Block Shot (Hoops #2)(69)

Our gazes hold. Mine, passion and apology. His, disappointment, determination. In a flash, we both know where the other stands. Then his head falls back and he growls.

“Fuck, I’m coming.”

Liquid heat rushes inside of me, and I link my ankles at his back, fitting our bodies together like lost puzzles pieces. A jigsaw joining that moves the desk with the force of his climactic thrusts. Papers fly, picture frames fall, my laptop slips over the edge and crashes to the floor. Everything topples around me. Everything inside shatters. My promises, my integrity, my relationship—my world falls apart. I’ve destroyed everything, and I can’t even care. With Jared’s body possessing mine, heart to heart and clinging to each other, I can’t even care. I can’t feel anything but this man’s name burning my lips.





22





Jared





“Never do anything you can’t live with

or walk away from the person you can’t live without.”

-Pee Wee Kirkland, Basketball Legend





“We didn’t use a condom.”

I say it, adding to the growing list of my transgressions. It’s the only one I care about, though. I don’t care that I made love to Banner because she is mine. It’s jungle-level, my understanding that Banner is my mate. Fit for, fashioned for me. It’s not civilized or rational. It doesn’t acknowledge Zo or what other people would view as infidelity. To them, what we did here was wrong. To me, it was the most natural expression of the truth, even if it’s truth at its most vascular. In my blood, in my veins.

I hesitate to say heart. I don’t know Banner’s heart. I easily read her body, all the signs that signal she wants me. That she likes me even though she may not always want to. I’ve never handed my heart over to anyone, and I’m not sure I should start with a woman who regrets me. Who sees the most earth-shattering sex of my life as a mistake.

“Yeah, I know.” Banner bends to retrieve her laptop from the floor. “I . . . I’m covered and, uh, clean.”

She glances up at me, silently asking the question.

“Me, too,” I answer. “I’m clean, of course. I’ve never . . . I always use protection. This time I . . .”

Forgot. Failed. Spiraled out of control.

I don’t have to say those things. She felt them. We felt them together. Neither of us cared or considered it. The only thing I paused for was her consent. I had to close that escape route. Not that she would say I took her by force, but that she didn’t want it as badly as I did. Her yes yanked the pin on a grenade. Everything from there was as instinctual as breathing. My brain took a back seat to my body.

“I get it,” she says, her voice low, subdued.

She stands, appearing as unraveled as I am. Her skirt looks like a stretched accordion from being shoved up around her waist. Her blouse is half-tucked in and missing a few buttons. Red lipstick smears her jaw. Dark, silky hair tangles around her shoulders. The office doesn’t look much better. Papers litter the floor. A vase of flowers lies on its side in a puddle of spilled water. Picture frames flat face on the desk. I could at least help.

I start setting the desk to rights and flip over a photo that arrests my attention. It’s a shot from the holidays. Banner’s family poses in front of a Christmas tree, all smiling. And there, sandwiched between Banner and a woman I assume is her mother, stands Zo, seamlessly integrated into the family like thread in a tapestry.

“Christmas two years ago,” Banner says, taking the photo and setting it on the corner of her desk.

“Zo spent Christmas with your family?” I ask carefully, practically feeling the shaky ground under my feet.

“He’s spent every Christmas with us the last ten years.” She swallows convulsively and brushes tears from her cheek. “Ever since his family died.”

For a moment, the weight of what I’m up against is crushing. I’ve known Banner longer, but he’s had the last ten years with her. I had what? A semester? One night? I can appreciate the sheer audacity of me barging into her life and dismembering a relationship, a decade-long friendship. It’s a hard road ahead of us, but I’m willing to walk it if she is.

I hope she is. I don’t feel remorse, but Banner feels enough for us both. It’s written in every line of her body. Stamped on her face. It’s beyond remorse. It’s sorrow— a union of grief and shame.

Because of me.

That does sting. I hate seeing Banner hurt. Always have. Even knowing I’m the source of it, I’m compelled to comfort her. She’s shuffling the papers littering her desk into neat stacks. I put my hands over hers, stopping her and pulling her into me. She looks up, tears standing in her eyes.

“We shouldn’t have, Jared,” she whispers. “We—”

“You can’t unfuck what’s been fucked, Ban. I’d do it again right now if you’d let me.” My voice is husky, but certain. “I don’t regret it. That you regret me is . . .”

I’m not sure how to express what her response does to me. How it makes me ache and itch and want to flee, but I can’t leave her. You’d have to drag me out of this room right now, away from her.

“Not . . . you.” She lifts a hand to cup my face, meeting my eyes squarely and with honesty. “It was amazing. You know that, but that doesn’t make it right.”