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And right now.

I don’t wait for the green.

I lean in, wrap my fingers in the collar of his suit jacket, and crush my mouth to his. The kiss is a collision. Messy. Urgent. His hand cups the back of my head as if he’s been waiting for this too, as if it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity right now. I taste frustration and fire, and a need so fierce it feels like it’s going to swallow me whole.

When I pull back, breathless and blinking, he’s staring at me like I just changed everything.

“What was that for?” His voice is low. Rough. Like it got sanded down by emotion.

I smile. Slow. Bold. Confident in a way I haven’t been in days. “Just because.”

His eyes flash, jaw tightening as he exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to lose it completely. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across the seam of his lips. “But it’s a damn good prelude.”

We make it back to the penthouse in record time, silence stretching between us like tension on a wire. The moment the elevator dings and the doors slide open, he moves. Fast. Like a storm breaking the horizon.

The door slams behind us.

And I’m in his arms.

His hands grip my waist, his mouth finding mine like he’s starved, and I melt into him, kicking off my sneakers as I reach for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, I pop them open, revealing the broad, inked chest beneath. I push the jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, and skim my fingers over the ridges of muscle and the brush of chest hair that makes my mouth water.

He peels my Giants shirt over my head and stares at me in nothing but a soft sports bra and my maternity leggings. “Jesus, Mya.” His voice is wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I think I do.” I grab his hand and guide it to my hip, my voice a whisper against his ear. “And tonight, I don’t want you to stop.”

His growl is a promise.

He walks me backward, step by step, kissing me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

Then he lays me down.

And undresses me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.

Like he’s been starving for years and I’m the first bite of something that tastes like home.

My bra joins my Giants jersey on the hardwood floor. The air between us sharpens—charged, crackling, electric. His eyes devour every inch of me, but it’s not just heat in them—it’s reverence. Hunger wrapped in something deeper. Something terrifying.

Because the way he’s looking at me? Like this moment means something.

Like I mean something.

My leggings slip off with ease, gravity helping him out. He doesn’t speak. Just follows every movement of his hands with his gaze—slow, steady, intent—like he’s imprinting me into memory. Like he’s been waiting to worship at the altar of my skin and tonight, finally, I let him.

The second I’m bare, Kingston straightens. It takes only one tug for his belt to loosen. The rasp of the zipper might as well be a starting gun because my pulse bolts straight into overdrive. I watch with wide eyes and parted lips as he shucks off his tailored pants and boxer briefs, revealing hard lines and pure muscle—him, in all his brutal, beautiful glory.

And God. He’s big. Everywhere.

But I already knew that. The way he takes up space. The way his presence fills a room—and now, this room. My breath comes out shaky, uneven, thick with need.

He steps between my legs and I swear the air gets sucked out of the room. I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s standing in front of me, naked, raw, real. All six-foot-something of football-sculpted sin.

And he drops to his knees.

My lips part. “Kingston…”

But his hands wrap around my thighs before I can say another word. He pushes them apart gently—then firmly—spreading me wide.