Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(74)

“You didn’t get off,” I say, resting my head against his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

“Not done yet. Don’t go to sleep on me.”

“Pfft. As if.”

A lamp falls over from an end table as he walks me to the wall. Neither of us glance at it. “At least it didn’t break. Are you going to break me?” I tease.

“Only in the best way, baby.”

I shudder and grind my pelvis against him, my wetness sliding over his cock. “Promise?”

His eyes flutter. “Hmm.”

His hands cup my ass as he puts me against the wall. “Lock your legs.”

I do, and he adjusts my body, thrusting inside me, moving me as if it’s effortless, and I sigh at how strong he is.

I must have said it aloud, because he huffs out a laugh. “Fucking you is like breathing. So easy, so good.”

My back digs into the wall as he pins me there, his eyes on my face.

He slides inside me, and I groan. “Elena . . . ,” he pants. “You . . . you . . . make me . . .”

“I know.” And I do. I get what he means. This kind of sex, it . . . it can’t be normal. Can it? This consuming need and desire, this fire that licks at us, that makes his eyes burn for me, that puts that expression of emotion on his face . . .

Does he always look at me like that? As if he’ll never let me go? As if I’m . . . vital to him?

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just his face with every girl—

No.

I let that go and focus on him and this moment. My walls tighten around him, and my kisses deepen. I murmur naughty things in his ear, my heels pressing into his ass. He roars his release, his body shuddering, his face buried in my neck with my hands in his hair.

With careful hands he carries me back to the bed, and we crash down on it together. Our chests rise rapidly, almost in sync, as we stare up at the ceiling. The only sounds in the room are us, soaking it in, our breaths loud. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but I wish he’d say something. I look over at him on the other pillow, and he turns his head at the same time.

I swallow.

He watches me.

I open my mouth to speak but chew on my lip instead.

He arches a brow. “Best you ever had, right?”

I pop him on the arm. “You’re supposed to tell me it was the best you ever had. That I am the queen of everything. That you can’t wait to do it again.”

He grins wider. “Better than that first night—which was hard to beat.”

True. I was a little drunk on Valentine’s and thought it was incredible, but this—this was me at full awareness.

I shrug nonchalantly. “Maybe. My silver bullet isn’t nearly as arrogant as you are—”

He moves faster than I thought he could, rolling me on top of him. “Are you asking for another lesson in who owns your orgasms?”

I laugh down at him, tracing my finger over his eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Slacker. My bullet has a battery.”

He growls. “You best toss that thing out. I’m here now.”

My lips land on his scar on his left shoulder. “How’s your shoulder doing?” I ask, rising up to take him in. “Hey, why are you frowning?”

He looks away from me, then back, his hands idly playing with my hair. “I’ve got to have surgery on it.”

There’s a pause as we study each other. I take in the seriousness of his face, that glint of worry in his eyes. “I’m sorry. That can’t be good for football, right? Can you still play?”

He sighs. “Maybe. Probably. We’ll see.” A furrow builds between his brows, and I rub it away.

“I’m still wrapping my head around it. If the surgery goes haywire or I don’t heal up right, it could mean the end of my career. And if people think I’m injured or not at the top of my game . . .” His voice drifts off. “Since the moment I knew I was talented, football has meant everything. It’s been the one stable thing in my life since I was fifteen. I can’t lose it.”

I nod, seeing and feeling his worry. “You need it.”

“I do.”

“What was it like for you . . . without your mom?”

“Like someone tore a limb from me. She was the kindest person, but she took shit from Harvey. She kept thinking he was going to change, I think. He didn’t.” He gets a faraway look on his face. “Sometimes I think I’m . . . uncertain around people . . . because of him. He scared me. I fucking walked on eggshells around him. Any little thing would set him off. Cold dinner, messy house, my face.”

I picture him as a little boy, frightened of the man his mom refused to leave. I don’t like it.

“And Lucy, your foster mom, she was good to you?” I’m hanging on his every word, aching to figure him out.

He nods. “I moved in with her when I was fourteen . . . after everything happened. She was widowed, a retired schoolteacher who had all these rules about behavior and exercise. She stuck by me, pushed me to try new things, or I might never have put a football in my hands, but when I did, it was like . . . home.”

He has known goodness. I want him to have had everything.

“What about you? You lost your dad young, right?”