Page 53 of Game Misconduct

“In this room⁠—”

“Not to me.”

Her hand sears into my neck like a brand, like she’s claiming me. Like she owns me.

Because she already does.

Her gaze trails over my face, then lower—over my shoulders, my chest, my abs. Frank appreciation creases her face, and her pink tongue sneaks out to wet her crimson-painted lips.

I clear my throat, ready to get this over with. There are still a few minutes left in the period. If she okays me, I can get back out there.

And then she’s stepping closer, between my spread knees. I open them wider, welcoming her in. My entire body thrums with anticipation. I will never say no to being near her.

Even though I should. Every fiber of my being is yelling at me, telling me this is a horrible idea. But I can’t stop this. I don’t want to.

Bex cards her hand through my hair, then tugs, the sharp stinging on my scalp so fucking hot it’s as if they turned up the heat in the arena another ten thousand degrees. Her right palm lands on my chest, directly over my pounding heart.

For a beat, neither of us moves. We just… breathe. Her breath fans across my jaw—warm, shaky, angry at itself—and the air between us turns thick enough to drown in. I can smell her shampoo again, that faint citrus-and-something-sweeter that haunts me, and it hits me like a goddamn sucker punch. She’s close enough that her eyelashes brush my cheek when she blinks. Close enough I feel the tremble running through her fingers even as she tries to hide it by pressing harder against my chest.

She looks up at me—really looks—like she’s searching for a reason to stop and can’t find one. My pulse spikes beneath her hand, giving me away. Her gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers. Every one of my muscles goes taut, waiting, wanting, bracing for the moment she comes to her senses and shoves me away instead.

But she doesn’t.

She surges up on her toes and her lips crash into mine, hot and impatient, like she’s been starving for this and hates herself for it. The first brush of her mouth steals the breath right out of my lungs. Her lips are soft but demanding, moving against mine with a fierceness that borders on punishment. Every inhale tastes like her—mint, the faint sweetness of the Coke she drank earlier, the sharp edge of adrenaline.

Her tongue slides against mine and I swear I feel it everywhere—down my spine, in the tight curl of want low in my gut, in the way my knees would buckle if I weren’t sitting down. Then her nails scrape my scalp as she tugs my hair again, and the sting blooms into heat that shoots straight through me.

I grip her waist, fingers digging in, pulling her flush against me so I can feel every quick, uneven inhale she takes. Her body fits against mine like it was always meant to, even though we both know it shouldn’t. A sound rips out of me—a low, helpless moan—and the moment it leaves my throat, the spell shatters.

Her whole body jolts at the noise, as if she didn’t expect me to enjoy this—enjoy her—quite that much. She tears her mouth from mine, her breath shuddering against my cheek. For a second, we’re still close enough that I can feel the tremor running through her.

I don’t let her go. Not yet. Instead, I flex my fingers around her hips, holding her there because if she steps back, if she puts even an inch of space between us, I’m afraid the cold will rush in and swallow everything we just ignited.

“What did you just do?” she whispers, voice scraped raw. But she doesn’t pull away. Her nails stay curled in my hair, anchoring me to her like she hates that she wants to.

I drag my gaze down to her kiss-swollen lips, then back to her eyes—stormy, furious, wanting. “You kissed me,” I say, quieter than I intend. “Don’t blame me for kissing you back.”

“We can’t,” she pants.

“Okay.”

“You’re clear to play. You don’t have a concussion.”

And then the buzzer echoes through the building.

The game is over.

I’m screwed.