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Marcel
“I can’t believeI let you talk me into skydiving.”
The wind was rushing. The noise of the engine deafening
Pru shoved me. “It’sindoorskydiving.” She narrowed her eyes. “Since a certain man has requested I no longer jump out of real planes.”
I shot her a sardonic look. “Well, there’s a reason.”
Pru moved around to my front, tugging up the zipper on the front of my jumpsuit, smoothing the strip of Velcro over the top of it that kept the metal tag in place. Then her hands came to my shoulders and she massaged the taut muscles.
Because, yeah, it was indoor skydiving, but it was still scary as shit.
Plus, I’d watched the group before me go and, swear to God, they spent half the time flying and the rest of it drooling as the wind flew up around them.
“Trade?” she asked softly, turning my face toward hers.
There was mischief in her hazel eyes, but softness too—a softness she rarely gave anyone besides me…and our twins, Cat and Leo, and our adopted—but no lessours—daughter Mila.
And her friends that had become her family.
And the players she scouted for the Breakers, young talent that were often far from home and needed a gentle touch.
Okay, so my woman might be a big softie hidden beneath that tough, capable exterior.
But she had a huge heart.
And right then it was pointed in my direction.
“What are we trading?”
“This,” she said, bending and snagging her tote bag, rifling through the baby stuff—bottles and snacks and wipes and more diapers than I would have ever thought that we could need (and that would still befewerthan we did need). But beneath all of the crap was a wrapped package.
“It’s not Christmas yet, princess,” I murmured.
“No,” she said without the least bit of remorse. “But we’re having our first solo date night in forever, and who knows the next time our little troublemakers will let that happen. “So, this”—she held up the present—“for that”—a tilt of her head toward the wind-tunnel-esque tube surrounded in clear plexiglass.
My heart started pounding.
Probably because the noise in the space had kicked up, the engine that powered the air that would keep us floating turning on, the next group—which we were part of—getting ready to go into the chamber that led toward all of that terror.
Or maybe just because I was a chicken compared to my woman.
“Deal?” she asked softly. “Or”—her mouth curved up—“we could make a different trade, baby, and hit the hotel room early.”
Not gonna lie, my cock was very much on board with that idea.
But…this was my woman, and it was indoor fucking skydiving.
I might chicken out of diving in a shark cave or hiking along the inside of the volcano or mountain-biking down the side of a fucking cliff…
I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do this—
Or more truthfully, I couldn’t live with myself if the guys in the locker room discovered I’d chickened out about this.
There was mesh at the top and bottom.
I couldn’t be sucked into the massive propellers that kicked up the air.
