcase never fully unpacked—Thanksgiving was never more than a date on the calendar. Another day to get through. Another reminder that family dinners and warm traditions belonged to other people, not me. Plus, I knew enough about America to understand that pilgrims and Indians weren’t clinking glasses in a cheerful union that day. It wasn’t some storybook holiday to celebrate—it was blood and survival dressed up with turkey and pie. So, I never saw the point in pretending. No handmade traditions. No “what are you thankful for” circles around the table. Thanksgiving, for me, was just another Thursday.
That is, until I met Maxine Palmer—hopeless romantic and holiday enthusiast. Max is the kind of womanwho has a Pinterest board for every season. Since the day we became friends in college, Max has refused to let me sit out a single holiday. Halloween? She shoved me into a Cleopatra costume and dragged me to three different frat houses. Juneteenth? She insisted sparklers were “non-negotiable.” And one Christmas, when I moved into my very first apartment, Max flew to New York, took me to a tree lot to pick out the cheapest, cutest pine she could find, and helped me decorate my very first tree.
For the first time in my life, someone gave me traditions. She gave me belonging. I hadn’t felt like I had a family until Max came barreling into my world, planting herself firmly in my heart, and making me her sister in everything but blood.
So while I’m genuinely excited about the Thanksgiving gala Tatum has planned for the team, her over-the-top soirées regarded as nothing but legendary, I’m mostly counting down the days until I get to wrap my arms around Max again when she comes for Thanksgiving. And this time, she’s bringing her new man, Eli. I can’t wait to meet him. I’ve never met a Black lumberjack.
It’s Friday night and I’m just about to start the marathon of taking down my braids so I can wash and prep for the stylist Marlow’s bringing in for the gala tomorrow when my phone rings.
Coach Jones.
I roll my eyes at the name on the screen even though he’s done nothing wrong. “Hey, Coach!” I answer brightly, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder while I pop a fresh bowl of popcorn, grab a bottle of wine, and cue upScandalfrom season one. Again.
Olivia Pope is my emotional support bitch.
“I wish you would call me Darren,” he says, his tone half a whine, half a chuckle. “No woman I have ever dated has called me Coach the way you do.”
Dated.
The word makes me shiver, and not in a good way. I still haven’t told Coach Jones—Darren—that this isn’t going anywhere. That this little situationship expired long before it began. He never stood a chance.
I don’t like stringing men along, but every time I think about breaking it off, I freeze. It’s easier to delay because there are moments when I think I really could be into him. But those moments never last.
