by Lily Kate
She is, drifting away in dreamland, eyelashes fluttering and small breaths puffing against her pillow. The word to use is sweet, but it’s not strong enough. Her cheeks are strawberry pink, her lips matching, her hair like golden threads curled over the pillow. There’s more beauty in one moment of watching her sleep than a lifetime of what I’ve known so far. The thought is sobering.
“There you are.” Boxer appears at the door to his bedroom, his expression soft. “Come here, Joss.”
I let my feet drag me toward him, my heart pulling me along for the ride. It’s only once we’re tucked safely inside, door shut and locked, that a breath rattles from my chest.
“I told you the other night that I’d fix this whole situation,” I tell him. “And I had an idea.”
“This is your idea?”
I nod, fingers shaking as I dig into my purse. “Please don’t be mad.”
“Mad?”
Boxer rinsed off in a five minute shower while I ran downstairs to collect my purse, and he is now dressed in shorts and an old Lightning sweatshirt. His hair is somewhat ruffled, and he smells like cedar and soap. I’d give just about everything to sink into his arms and forget about everything else.
“I’m...” I clear my throat. “I’ll let it speak for itself.”
I pull out a celebrity magazine commonly found in the checkout lines at grocery stores and, judging by his expression, he recognizes the name. StarCrossed.
“Page twenty-two,” I say. “It’s dog-eared.”
He flips through the pages, every second taking a bit of my resolve away. My palms are sweaty, my breaths shallow. This might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. If I’ve sabotaged everything with Boxer because of this move, I’ll be devastated.
He reads through page twenty-two once, and it takes ages. Years. Centuries.
I clear my throat again, louder, reminding him that hello, I’m still here.
He doesn’t bother to glance up, his expression completely unreadable.
“So?” I prompt. “Initial thoughts? It’s a little late to do anything about it since these’ll hit the stands shortly, but I wanted you to know, to see it first, and... now that I’m here, I’m realizing I should’ve probably talked to you about it first—”
“Lightning Love,” Boxer reads aloud, one eyebrow twitching upward. “Catchy title.”
“Do you hate it? You hate it.”
“I haven’t read it.”
“What?!” I cross the distance between us in two steps. “What have you been doing this whole time?”
“Staring at you—your picture. You are beautiful.”
Boxer turns the magazine around, his finger pointing to the image of me in my pink dress. It’s the very same photo that Rumpert handed over to me on Sunday—the very one he’d been using to blackmail Boxer into signing with him.
“You handed this over to a reporter... voluntarily?” he asks.
“I didn’t want you to feel trapped into a contract with Andy. I know you only signed it in the first place to protect me.”
“But I didn’t sign it accurately.”
“No, but if we tried to keep this a secret, he’d make our life a living hell,” I say, a note of frustration leaking out into my words. “If we’re going to try to make this work, it’s going to come out sooner or later. Me and you. Us. I figured—why not announce it early when we can control it?”
“You’d do this for me?”
“No.”
He looks surprised.
I clear my throat. “For us.”
His eyes return to the photograph. It’s a beautiful moment captured; if I’d seen it on a magazine rack, I’d call it the picture of love.
“Jocelyn Jones sits down with me for what might be her first ever personal interview, Diana Morse writes,” Boxer reads further, his eyes scanning the next sentence. “It seems love is brewing for this well-known...”
Boxer stalls, stumbling over the next words.
“Ice queen,” I fill in. “It’s okay. I approved the story.”
He shakes his head, skips a few paragraphs, and resumes reading the questions from the text. “Do you love him?” His eyes look up, meet mine, and recite the words I’d stated quite clearly for Diana. “Without a doubt.”
I blink, unable to hold his gaze.
“Do you mean it, Joss?”
I nod, raise a hand to wipe the edges of one of my eyes. “Yes, I do,” I tell him. “I mean it a million times over.”
Boxer sets the magazine down on the dresser and pulls me over to the bed in one motion. He’s got his hands on my shoulders, our bare skin zinging against one another.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper, as his mouth trails tantalizing kisses down my neck. “Let’s wait, we’ll have plenty of opportunities.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were in the hospital.”
“Then be gentle.” He pauses for long enough to wink at me. “If you can stand it.”
“Yes, of course. I’m just worried about—”
“Don’t be,” he murmurs, his hands reaching for the bottom of my shirt. “Thank you. For being here, for coming to Charli, for what you said to Diana.”
I’m too sensitive, too tender to respond, so I close my eyes and let the sensations of his fingers wash over my body, caress my skin like a gentle waterfall.
He twirls me around, spinning me onto the bed like we’re in some sort of slow dance, a tornado of sensuality. It begins like a gentle gust of wind, soft and tender, spiraling around us like stardust.
His mouth, his hands, our skin brushes against one another. Every touch is electric—building, burning until the breeze turns into a gust, and this thing, this relationship between us is clawing for more, demanding all the other has to give.
Landon lays me on the bed, my nakedness no longer a source of discomfort, but a measure of trust, a display for all that I am. The good, the cold, the fire burning deep within that is melting away the shields I’ve built up year over year.
Fingertips brush over my skin while my own dig into his hips. I pull him close. He pulls me closer. I let my hands roam free underneath his sweatshirt, guiding it gently over his head. His shorts go next. From the nightstand, he retrieves a condom and rolls it on before cradling me in his arms.
We’re tangled together in the bed, my arms around his back, his hands pulling my hips toward him, lifting me off the comforter. The fabric, smooth to the touch, burns against my skin, every sensation intensified.
When his mouth meets mine, he presses against me and pauses, holding there for a long second.
“Please,” I whisper finally.
He moans my name, nestles into my neck as my legs wrap around his back. When he eases inside, our breaths hiss together.
The gentle breeze that started everything now circles us in torrents, wild and free, desperate and crazed in our need to claim one another, to destroy all walls, boundaries, obstacles between us. To destroy the old, to weed away the dead to make room for the new.
We’re spiraling together in a perfect parallel, each of his beats matched with one of my own, until we’re driven to the edge, the fury, when suddenly it breaks, and we slip into the eye of the storm.
He stills, our breathing heavy, and he gives the slightest shake of his head. “I love you, Jocelyn Jones.”
“I love you, too, Landon Boxer,” I say, aching with the fullness of the words, of him.
His hand rises to stroke my cheek, his eyes the most piercing blue as they cut through every facade I’ve created, every layer of protection that exists around my heart.
I close my eyes. I feel too much, too hard when he looks at me. I’m not used to feeling worthy of such love, but when I’m with Boxer, he makes me feel every bit deserving of it, and that’s what scares me the most.
He slides back, presses into me one last time, and together, we release. His name spills from my lips, stifled as I press my mouth to his neck and he rocks us both to a finish that leaves my bo
dy limp, my mind drained, my spirit wrung.
When the waves subside, he rolls me to him and curls me into his body.
“Promise me one thing, Miss Jones,” he says.
I turn to face him, my hand rising to press through his hair of its own accord. “Anything.”
“Will you be my agent?”
I still, my hand still ensnarled in his locks. “Are you serious?”
“Who says business and pleasure can’t mix?”
I can only blink.
“I mean it,” he says again. “I want you to be my partner. In love, in life, in business. In everything. If we’re going into this, I’m not going to half-ass it.”
“So we’ll full ass it together?”
He gives a serious nod. “What do you say?”
I lean in, press my lips to his. “I say you’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Boxer.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
His voice wakes me, eases me into reality from a peaceful slumber. Sunlight streams through the windows, washing Boxer’s newly decorated bedroom with bright light.
He had the mancave decorations re-done when I moved in, and the outcome was a clean and cozy, refreshing style. Black furniture, gauzy curtains, colorful pops from pillows on the window seat. A plush white comforter rustles over me as I push it down, glancing up at the gorgeous face staring back at me.
“Hello, handsome.” I push myself to a seated position, stretching, yawning as his eyes follow my every movement. I catch sight of the breakfast tray in his hands and frown. “What’s the special occasion?”
Boxer sets the tray on the bedside table, then eases onto the bed next to me. “Happy Mother’s Day to the most wonderful mother I know.”
I rest a hand on my belly, not yet feeling the curve of the baby beneath my fingers. “We can’t celebrate yet,” I tell him, though the thought is so sweet it sends tears to tease my eyes. “We haven’t told Charli.”
After Boxer asked me to marry him last summer, we spent the fall adjusting to life as an engaged couple, moving in, testing out our new family unit. It’d been like a dream—smooth and simple and right.
We finally tied the official knot in a small ceremony just before Valentine’s Day. Small ceremony being relative. I’d wanted it private and intimate, but Boxer had a zillion and one teammates and family members that needed an invitation, so the party had grown to nearly a hundred people.
Lindsay was there, too, of course, as was Duke. He was responsible for this whole thing starting in the first place, as he mentioned loudly and tipsily in his speech. Also present had been Diana, the reporter who’d run the magazine article for us—an article which, surprisingly, hadn’t upset the world all that much with its release.
As it turned out, nobody cared about my dating Boxer. The people who did care were supportive. All except for one. Andy Rumpert. But he was forced to get over the article, and the failed contract, if he wanted to stay in the game.
Thankfully, a newer, shinier recruit had popped up for the next season looking for an agent. When I didn’t challenge Andy for the new player, it’d led to an odd sort of truce between us. In exchange for Boxer, he got an easy card for a surefire moneymaker.
I’d say I came out on top.
Maybe the best surprise guests of all had been Andi and Ryan Pierce. After Boxer had proposed, I’d finally taken Lindsay up on her offer to set up a meeting with the Minnesota Star, and my former recruiting interest, Ryan Pierce. I’d hosted the couple at a private lunch—without a word to Boxer—and apologized. For everything.
I apologized for the way I’d treated them, for the way I’d pushed apart a relationship that should’ve been left to flourish. A relationship that, in retrospect, was so clearly perfect.
I apologized for not believing Ryan, and for dismissing Andi, and most of all, for not listening when they’d tried to explain. Not only had they forgiven me, but they’d become some of our closest friends.
Shortly after the ceremony, we’d taken off for a long weekend in Hawaii. We were hesitant to leave Charli for too long, but we needn’t have worried. She adored having her grandparents shuttle her to and from school and spoil her rotten.
Even so, it’d been a productive honeymoon as evidenced by my growing belly. What a surprise it had been to find out a baby had happened so quickly, and though we savored the news and excitement together, we’d decided not to tell anyone—not yet, at least.
There was something about keeping the news quiet, private for a few months, that felt special. However, the expiration date on our secret was fast approaching. I’d been pushing to tell Charli for the last couple of weeks, but Boxer had resisted, claiming we’d tell her when the time was right.
“I’m not talking about this Mother’s Day.” Boxer slides behind me so his back is resting against the headboard, his hands circling my waist to land over mine, gesturing toward the baby. “I’m talking about Charli.”
“Charli?”
“Even before we were married, you loved Charli like your own. And these past few months...” Boxer trails off, his voice catching in his throat. “It’s been incredible. Watching the two of you together. You complete our family in more ways than I ever could’ve imagined.”
I swallow hard, blinking back tears that’d pricked the second he began talking. Spinning, I face him in bed, my hands coming to rest on either side of his face. My throat, still thick with emotion, can’t seem to bear words, so I press a kiss to his lips, instead.
A tender, gentle kiss. He responds immediately. Then more urgently, then with wild desperation. This sort of love, this overbearing, soul crushing need for him is beyond anything I had thought possible. I hadn’t seen the capacity for it before, not in myself, not in anyone, but as his tongue presses into my mouth, possessive, demanding, I can’t help but believe.
He pulls up my nightie, slides down my panties as he adjusts his position. His boxers fly off, kicked to the floor before he returns to sit against the headboard. “You are so damn beautiful,” he whispers, his hands snaking under my shirt to caress my breasts. “I came in here with the intention to feed you breakfast, and there it sits, forgotten.”
“This is much more delicious,” I tell him with a smile. “I’m not complaining.”
“I need a taste.” He leans in, kisses me on one breast, then the other. His hands gently run over my stomach for a long moment, and he studies it, me, us. “God, I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.” I wriggle closer against him. “Did you lock the door?”
“Of course.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
His mouth covers mine, plundering and hot, taking all that I can give. My arms circle his neck, my entire body pulsing with need for him. I raise to my knees as his hands grip my hips, hold me close, help me to rise.
I hover above him as he presses his length against my entrance, teasing, playing, his mouth distracting me with little kisses across my neck. Finally, the tension builds, twists until there’s a spiral of heat running between us, and his fingers dig into my skin, sliding me onto him.
I gasp at the feel of him, even after all this time. The fullness of him, the hardness of him, of his chest as I lean against him, of the contrasting softness in his eyes as he begins to move. We meet each other in a dance, a building, terrifying crescendo until it’s too much, and I cry out with release.
His mouth covers mine, swallowing my cries, holding me against him, against his lap, shattering together as the waves crest, carry us over, and gently fade into the distance.
His hands run through my hair, holding my head to his shoulder as the calm returns. His arms lock behind my back as he sighs with pleasure. “Damn.”
It’s all I can do not to drool on him, so I merely nod as a response.
“That was amazing,” he says. “I’ll have to make you breakfast more often.”
We climb from the bed, ease into the shower together
where we take turns washing each other, peppering the moment with kisses, caresses until we can’t keep our hands from each other any longer. A second wave of need rocks through us, eases, and leaves us exhausted and satiated. The honeymoon might’ve ended, but our need for each other has only grown stronger.
An hour later, we’re still lounging in bed, finally making use of the toast and orange juice from the tray. The cereal is beyond repair, and the eggs have cooled. But it’s the most delicious meal I’ve ever eaten in my life.
A knock on the door sounds, and Boxer climbs from bed, taking a quick look to make sure we’re both decent. He opens the door and, to nobody’s surprise, reveals a head full of curly hair positively sizzling with energy.
“Hello,” Charli says with a cryptic smile. “How are you?”
“We’re good,” Boxer says. “Care for some breakfast?”
Charli eyes the tray, wrinkles her nose at the cereal. “Gross.”
I laugh, move to stand. “Let’s go make you some real breakfast.”
“Wait,” she instructs, eyes landing on her dad with real severity. “I have something for Jocelyn.”
“You do?” Boxer appears genuinely surprised. “What is it?”
“It’s a secret.”
She solemnly moves across the room, and I look over her head to Boxer, then ease my way back onto the bed. He shrugs, mouths no idea, and follows her to my side.
We all pile in, three people deep, when she finally pulls something out from behind her back.
“I made this for you,” Charli said. “I hope you like it.”
I look down, accept a handmade card on bright green construction paper. There’s crooked writing on the front, and it’s these letters that make my eyes well up with tears all over again.
Dear Joss,
Happy Mother’s Day.
Thank you for being my mom.
Love,
Charli
“Oh, Charli...” I read the card from to back one more time.A tear slides down my cheek. “Did you make this in school?”
“No. I made it because I felt like it.”