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It’s more…sad. I hate that he’s sad. “That’s not what I mean,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m not talking about what Maddox has done for me. I’m talking about who he is. He’s a fighter for all his clients. Every single one. He only reps a small group of athletes. Athletes he believes in. He believes in you. He’s going to fight for you,” I say. “He’s going to do his best to get you everything you want.”
Luke huffs out an annoyed breath then shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “I need to shut the fuck up. I sound like a sad sack. This is not me. Not me at all.”
He pops up, grabs the food, and takes it to the kitchen. Maybe he needs the chore to reset.
I don’t follow him. I give him the space he seems to require.
When he returns to the living room, his lips are quirked in a cocky grin. He comes over to me on the couch, stands between my knees, presses his palms by the cushions behind me, then says, “You came hard, didn’t you?”
I laugh at his one-eighty. But I go with it since he must need it. “Really fucking hard,” I say, then slide my hands up his body, moving them along his waist then around to his abs. I sit up, lean my face closer to his stomach and press a kiss there, glad he never put a shirt on after the shower.
“Me too,” he says, then pushes my shoulders back to the cushions again and bends down for a hot, possessive kiss.
He comes in rough, a little angry. But also like he needs to show me this side of him—the side that gets shit done on the gridiron. His mettle.
I take it, this proof of his fighting spirit. I stretch my neck up, lean my head back, the slightest bit of submission. With my body, I give him the go-ahead to take what he needs. To dominate me with his mouth.
For several wicked seconds, he devours my lips like he’s making a statement. Then, he bites the corner of my lips and grazes his mouth along my jaw, nibbling as he goes.
“Want to do that to you,” he murmurs near my ear.
I’m so kiss-drunk that it takes me a few seconds to stitch two and two together. Then, I get it. We were talking about how hard I fucked him tonight. He wants to fuck me just as hard.
“I want you to,” I answer.
He stops kissing and meets my eyes. There’s flint in his gaze. He lifts his chin aggressively. “Good. Let’s fuck again tomorrow.”
I can’t even be bummed that he shut down the serious talk about football and feelings. I can’t be upset about a goddamn thing since this is the second reprieve he’s granted me tonight.
And I will grab it, clutch it, and make the most of it.
Because Luke Remington is nowhere near out of my system. And I’ve earned myself another night to work through all this rampant lust.
“You’re on,” I say, then I scoot back on the couch, stretching my body along it, and lying down. I yank him on top of me. “But we should take that pic. We said we would.”
It’s important that we be men of our words. I don’t have to spell that out for him though, since he’s nodding in agreement.
“I know. I was being an ass earlier,” he admits.
“Nah. It’s all good,” I say.
“No, seriously,” he says, emphatically. “I was definitely being an ass.”
He doesn’t need to apologize but I take it anyway. “No worries, man. And I just wanted to make sure we don’t forget again.”
“I don’t know, Sloan. I’ve kind of liked our forgetting,” he says, grinning that familiar cocky smile.
“Yeah, me too.”
I’m expecting him to come in for a kiss on that note, but instead he sits up and moves off me, tilting his head as he listens to the music. “Wait. Is this Outrageous Record?”
“It is,” I say, sitting now too, excited he recognized the tune. “Love this band. Which means we have to try to get my brother to like them.”
“We have to. It’s the only way to see if Zach can ever have any taste at all.” Luke’s brow knits, and he hums thoughtfully. “You know, I’m pretty sure they’re playing tomorrow night. A late show. I saw that on social somewhere. I’ve been wanting to see them. Do you want to go?”
So much. You can’t even know how much. “I do. I have to leave early the next day to catch a flight to San Francisco though for the All-Star game.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fucking show-off. Mister All-Star. Mister Watch Sponsor. Mister Big Time.”
I blow on my fingernails, then shoot him a sly grin. “Don’t worry. When we take the pic, you can stand on the top step outside the club so you can look taller.”
