The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(49)

Almost, because, damn. He might be a novice at this, but he’s making up for lost time. Strong lips, warm tongue, and that beard. Holy f*ck, that beard. Soft, prickly, it adds another level of sensation, so good—so naughty-good—that I circle my hips, chasing the feel of it brushing my clit, tickling my inner thighs.

It’s too much. I lean against my dining room table, afraid I’ll fall or maybe pass out. I don’t know. I can’t think straight.

And then I see his arm moving. Oh, God. Somewhere along the way, he’s undone his jeans and pulled his cock free. His erection is enormous, ruddy and angry. He palms his dick, tugging at it with rough, rude jerks.

When he runs his thumb over the glistening crown of his cock, toying with the sliver piercing, the sight is so illicit, I come without warning, my knees giving out. A little wail leaves my lips as I sink into the sensation. “Ethan.”

He’s rising, gathering me up.

I wrap my legs around his waist, rub my aching sex against the crinkly hairs at the base of his cock. “Ethan.” My lips find his. He tastes of sex. My kiss is frantic, little gasps still leaving me. “Now. Ethan. Now.”

Big hands palm my ass. He lifts me high and then thrusts, going in deep. He groans into my mouth. “Oh, f*ck yes.”

I can only hold, my arms wrapped around his thick neck, as he pumps hard and fast, bouncing me on his cock. Every time his hips impact with mine, I feel a shockwave through my body, a flare of pleasure-pain in my clit. Every stroke of that little metal ball on his cock sends a rush of bliss through me.

“More,” I tell him. “Give me more.” Give me everything.

And he does, driving into me until I scream his name, my body arching tight against his as I come again—so hard my vision dims.

He comes with me, his teeth clamping on my shoulder as he gushes, hot and wet within my body. The aftermath leaves us both shaking and panting. I rest my head on his big shoulder, shivering so hard my stomach aches.

He walks us to the bedroom with lumbering steps, weaving a bit as if he’s drunk.

Oddly, I feel like crying. My throat hurts and my eyes prickle. The feeling only intensifies when he lays me down in my bed, his softening cock still deep within me, his hard arms holding me close against him. I don’t know which way is up or down anymore. The only thing that feels real and true is Ethan—the man I can only have in stolen moments of time.





Chapter Twenty-Three





Fiona



“Smile for the camera.” My grin is goofy and wide.

Dex makes a laughing noise of protest and tries to wave me off. “Get away from me with that thing. I’m all pictured out.”

We’re lying in bed, having a well-earned rest, and I’ve been amusing myself taking multiple shots of Dex. He pretends to be annoyed, but I know better. He can’t hide the smile in his eyes or the curve of his lips.

“If you don’t want me messing with the phone, put a password on this sucker, babe.” I take yet another photo. The image of his big, wide hand fills the screen. “Aw, man. You messed it up.”

He sighs. “Cherry, I do not need naked pictures of myself on my phone.”

With a move so quick I don’t have time to blink, he snatches the phone away and hauls me close. “Here,” he says, holding the phone high with an outstretched arm. “If we’re doing this, you’re going to be in them.”

“You say that like I’d protest.”

We take more pictures, laughing over the results. I pause at a shot of me licking Dex’s tight little nipple. “Here’s one for my wallet.”

“Did you just quote Parenthood?” His smile is relaxed and happy. I love seeing him this way, without walls, just being himself.

“I didn’t take you for an eighties’ movie buff.”

Dex shrugs. “The guys watch a lot of cable on the road.”

“Well, bonus points for noticing, Big Guy.”

“Mmm… And what do I get as my prize?” He rolls over, taking me with him.

Much, much later, I relax against him with a sigh. “Do you think we ever truly figure out who we are?” My voice is soft.

At my side he moves, lifting his head to rest it in the cradle of his palm. “Well, now,” he drawls, “let me see if I can help you out. I’m Ethan, and you are Fiona.”

“Har.” I give his chest a lazy smack. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t.” I stroke the edge of his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who knows their own mind as well as you do.”

He rolls his eyes, but sets his hand on my hip, caressing and edging me closer. “Babe, I hate every f*cking second of getting tatted. I hate needles with a passion, yet I get a cortisone shot after nearly every practice and game. The ones in the hands skeeve me out so badly I have to look away or risk fainting.”

At this I take his hand in mine. It isn’t pretty: battered, swollen knuckles; scrapes and callouses; the middle finger crooking inward as if it’s been broken one too many times. A warrior’s hand.

Those long, scarred fingers wrap over my smaller ones with a gentle hold, and I lift his hand to my lips to kiss his reddened knuckles.

Behind the veil of his lashes, he watches me do it. “I hate those things, and yet look at me. Tatted, pierced, and a pro football player. Fact is, I run to the pain. Part of me gets off on it. So while I might know my mind, I’ve clearly got my own issues.”