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God.
She twists and pumps her hand down my length impatiently. It’s like she’s angry with me, but I know she’s not. I know it’s something else entirely—this frenzied rush for more that’s mirrored inside both of us.
The tables turn as she slips down to her knees to take me in her mouth. All those sounds she was making a moment ago fall from my lips now as I fight the urge to close my eyes and just feel. I want to watch her though. I want to burn this image into my brain forever.
“Little Bird,” I whisper, gathering up her hair so I can see her whole face, her sunken cheeks as she sucks me deeper into her mouth, her water-coated lips, the clustered dark lashes that frame her crystal blue eyes.
This won’t last long.
The combination of her fist and mouth are enough to rip me apart.
I lean one hand on the wall for support as she speeds up even more, and then I’m coming past her lips, spilling into her mouth as she swallows.
Relief.
I haul her up off the floor of the shower and rain kisses across her face until she’s laughing, the sound echoing off the tile and reverberating through me.
We wash off together, sharing private smiles whenever our gazes meet. Her cheeks are a rosy shade of pink as if she can’t quite believe what we just did. I finish up first and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist and grabbing one of the hotel’s oversized white robes for her. She slips into it then pads out to the table by the bed, flipping through the room service menu.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, peering at me over her shoulder as I dry off and dress.
“Starved. Order whatever you want.”
Half an hour later, we sit on the bed, watching a random HGTV show about flipping houses while we eat our dinner. We stay up way too late arguing about the designer’s choices and then Raelynn falls asleep on her pillow, her plate of half-finished French fries still sitting beside her. I smile and move them aside, drawing back the blankets to cover her up before I scoot in beside her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Raelynn
“I didn’t know you’d be here!”
I follow the familiar voice to see Eva waltz into the players’ private box inside Oklahoma City’s stadium, beaming at me. I’m relieved to see her too. There’re less people here than there were in the box back in Los Angeles, probably because that was a home game versus away. Before Eva showed up, it was just me and a few older women who seemed polite but largely uninterested in me.
“I flew out last minute,” I explain.
“I’m so glad I won’t have to sit through this game alone,” she says, taking the seat beside me and trying to get comfortable, which is easier said than done considering she’s wearing a dark purple bodycon dress with coordinating sky-high heels. The purse she sets on the coffee table is a custom Hermès painted to coordinate with her boyfriend’s basketball number.
I’m thoroughly impressed. She looks like she owns the place. Meanwhile, I look like a regular ol’ fan who found her way into this private suite by accident. I’m rocking a jersey (Ben’s, of course) I bought in the gift shop. I purposely got it a few sizes up so I could wear it as a dress with my cowboy boots.
“I would look like a fool if I tried to pull that off,” Eva tells me, waving her hand over my outfit. “But somehow it totally works on you.”
I smile in thanks before asking if she always travels with Brent.
She shrugs. “When I can. It keeps him honest.”
I frown, more than slightly taken aback by her answer. “Are you really that worried he’ll stray?”
She levels me with a no-nonsense, nearly bored stare. “If you knew his track record—hell, the track record of most guys on this team—you’d do the same.”
The way she talks, it sounds as if she’s discussing something as simple as the weather, not the dynamics of her relationship.
I lower my voice as I ask, “Has he cheated on you before?”
“Twice.” She shrugs. “That I know of.” My jaw drops, and she laughs. “It’s the nature of the game, babe. You better learn quick if you expect to be around a while. These guys don’t have to go out and seek women. Women come to them. You should see the number of thirsty DMs Brent gets every day. The pictures these women send, Jesus.”
“That’s no excuse,” I say sternly.
She smirks. “I love the perspective, I really do. It’s like you’ve never heard of a professional athlete cheating on his girlfriend before. I mean, it’s the oldest story in the book. I’ve come to terms with it to some degree. Brent treats me well, he spoils me, and we have fun together. I know the score.”
