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“You’re so far away,” I reply.
She lifts one shoulder. She opted for a dark-blue dress that was packed for her by the team stylist. Her eyes nearly bugged out when she saw it sitting in a suitcase she didn’t recognize.
She flew with the team this time, sitting up front with the social media manager. No one said a word, which was fine by me.
Game one against Los Angeles starts in just a few hours.
We’re at an early dinner at the restaurant across the street from the arena. The team has the whole back room reserved, although everyone seems to be caught up in their own little bubbles.
“You sat across from me,” she points out.
I run my fingers over the heavy white tablecloth. “You could get closer by crawling under the table.”
Her heeled foot touches the inside of my ankle and runs up my leg. “Or you could.”
I hum.
“It is time for dessert,” she adds.
“You don’t have to tell me twice, beautiful.”
Her eyebrow goes up.
“You are beautiful,” I tell her. And I’m going to tell her cunt that, too. I duck under the table, flipping the tablecloth out to hide my legs. In truth, I might be slightly too big to fit. My back grazes the underside of it.
I spread her legs, running my hands up her bare legs and pushing the silky blue fabric with it. I grip her knees and drag her forward a bit, her ass reaching the edge of her chair, and Ilivefor her gasp above me.
Her thighs twitch as I trace her skin with my nails, finally moving her panties aside. She’s wet for me, and she shudders when I blow on her heated skin.
My first taste has her gasping again.
All of a sudden, her thighs try to close around my head.
“Can I interest you in dessert or coffee, miss?”
The waiter.
I lap at her clit and wait for her answer.
She clears her throat. “Coffee, please.”
“And your partner…?”
“No, he’s had his fill.”
Not yet, but I will. I thrust two fingers into her, and her upper body hitches forward in surprise.
“Jacob,” she hisses.
I ignore her.
I bring her higher and higher, judging from the way she’s fidgeting above me. I avoid her clit, even though she’s on the edge. Not until her hand snakes under the table and fists my hair, redirecting my mouth to the small bud.
“Fuck,” she whispers, moaning under her breath.
She can scream for me another time, but I take this. And the contracting muscles around my fingers. I take until she sags backward, spent, and then I slowly withdraw.
I climb out and make a show of licking my fingers clean, then dab at my mouth with my napkin. “You didn’t order me dessert?”
