Block Shot (Hoops #2)(101)

“I won’t lie to him,” she says. “And I won’t cheat. He specifically said we aren’t to sleep together.”

I don’t have enough curse words for some son of a bitch, cancer or no cancer, telling me when I can or cannot fuck my girl. I don’t care if I did steal her from him. Mine now. And I know how to keep her.

I hope.

“He specified that, did he?” I ask. “You know, I thought we were supposed to be the negotiators and the master strategists. Seems like Zo knows exactly how to get what he wants.”

I press my palms over the curve of her ass, pressing until her breasts are crushed against my chest and she moans, dropping her head to my shoulder. If this is going to be torment for me, it’s sure as hell going to be torment for her, too.

“The problem is,” I whisper in her ear, as if we aren’t the only ones here. As if we’re nurturing a secret between our bodies and souls. “He wants something he can’t have. And he can delay it for three months, but it won’t make any difference.”

“It won’t?” She pants the words as I grind my erection into her belly. I want her wet and horny for me flying with him to their new townhouse in fucking Palo Alto.

“No.” I squeeze each cheek, loving that my hands can’t hold all that ass. “Because this ass is mine.”

My beautiful, brilliant girl with her Julia Roberts lips and her lush ass. He thinks he can take her from me?

“I want you to do something for me, Ban.” I feather kisses down her neck, and she tilts her head, baring her throat to me.

“What?” She’s heavy-lidded, and if I slipped my fingers into her pants she’d be soaked. My mouth waters, remembering those sweet juices flooding my mouth when she comes.

“Tonight in your new bed across the hall from Zo, or wherever it is,” I say, my voice husky, needy. “I want you to touch yourself.”

Her breath catches and she leans into me, cupping my neck with her cool palm.

“Touch yourself and think about me,” I urge, taking her earlobe between my teeth. “I want you to slip your fingers in and think about how it’s not enough. How it’s not me.”

“Jared,” she gasps, her breath hitching.

“Think about how my mouth looked on your pussy. My head between your legs. Remember when you were on your knees under that table, choking on my dick.”

“God, Jared.” She shakes her head, her fingers trembling when she presses them to my chest. “This is already hard.”

“Did you say hard?” I grab her hand and press it to the crotch of my suit pants. “This is how I’ll be for the next three months.”

I pull back to look in her eyes and run my thumb over her full lips.

“Waiting for you.”

She tucks into my arms, her head on my chest, and I stroke her hair. We stay that way for the last few minutes we have together, before she has to go meet him, help him, be with him. Neither of us says that word, but if there’s another word for the way I feel when she’s close, for the way I miss her when she leaves, for the raging fear that someone would take her from me, then I don’t know what it is.

It’s only after she’s gone and I’m back in the conference room, like the most important person in my life didn’t just traipse off to be at another man’s side, that I realize what has happened. It’s an irony that tilts my mouth into a smile of grudging respect.

I have to reassess my opponent. Zo may be dying, and who knows, he may only have a year or two left to live, but he is not done yet. And he may be a good man, but he is not above leveraging even the worst circumstances in his life to get what he wants.

That I can respect. He did something very few men have gotten away with.

Son of a bitch blocked my shot.





Part III





i cannot love you gently,

it’s not in me

to love in part,

so I will love You

completely,

and a little madly . . .





– Matt Spencer, Poet





33





Banner





When you walk through hell with someone, you burn, too.

The flames don’t respect your privacy, your boundaries. They consume your time, torch your dignity, and turn your peace of mind to ashes. The last six weeks here in Palo Alto have been the most difficult of my life. I feel bad even saying that because compared to what Zo is enduring, I have nothing to complain about.

I cannot imagine him navigating this alone. It’s not that Zo doesn’t have friends. He does, many, but he’s such a private man. Such a proud man, and this disease has stolen so much from him already. He hates that I see him this weak, much less that anyone else would.

“Banner,” he calls from his bedroom.

I used to think mothers exaggerated when they said they could distinguish their babies’ needs by a distinct cry, but I get it now. Not that Zo is a baby, but there is a certain note in his voice when he’s dehydrated and a different one when he needs help getting to the bathroom. As a result of the chemo, he has the worst diarrhea. I’ll never forget the day, after a particularly rough session, I walked in and found him crawling to the bathroom. His pajamas were already soiled. In the most stilted, painful silence, I helped him get clean and changed. He turned his head away from me, but I saw the tears adorning his cheeks. I’m glad he wasn’t looking at me because he would have seen mine.