Page 79 of Game Misconduct

Ducking down, I kiss her temple. “I’m in complete control of my faculties. I’m sober. And I know exactly what you do to me.”

This late at night, there’s no traffic on the road as I drive us to my place in the Financial District. I’m in the same luxury building as a few other players and staff; McKittrick and Amelia, Henry and Audrey, Logan and Hailey, MacGregor, Sinclair, Jenkins… It keeps me young, hanging with teammates a decade or more younger than me.

I put down roots in New Orleans, but I won’t make that mistake again. Not this close to the end of my career. I don’t want to be a journeyman, constantly being shuttled between teams; I want to be settled. And that’s not really an option for me at this stage of the game.

The end of my career looms over me like an anvil about to drop. One wrong hit could be all it takes. That’s all it takes for anyone.

But at this point, I don’t know that I’ll have the strength left to claw my way back. The strength to keep performing at this elite level, again and again and again. I’m past my prime; that much is for certain. It’s a slippery slide downhill from here.

I can’t live in fear. I don’t know when it’ll happen. If it will happen that way. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to go out on my own terms. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to make that choice, rather than having the choice made for me.

All I can do is focus on the here and now: on the beautiful woman beside me, the one who’s finally said yes. The one who’s turned my world topsy-turvy.

I park in the garage, then open the door for Bex and lead her through the building’s concrete underbelly. The elevator whisks us away to the twelfth floor, her hand in mine the whole time. A swipe of the fob lets us into the apartment, and then I hold my breath.

I try to see my place through her eyes. It’s decorated simply, in cool blues and grays. A leather sofa that’s seen better days, but is comfortable as fuck; a flat-screen TV with a gaming console. Abstract artwork on the walls, picked by the decorator. If I had it my way, I’d live with plain white walls, nothing on them. But apparently that’s juvenile and depressing, according to Elsy.

Bex makes a noise of approval as she thumbs through the books on my shelf. “Nice variety,” she pronounces.

“Henry’s roped me into his book club.”

“Seb’s good at that. He’s a good guy.”

I hum in acknowledgment. “Still don’t like his brother.”

“Is that why you keep fighting Luke? Because you thought there was something between us?”

Why is it so difficult to admit that to her face?

“I know I had no claim over you. We weren’t anything. But I hated that he had you. Or I thought he had you. I hated coming second to that douchebag.”

She opens her mouth, probably to argue.

“But I know he’s your friend, so I’m going to do my best to put it behind us. To get to know him as himself, and not what I thought he was.”

“Thank you,” she says, thawing somewhat. “He’s not that bad, I promise.”

“I believe you.” Pulling her into my arms, I ease her coat off her shoulders, then hang it on the hook beside the door. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore, though.”

“No? What do you want to talk about?” She winds her arms around my neck, hand curling to cup my nape. Her touch feels like a possession. A claiming. Like there’s no doubt now that I’m hers, and she’s mine, and we belong together.

“How about we don’t talk at all?”

Walking backward through my apartment, I lead her to my bedroom. She kicks off her heels, lowering her three inches to the ground. The sight of her bare feet, bright red toes digging into the plush carpet, hits me square in the chest.

“Strip.” My voice is hoarse, the syllable a command.

And she’s eager to obey. Bex’s eyes lock on mine, daring me, challenging me, as she unbuttons her blouse, each one slipping free to reveal more of her tantalizing flesh. A flush spreads over her pale skin, peachy beneath the freckles dotting her chest. My breathing grows ragged as I stare, transfixed, at every inch bared to me, the sound echoing in the quiet stillness of my bedroom.

The shiny, dark blue fabric slips from her shoulders in a whisper of silk. Her bra is a midnight blue to match, her breasts encased in the lacy material. My hand raises, wanting to touch her, to bring her closer, but I stop myself just in time.

She goes for her skirt next, slipping it off her full hips and baring her belly. There’s a red line all the way across her stomach, a swollen welt where the waistband must have dug into her flesh.

Only her panties left, a scrap of black silk. She shoves the elastic off her hips and down her legs, kicking them to the side. Stark naked, she crosses her arms over her breasts, glaring at me.

“Happy now?”

“Happy doesn’t begin to cover it.” Pulling at the knot of my tie, I greedily drink her in, every curve, every roll, every freckle. I tug it free, then work at my shirt, until I can finally shrug out of it.