Page 37 of Ruthless Deliverance

“Are you sure you’re talking about me?” His hand drops, trailing along my neck before his fingertips brush over my collarbone. “Because I’m not the only one who has to have things exactly as I want them.” Okay. Maybe I can be a bit controlling. And maybe there is something to be said about getting out of my comfort zone now and then. But it’s supposed to be something normal—rock climbing, motorcycle racing, or even jumping out of a damn airplane. All seem less challenging and more appealing than the ludicrous individual who enjoys the fuck out of twisting my nerves, good and bad, at every opportunity given.

And he continues on that mission. He moves his hand back, his palm rubbing along my skin as he grips the nape of my neck, holding me in place. He lowers his mouth to mine, and the kiss is soft, tender. Completely different than his previous attempts to maim me but no less exhilarating. Because I want to feel that side from him, the part that sends desire coursing through every inch of my body but reassures me that I can trust him not to damage me. There’s no way that’ll happen but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying the delirium while it lasts. Clutching his shoulders, I cling to him as the kiss becomes more starved, more eager when his hands move down my back, stopping on my backside, a handful of my ass in his grip as his hips rock against me. Pulling back from the kiss, he doesn’t miss a second as his lips drop to my neck, his tongue licking and suckling while his palm glides up my thigh. Every part of my body begs for him to continue, but my mind just won’t allow it.

“We can’t do this.” I push against him.

But he holds steady, his fingers moving between my legs and up to the waistband of my boyshorts as he brushes along the hem. “Your job is becoming a piss-poor excuse to resist what you clearly want.” His hand moves over the material between my legs. “And I know you do. Just forget about work, about age, about all that bullshit.”

For a split-second, I realize that I want to overlook every reason, relevant or not, on why I shouldn’t go there with Creed more than I’ll ever admit. Why? Maybe it’s because not only does he challenge me but he doesn’t hold back or make me hold back. Even the guys at the gym will rarely get in the ring with me because they’re scared I can’t handle it. Thibaut offered to spar, but it was a ploy to get in my pants if I had to guess. Creed. I’m sure that’s been on his agenda too, but it seems like it’s more. But the feeling quickly fades when he adds, “Let me give you the good fuckin’ you crave.”

“I can’t.” Thrusting my hands against his shoulders, I shove him back, and move to the other side of the desk to grab my things.

“Yes. You can. They’re all bullshit reasons. I know it.” He moves around the desk, stopping next to me. “And you know it.”

“I do know it. And none of that is the reason I’m holding back.” It’s me. That’s the reason I’m holding back. Because I know none of those reasons are stopping me from admitting what I want. Him. Because after I allow it to be known, after I let it happen, I’ll be the one left looking like the fool I am. And the only thing I fear more than sleeping with Creed is it being about more than just sex. Right now, I know that’s not the case. Why else would I want to trust him if somewhere in my foolish mind I didn’t want more than just sex. And like Philip said, there’s no happy ending for me and Creed, and it shouldn’t be anywhere near my psyche to begin with.

I have to tell Philip the truth. Because not only can’t he trust me, but I also can’t trust myself.

33

CREED

“That was a shitty pass,” Beau says with way too much enjoyment.

“Can you even see the ball with that swollen face?” That wipes the gloating off his mug, and he turns back to the field, watching as Coach tells Marco something out of earshot. It’s not anything about him today. It’s me. As much as I hate to say it, Beau is right. I’m more off today than I’ve ever been. And it’s her. She’s supposed to be the distraction that makes football easier to handle, not fuck up my game more.

“Do you think Coach will ever realize none of us listen to him?” Beau laughs, slapping my shoulder pad as he gets in position.

I’m not actually a model player, but I do take what Coach says into account. Unlike Beau, I want to improve and strive to better my game.

The whistle blows, the ball snaps to me, and I grip it, watching Marco run along the sideline, his back to me before turning to look at the last minute. As I pull my arm back, a hard blow hits me from behind and another comes from my side. I tuck the ball against my chest and go down with the two defensive linemen piling on top. They’re quick to get up as I stand, looking around to where my left tackle—fucking Beau, the dipshit who doesn’t think he needs any critique—is standing with a slight smirk. Fucker left me unprotected on purpose.

“Reid, what the hell was that? Kincaid, you too. What were you waiting on, a personal invitation to throw the damn ball?” Coach rants for a few more minutes at almost each player on the field as we all stand in silence, which pisses him off even more and earns the first string a seat on the bench. “Might as well get second string warmed up with the way y’all are playing today.”

“It’s just practice, Coach,” Beau calls out.

Coach responds with a four-minute-long rant about giving it our all one hundred percent of the time and other wannabe motivational bullshit. Beau drops down on the bench beside me as Coach focuses on the players on the field and runs another play. Displeased with that one too, he goes into another shouting fit.

“Damn, Coach must need to get some pussy or something,” Beau says purposely loud enough for the sideline to hear. “See, it’s not just us off our game, Coach.”

There’s only a look that says shut the fuck up pointed in Beau’s direction from Coach, and I fully agree, but Beau can never stop when he’s ahead.

“Is that your problem too? You know there’s plenty of other pussy available instead of that golden one you’re after.”

Yeah. I know. I don’t want another one. And it’s not only about sex. It was at first. That’s all I wanted, then she had to go and say some stupid shit about it not being about her job or the other circumstances holding her back. It had been easier to think she was resisting because she felt it was wrong. And maybe that’s what made me want to have more of her. But knowing she’s conceded, dismissed the excuses, and still walked away … well, it stings a bit. Will she ever let me in? I know she wants to. I can feel when she begins to and allows herself to kiss me back. And fuck, I want more. I don’t give a fuck about why she’s here, or who brought her into this, I need her, all of her.

“Dude,” Beau calls out, waving his hand in front of my face. “What’s going on with you? Coach called for us to get back on the field twice already.”

“I’m good.” I stand, heading onto the field. I’m good. Once we’re lined up and the ball is snapped, I take a few steps back, looking down the field. Ethan. I know where he should be and that’s where I throw. The ball lands in his hands only he soon morphs into Marco. Because it was Marco all along. Ethan is gone. But fuck, for a few seconds, everything felt right in the world again as the ball sailed through the air from me to him. The rest of practice, I try to get that feeling back but never do.

34

DANI

At first, I was happy to have the house to myself. Now, I’m wishing he were here to get the lecture over. I know we’re boss and subordinate, but he’s definitely hitting the lectures with more of a parent-child technique. Just as it was with my dad, the anticipation of getting the dreaded sermon is worst than the actual event.

Creed: Does it ever get easier?

I stare at the phone for a second and know I shouldn’t answer but I know I have to.