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Like everything.
“Wear this jersey next week,” he says once he’s cleaned me off. I’m still wearing nothing else, but I’ll have to put my jeans on before we leave. Even if everybody else has left the building, it’s way too cold outside to have bare legs.
Plus, there are security cameras. And I might not mind having his name on my back, but I do mind exposing myself to the staff.
“Okay.” I nod.
“And the week after.”
I smile. “Am I allowed to launder it between wears?”
“Nope.”
I laugh again. I’ll definitely wash it. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“And the week after that.”
“That’s Bye Week,” I remind him.
“I know.” His eyes catch mine.
Bye Week is when the exhibition game will be played. When the Mavericks face the team captained by my dad.
He’s not only asking me to show him support. He’s asking me to show more. To show I care. To show I’m his.
My heart slams against my chest.
“Okay.” I nod.
He kisses me again. This time it’s sweet. I lean into his kiss, every part of me on fire.
“Did it hurt when I slapped you?” he asks, his brows pinched.
“No.” I swallow hard. “I liked it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I want to be slapped every time. But tonight it was hot.” I liked the little game we played. Sure it was mild, but it was sexy. My cheeks pink up when I think about it.
“We should go home now,” he says. “Before I take you against this desk again.”
“Not even you can do a hat trick that quickly,” I tell him.
“Don’t try me.” Gently he lifts me off the table, then he drops to his knees and unfastens the straps of my heels. They left little red welts and he presses his lips against the tender skin.
I ruffle his hair and he looks up at me, his eyes are so open and honest it makes my heart hurt. “Where are your clothes?” he asks.
“In the desk drawer. I can get them.”
But he won’t let me. Taking them out of the drawer, he slowly dresses me. Starting with my panties, followed by my jeans and socks. We don’t bother with my bra because that’s too much effort. He stuffs it into his pocket and I slide my shoes on.
When I’m almost decent, he holds his hand out and I take it. He pulls me close to him, using his free hand to smooth down my hair.
“Thank you,” he whispers. His own hair is messed up from the way I mauled it during our first romp on my desk. He looks sated and boyish, and it touches me.
And I don’t think he’s thanking me for the sex. Or maybe he is. But there’s more. I think he’s thanking me for the jersey. For putting myself out there.
For trying not to be afraid.
