More Than Love You

by Shayla Black

  Her words wrap around my throat and nearly choke me. I can’t swallow. I can’t speak. Harlow is willing to give me all the secrets she’s been protecting so fiercely? She’s well and truly mine now. That makes me want her even more.

  “All right. You’re right, tonight should be about us. But I want to hear everything you have to say soon. If it upset or affected you, I want to know about it.”

  She smiles softly. “And that’s why I couldn’t stop myself from falling in love with you. You’re here not for just whatever you can manipulate out of the situation but simply for us.”

  “Always.” I cup her face in my hands. “Now can I kiss you?”

  Tears sheen in her eyes. The sob she’s holding in becomes a laugh. “The sooner the better.”

  I can’t stand being even a breath apart from this woman for another moment. I seize her mouth with my own and nudge her body down onto me, letting her impale herself at whatever pace pleases her. When every inch of me is enveloped inside her, the connection is more than physical.

  My tongue fills her as my cock does, and she shudders. I feel her heart beating furiously against mine. Harlow clings to me—fingers, thighs, lips. Eternity whispers through my head; she’s mine now and this is right. It’s the sweetest music ever. My wife challenges me. She selflessly helps me cope and recover every day. She makes me laugh and moves me in ways I never expected a woman to. And now she’s finally given me her heart.

  I manage to tear my mouth from hers, band my arms around her, and rock with her. Lust scorches my blood as my heart threatens to explode. “Hearing your feelings was the sweetest wedding gift you could have given me. Say it again.”

  “I love you.”

  The words are something just above a whisper as if they still scare her on some level. But she’s braving her fears, opening up, and trusting me. She’s becoming one with me in every way. I feel like a king.

  “I love you, baby. Dear god, you have no idea…” I rock inside her and groan, working to get deeper and fill my wife full of every bit of me that I can—cock, heart, love.

  Harlow moves in earnest above me now, sliding up, then working the sensation down my length until I’m shuddering to hold back. As much as each sway and gyration of her hips undoes me, I can’t climax before Harlow. I won’t.

  Lying back, I grab hold of her hips to pull her onto me completely and hold her still. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”

  She keens in protest. “But I’m close.”

  “I know.” I feel her tightening around me, clenching, clamping in desperate need.

  Holy shit, she’s going to undo me if I don’t keep ruthless control over her every move.

  “Noah…” She thrashes around to steal more sensation.

  With one hand, I dig deeper into her flesh in warning. With the other, I tangle my fingers into her hair and force her to look at me. “Stop. Tonight, you’ll come when I want you to come. You’ll come because neither one of us can hold back for another second. And when that happens, you’re going to tell me you love me again. I’ll shout it back to you. Then you’ll collapse against me, panting and sated and sleepy. But I’ll just grab you again and start all over…” I press up beneath her, inching deeper inside her, gratified when she gasps because I know exactly where her sweet spot is and precisely how to stroke it repeatedly so she falls apart in my arms. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. Please. Yes…”

  “Please what?” I look into her eyes, telegraphing how much I need to hear her say who I am to her.

  She meets my stare. Our gazes fuse.

  “Please…husband.”

  God, she’s perfect. She knows me, reads me, understands me. Harlow Weston utterly completes me.

  That’s my last thought before I drive up inside her again with a roar, pistoning again and again against her most sensitive spot until she cries out. “Come now!”

  Harlow does without hesitation, shattering above me with a face full of desperate passion. She’s holding nothing back now. She’s giving me everything—and I suddenly feel the difference between every other time we’ve had sex and tonight, when we’re making love not only without physical barriers but without mental ones, too.

  “I love you…” she cries out as her body shudders with completion.

  “I love you, too!” I release and empty every bit of myself inside her, then bring her close to hear our heartbeats slow together with a sigh of satisfaction.

  Tonight is the first night of the rest of our lives together. I have to believe that nothing can tear us apart now.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As heavenly as our wedding night was, the follow morning turned to hell. News of my marriage to Harlow spread like all gossip does—quickly and with bite. By the time we had breakfast with Maxon, Griff, their wives, and little Jamie, the press was already surrounding the parking lot. Getting to the car proved difficult. Sliding inside and driving away turned out to be nearly impossible. Their shouted questions were somewhere between salacious and insulting, about everything from my “busy” sex life apart from my wife to barely veiled sneers about our relationship while she was engaged to Simon.

  As much as I’d love to go off on them, they’re doing their jobs and losing my shit does no good, so I stick to my canned response. “Harlow and I are newlyweds and we would appreciate some privacy so we can enjoy this time in our married lives.”

  I hoped more than believed that would be the end of the incident.

  “Mercedes Fleet says your wedding is a publicity stunt and a way to avoid your responsibility to her baby.”

  Of course she said that. I would, too, if I was trying to exploit someone else for my own gain. I wish this woman would just stop. I’m guessing she got unexpectedly pregnant. Maybe she can’t afford this baby. Or maybe she got pregnant by a hookup who won’t acknowledge her. It’s possible she simply wants to put a famous man’s name on her child’s birth certificate. I don’t know. But she needs to be honest with the press—and herself.

  “I’ve never met, much less been intimate with, Mercedes Fleet. That’s all.”

  And that’s the last time I’m repeating myself, damn it.

  As I’m finally able to duck in the car and slam the door, I glance at Harlow. She looks a little rattled.

  “You okay?”

  She gives me a nod that looks more confident than I think she feels. “Let’s get out of here.”

  That’s going to be a feat since a handful of reporters seem intent on blocking the road so they can continue to shout questions at us. But after I start the engine and rev it a few times, they get the message and back away.

  Finally, we’re making our way down the road. I know the press will be waiting for us at the security gate when we get home, but at least we’ll have privacy once we make it inside.

  “This will die down,” I assure Harlow. “After the test results come back negative, Ms. Fleet will be exposed as a fraud. The press rarely apologizes or admits it was wrong to run with a story when they had no facts to support it. But they will go away and chase the next juicy tidbit as soon as they find it.”

  “Have you lived with this since you went pro?”

  “No. Usually, I get a few cameras in my face after a game or before a big event. But it’s never been this intense. That’s why I know all the attention will disappear as soon as there’s no more steak to feed these hounds.”

  “But it’s your word against hers. I don’t know why they don’t wait until the facts are in.”

  “Because that doesn’t sell papers or generate clicks.”

  She sighs in frustration. “That sucks.”

  It does. And it suddenly occurs to me that we’ve only talked about the paternity suit in practical terms since the day the accusation came to light. “Do you believe me, Harlow? Do you think I got her pregnant?”

  “I thought you had when it first happened and that you simply didn’t want to tell me.”

  “Like Simon. I get it.”

>   She nods. “Even my dad has that nasty habit. It’s like he gets off on knocking up girls half his age and…”

  She’s revolted and angry. I met the man, so I at least have a glimmer of understanding. When her experience with men has been so negative, trust is thin and believing my claims of innocence can’t be easy. I’m trying to see this situation from her perspective. But she has to see it from mine, too. If she loves me, I need to know she trusts me, as well. No, she wouldn’t blame me for something that happened before we met. But she would blame me for lying to her about it now. If I wasn’t telling the truth and Harlow found out, everything I’ve spent weeks building with her would crumble in so many pieces I wonder if I could ever put it back together.

  “I don’t understand the man.” I grimace. “But I completely get why you might have had difficulty believing I didn’t get that woman pregnant at first.”

  “I was sure you had that day it came to light. And I was angry when I had no right to be. I’m sorry about that.”

  I take a left onto a wider street and head west, sending her another glance. “But you believe me now?”

  “Of course. I mean, unless you were super-drunk that night—”

  “No. I had a beer or two, but I wasn’t wasted. After my concussion, the doctors told me to drink only in moderation and I’ve followed their direction. And I’ve never been so drunk that I didn’t remember taking a woman to bed, much less doing all the stuff she claims.”

  “Then I see no reason you’d lie. And why would you demand a paternity test if you were? Logically, it doesn’t make sense. Even without all that, I’d believe you.” She reaches for my hand. “We hadn’t known each other long the day her claims went public. I overreacted because…you were getting to me and that scared me to death. I was so afraid I was falling for someone who was like my dad or my ex. I wasn’t really mad at you. I was furious with myself.”

  I give her hand a squeeze. “I understand. It just means a lot that you believe me now. Proof that I’ve been nothing but honest is coming, baby.”

  She smiles my way. “Thanks, but I already know.”

  Just like that, my Sunday starts looking up. Once we get home, my family comes over for an early dinner before Trace boards a plane the next morning for a few days of meetings in San Francisco.

  The shit hits the fan and splatters everywhere on Monday morning when Mercedes Fleet gives her most salacious interview yet, revealing details of the things I supposedly can’t resist in bed and the ink I’ve never showed in public. The first claim…she’s guessing. She has to be. Besides, what guy doesn’t like a blow job, followed by some down-and-dirty penetration? But the description of the tattoo on my hip is something else entirely. It’s an elaborate compass, a tat I got after a few years in the league to remind myself which direction was home so that I’d never lose my way. The ink on my shoulders, arms, and ribs are all well photographed. But the compass was just for me.

  How the hell does this woman know about it?

  I try to block the worry out, work on reducing my anxiety and upping my mental calm. Harlow stays beside me, helping in every way she can. I need it now more than ever. I’m starting to worry that if this liar gives more interviews like the last and I don’t accept the network’s offer before I’m ready, I’ll never have a chance at a career in the broadcasting booth and I’ll have to leave football way before I’m ready.

  The call I’ve been fearing comes on Monday night. Cliff didn’t board his plane back to New York because Gus Chickman, who runs the network, wants to see me. In person. As soon as he can get to Maui.

  Cue the interrogation.

  Shit.

  I’m pretty sure this chat is make-or-break.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Harlow assures me in a soothing voice as we finish dressing for a dinner meeting on Wednesday night at one of the steakhouses on the island. “I’ll be right beside you. We’ll tell them you’ve been busy wooing me, then planning a secret wedding. After our honeymoon, you’ll definitely give their offer the serious consideration it deserves and you’ll have an answer to them in less than a month. We’ve rehearsed this, so it will be as smooth as butter.”

  “Yeah.” I try to sound sure of myself, but I’m nervous as hell. What if I freeze up when I need to defend myself most? I know Harlow will step in and smooth things out…but how will that look to Chickman?

  On the way to the restaurant, I don’t complain when she puts on soothing instrumental music I swear only gets played in elevators and funeral homes. To my wife’s credit, the relaxed tempo of the flute-heavy tunes helps me focus on my thoughts and talk myself away from the proverbial ledge. I also practice my breathing on the drive and take a lot of moments to touch Harlow—a squeeze of her hand, a caress of her knee. Just having contact with her calms me.

  When we arrive, the valet takes my keys and manages not to gape at us for too long, which is a blessing. But he can’t keep his eyes off of Harlow, and it annoys the hell out of me.

  I step into the punk’s line of sight and force him to stop ogling my wife. “We good here?”

  He blinks, seeming to realize that he’s staring at Harlow in her strappy blood-red dress. “Um, yes, Mr. Weston. Sir. There’s no problem.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I don’t mean to be hard on the kid. He’s maybe all of twenty-two, and my wife is a vibrant beauty. But not every man who comes to this place with a gorgeous woman on his arm will be so understanding. Hell, I’m not sure how much I can be. This is the first time I’ve discovered how much I don’t like random men gawking at Harlow.

  She approaches with a smile for the kid and wraps her fingers around my arm, flashing her wedding ring. “Thank you.”

  Her soft voice rings in my ears as we head to the door.

  “Was I an asshole?” I whisper.

  Harlow holds up her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “A little bit. Wound up or jealous?”

  “Both,” I grumble, knowing I need to get my shit together. “Sorry.”

  “The good news is, I’m not leaving you for a kid I met in a parking lot two minutes ago and Mr. Chickman is here because he wants to talk to you, because he wants to have you on board. If he didn’t, he would have given Cliff the kiss-off speech already and asked your agent to pass it on to you.”

  She makes valid points. I’m so lucky to have her in my life. “Damn, I married a smart woman.”

  “Don’t you forget it.”

  With a laugh, we enter the restaurant to find Cliff and Chickman already sitting at a table in the corner, exchanging words over a glass of Scotch. Their conversation looks too heated to be casual. As we approach, they stop arguing abruptly. My agent pastes on a wide smile that reeks of bullshit.

  My nerves torque up. Sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. This could go sour really fast.

  “Hi, Noah.” Cliff and I shake hands before he nods in my wife’s direction. “Harlow. Good to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” She gives him a gracious smile.

  Then Cliff makes the introductions.

  I’ve met Gus Chickman once or twice in passing over the years. He’s a football fan himself and he’s cheered me through a couple of Super Bowls, I’m told. I’ve got that working in my favor. Instead of focusing on everything that’s gone wrong with the Mercedes Fleet situation, I have to remember that the man who wants to hire me actually likes me.

  Or he once did.

  The network executive and I exchange a few pleasantries before I help Harlow into her chair. Chickman isn’t smiling, but he isn’t glowering either. Maybe the situation is still salvageable…if I can keep my shit together.

  After the waiter comes to take our drink orders, the television bigwig leans across the table and stares at me. “I asked for this meeting because as charming as your agent is, I need to hear from you, Weston. Do you want this job or not?”

  Cliff pats him on the back. “Gus… Gus, we’ve talked about this. Of course Noah does
. Most likely, he’ll say yes. He’s just been—”

  “I want to hear from Weston.”

  When the older man drills me with his blue eyes, I nod. “I’m very seriously considering your offer. I hope you’ll appreciate that the last few months for me have been hectic. Getting married isn’t something that happens without a lot of consideration and planning, so—”

  “Agreed, but we don’t make this sort of substantial offer to everyone before we’ve actually heard them perform in a booth. Your last couple of press conferences weren’t your best, but I’ve listened to you speak many times over the last dozen years. With your knowledge of the game and your insight, I think you can do this job better than anyone.”

  “Thank you. I understand I’ve kept you waiting longer than you anticipated. You’ve made me a lucrative offer, and I grasp the gravity of that. Because I’ve had big things going on in my personal life, I wanted to be one hundred percent sure I could deliver on everything you expect before I agreed to anything.”

  “What does that mean? I just expect you to talk.” The old man glares, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of perspiration. “Are you really considering walking away from football altogether? Or is there some other reason to think you can’t do the job?” He leans in with narrowed eyes. “Did that last concussion mess you up more than you’re letting on?”

  “Um…” I start sweating, too. Profusely. The need to swallow makes me shut my mouth. My stomach feels as if I took it apart with a chainsaw and tried to hold it together with a rubber band. A million words zoom through my head, but I can’t seem to speak a single one. So I shake my head and hope he believes me.

  But really, if I can’t muster an eloquent defense, why would he?

  Harlow understands my predicament and reaches under the crisp white tablecloth to wrap her fingers around my knee and give me a comforting squeeze.

  “Then what’s the damn problem?”

  I still can’t answer. I try to pass off an expression that says I’m attempting to put my thoughts into words, but I’m sure he can see a drop of sweat rolling from my temple.