by Sosie Frost
“You have no idea what you do to me…” I pushed her legs apart and aimed for her slick pussy. “So I’ll prove it to you, Elle. Again and again, until you finally start believing it.”
She didn’t need to speak.
Elle arched as I slipped inside her pussy and bottomed out in the quivering softness that was as much velvet as it was vice.
Heaven.
She arched against the stone, gripping it, holding me, bucking her hips as my mind melted into thoughts of rapturous nothing and animalistic instinct. I thrust deep, and the shiver that strained her body shuddered through me.
I’d never felt anything like her before. Nothing as soft. Nothing as hot. Nothing as…complete.
The aches in my body disappeared. The rage of the practice and the creeping fear that shadowed my every step, catch, and block on the field were gone. Melted into the promised seduction of her slick and clenching pussy.
I needed this. Her. All the time.
She would hide me from the world in a moment of utter exhilaration. Her body offered a rush so intense and wicked and mind-blowing that this fall was my last one. I’d never recover. Never find anything more exciting than her again.
Elle gripped my hand, holding onto me, bracing against me as I fucked her the way she deserved.
Hard. Without restraint. Filling her. Pumping inside her.
Proving that her body and touch and heat were enough to rip me apart and weld me together again. Hell, I’d let her keep a piece of me for her damn collection if she wanted.
No. She could have all of me. I’d give myself to her, just as I’d promised every day since the first moment we met.
Call it fate. Call it instinct. Call it a goddamned fairy-tale.
This woman belonged to me.
And every piercing thrust inside her wetting slit would forever promise that devotion.
I wouldn’t last, and neither could she. Not in the rush that was sneaking around, fucking in public, stealing into the shadows because we didn’t have the strength to wait until we hid within the privacy of our homes.
Elle couldn’t speak, but I read everything in her expression. Her lips parted, swollen from the frantic kisses. She angled herself so I could fuck her deeper than before.
Not harder, but to fill her, to complete her. Us.
Together.
She stared at me, her eyes intense, wide. It was like she saw me for the first time, that stolen glance across the combine when my heart had stopped and I tripped over my own feet to fly head-first into a blocking sled.
Finally, she could see all of me. Every part. The player. The friend. The lover. The man.
And the parts of me I hadn’t shown her yet.
But she’d have to know. She deserved to know.
Would she still want me after learning about my past?
She tried so hard to speak, but the words were lost in panted breaths. It didn’t matter. Her eyes pinched shut just as the shocking, shooting pleasure burst within me. It started as a delirious tingle before erupting into the white-hot searing agony that teetered between pleasure and pain.
Her pussy squeezed me. Milked me.
Every fucking drop.
Every damned jet.
I filled her with my desire, my energy, my last goddamned ounce of willpower.
And the quiver of her endless orgasm rewarded me in a moment of silent intimacy.
She jerked, breathing quick and hard and biting her lip as though she’d cry out, even without a voice.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Elle sighed as I pulled from her. She took my hand, pulling me close, staring at me with such intensity and honesty and…
Fear?
Well, I felt it too. That amazement and uncertainty and raw passion.
I loved it.
But it wasn’t time for her to admit it. I’d made her a promise. I’d get those three words exactly when I’d swore she’d say them—not a moment before.
Even if she would prove me right.
I pressed my finger against her lips.
“Don’t say it.” I kissed her, savoring her surrendered shrug. “We still have one date to go.”
15
Elle
“So, Mrs. Reed…”
Freddie dropped his recording equipment in a heap on our office floor. He grinned at me, knowing full-well I didn’t have a voice to chastise him.
“You do realize there’s fifty-two other men on the team?”
I tilted my head.
He scooted behind me, pointing to my laptop. He scrolled through the hundreds of photos I had taken for the day.
“There’s one of Lachlan,” he said. “And there’s one of Lachlan. And another of Lachlan. And a fourth, fifth, sixth...” He stole my mouse. “And whadda know? Another of Lachlan. Lachlan. Lachlan…”
I pointed to the picture of the quarterbacks, centering on the play-maker in his red jersey.
“Oh, sure. That’s Jack. And right there behind him…” Freddie tapped the screen. “Lachlan.”
Damn it.
My groan was silent. That was getting annoying.
Day three of muteness, and the laryngitis had no intention of fading. But I wasn’t sick. I’d lost my voice after a very unfortunate hiccup that was not a hiccup. I’d learned a wise lesson that day. Never trust a bodily function while pregnant. My stomach was a swirl of nitroglycerin, and any little bump, quiver, shake, smell, taste, or internet video of the birthing process was like swallowing a lit fuse.
One unfortunately timed heave had occurred at the same time as a cough, and I’d accidentally doused my larynx with a healthy portion of everything unhealthy from my stomach.
The doctor said it was a recipe for a persistently sore throat and a complete loss of my voice.
Freddie laughed as I shut the lid to the laptop and packed my equipment with a huff.
“I’m just saying, Elle. You’re allowed to have a crush on your husband.”
I tried to speak, but I could only wag a finger. Fortunately, it was my index instead of one far more expressive. I stormed from the room.
A crush on my husband?
That was the most ridiculous, idiotic, absolutely absurd accusation in the world.
I did not have a crush on Lachlan Reed.
…I was in love with him.
And that realization sent me sprawling for the closest bathroom before my stomach, mind, heart, and every other part of me detonated.
I loved him.
And it had been obvious to everyone except me.
He had somehow become a permanent fixture in my life and photography. So many of my pictures included his virtue-stealing dimples. It was like I’d deliberately captured scenes with his eyes, just to marvel at how they were greener than even a hundred yards of grass.
Why didn’t I realize it—especially after our night at the charity gala? None of my worldly travels or once-in-a-lifetime pictures had thrilled me as much as our night spent entwined, hidden beneath the stars.
I fell for him so hard I probably left a crater on the fifty-yard line.
Lachlan was right. I did love him before the sunset of our third date.
Worse, I loved him ahead of schedule.
Oh, this was bad.
…Or maybe something good?
But it wasn’t anything I could figure out in the middle of training camp, not when I was exhausted, sick, and still walking on eggshells to duck Peter whenever he got close. I left early, and not a moment too soon. The only reason I could drag my butt through the door was by bribing myself with a nap.
I dropped my purse on the floor and collapsed on the couch.
At least the baby and I were in it together.
Life was about to get complicated. Not only was I pregnant, not only did I somehow fall in love with my husband, I was stuck in the middle of a potentially season-ending conspiracy that would ruin the team.
I never used to feel like a fish out of water, but somehow life had trap
ped me in a net of my own fears and doubts.
But Lachlan could untangle me.
If only I knew how he’d react to my pregnancy.
Hell, I hadn’t broken free of the shock yet.
But It wasn’t like my life would be ruined, just changed. I could still take a baby hiking. They made those contraptions that strapped to mother’s backs. And all kids like the ocean. The Rocky Mountains were beautiful for any age. I had a lot of plans for my life—everything visiting the Great Barrier Reef and seeing the pyramids and hiking old Inca trails.
Maybe having a baby wouldn’t stop that?
Maybe instead of trekking the world, taking pictures for my Instagram and selling the good ones to periodicals and news outlets…I could take some photos of my family.
It seemed so cliché, a little kid making faces in front of a Hawaiian waterfall or pushing on the Tower of Pisa. But when I imagined a little girl in pigtails or a boy who happened to look just like Sebastian, just a few shades darker?
It seemed…right. Especially if that imaginary picture included Lachlan.
As if he realized I thought about him, he texted me. I pulled out my phone and read the flurry of messages.
On my way over.
Want to see you.
NOT a date.
Unless it goes well.
Then I’m all yours
This man.
I answered with a winky face. Did they make an emoji that could tell an unsuspecting man that I was pregnant with his child? Might have helped.
But he had to know.
Except when I answered the door, I worried it wasn’t the best time. I smiled and let him inside.
It was the first time Lachlan didn’t return my grin.
“Hey.” He pulled me close for a kiss, but he grimaced when I accidentally bumped his ribs. He shrugged away my cautious touch. “I’m fine. Just sore from practice.”
I didn’t like that.
I searched for the bottle of Ibuprofen. Lachlan waved away the offered pills.
“Nah,” he said. “They injected me with a bunch of stuff after practice. I’m okay.”
A cold shiver nearly shattered my spine. I grabbed his hand.
“It’s okay, Elle. Nothing illicit. They wouldn’t do that.”
After what I’d seen? The photographs? The blackmail? Signing Cole Hawthorne to act as the team’s bounty hunter, hurting any player who crossed his path?
Hell no. I didn’t trust a damn thing they put into Lachlan’s body.
He collapsed on my couch, groaning as he sat on a wayward trinket. The worst one to sit on—a stylized comb with thick prongs.
“Knick-knack or hair supply?” he asked.
Neither. It was actually art—a comb crafted from a fork. I took it away before he poked his eye out.
“How’s your voice?” Lachlan pulled me beside him. “Still mute?”
I nodded.
“Guess I’ll do the talking.”
Good thing he loved the sound of his own voice. I snapped my fingers together, puppeting a fake mouth. He grabbed my hand and rendered it mute too.
“If you don’t enjoy my company, maybe I’ll see myself out.”
I tugged his collar, pulling him close for a kiss. The shirt revealed a dark bruise blossoming over his shoulders. I touched it.
“Huh. I don’t even know when I got that one,” he said. “These guys hit hard…and really fast.”
His shattered confidence worried me, and it had started to show on the field. The guys sacrificed their bodies day in and day out, but Lachlan’s play didn’t suffer because he wasn’t tough enough.
His pride was bruised worse than his body.
And he’d never admit that he needed help, that he was slowly losing control.
Like a baby would help that. This truth would hit him harder than any linebacker.
I touched my throat and motioned for him to listen—or watch—what I was about to say.
Lachlan folded his hands behind his head. “You gonna give me a show, Red?”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. It’d probably would shock him more than any episode of Game of Thrones.
“Should I put on some music…or are you just gonna wiggle your hips?”
I smacked his knee. Christ, I wasn’t stripping for him.
Not yet.
Though the idea was appealing, even if it was how we got in this trouble to begin with.
Charades it was then. But how to get the message across?
Easy enough. Fake a baby.
I crossed my hands, angling my shoulders as if I held a baby in the crook of my elbow.
Lachlan stared at me, frowning. I gave my arms a little rock and hoped for the best.
His eyes widened.
He rocketed off the couch.
“Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“Jesus Christ, Red!”
He ran his hands through is hair. The panic was going to be bad.
“I expected this from them, but not you.”
What?
Lachlan practically growled. “I’ve already had this conversation with Coach Thompson.”
He did?
“And now you’re on my ass?”
Wait. Had he gotten Coach Thompson pregnant too?
“Look, I know I fumbled a couple times today at practice.”
For the love of—
“And I know I have to work on my hold. It’s lazy, and it’s a problem.”
I waved my hands. Lachlan wasn’t listening. He paced the living room and swore.
“Tomorrow’s practice includes an hour-long drill where the defenders will do nothing but try to strip me.” He huffed. “And not the good kind of stripping I imagine you doing.”
I whacked his knee and pointed two fingers at my eyes, forcing him to look at me.
“Oh…” He smirked. “You weren’t talking about fumbling.”
Oy.
This was going to be harder than I anticipated. This next charade had to be fool-proof…or Lachlan-proof.
I rested my hand on my tummy. Even pointed to it so there’d be no confusion.
Lachlan nodded. I rubbed over the baby, probably just as frustrated with his father as I was.
“Are you still sick? Do you need help?” He frowned. “Is it something contagious?”
Really?
I nearly gave up as he listed off every ailment except pregnancy.
“Food poisoning! Appendicitis!”
I shook my head.
“Dysentery. Cholera!”
Good God. Could he at least list diseases that threatened us in this century?
“Oh!” Lachlan pointed at me. “You’re hungry!”
I’d bred with this man.
I pulled my hand away from my belly, extending it outwards. No way he’d miss this one.
“Oh.” His words quieted.
Maybe he got it?
“Red…Elle…” His voice softened. “Baby…”
Yes! I pointed at him. Yes, yes, yes!
“There’s no way you’re fat. You can eat whatever you want.”
I counted backwards from ten.
First the morning sickness took my appetite. Now it stole my patience.
Fuck it.
One last attempt. Nothing held back. No option too crazy.
I marched to my easy chair and plunked into the cushions, my feet raised onto the arms like they were hooked in stirrups. I stared Lachlan in the eyes, mimicked the big belly again. Then I flailed my arms with my best Alien impression because hell if I knew what birth was supposed to be like, and I wasn’t about to YouTube that freak show.
My frustration. The motion. My waving hands.
It only confused the poor puppy.
Lachlan stared with a furrowed brow, though his attention drifted as the unfortunate position tugged on my leggings and framed my—totally classy—camel toe.
“O-kay. I’m not sure what that was…but if you want to get eaten out, I’m game.”
But that only made me feel worse.
Lachlan was stressed and hurt. He’d come to visit me for comfort.
And here I was—trying to force a life-changing game of charades onto him.
I could have picked up my phone and texted I’m pregnant, you alpha-male blockhead. Somehow that felt…cruel.
I curled my finger, inviting him to the chair. He settled between my legs, more than ready to deliver on his promise. I leaned forward and gave him a kiss.
Just something little. Gentle.
Comforting.
It worked. Lachlan brushed my cheek with his hand.
“You don’t know how much I needed this,” he said. “You’re confusing me a bit now, but you take the stress away. The team. The camp. It’s…rough.”
I kissed him again. The hard bulge of his cock pressed against my leg.
Obviously he wasn’t that worn out from practice.
“You’re the best part of my day, Red. Well, except for what I do every morning in the shower, but, trust me.” He tapped his temple. “You’re always right there.”
That was…so sweet?
I just wished he’d admit that he needed help. I could see the strain in his eyes, feel the tension he carried in his shoulders and back.
Telling him about the baby would comfort me, but it’d do nothing to help him. Not yet. Not when he needed to concentrate on the field, the offensive plays, and his technique.
So I’d keep it as another secret. I collected enough things anyway, why not life-altering crises too?
The Rivets’ cheating.
My feelings for him.
Our baby.
In the fairy-tales, the princesses were usually the ones ensnared in danger. Most waited for their prince to rescue them.
Not this fairy-tale. I had to help my Charming anyway I could.
And I’d make sure that no one could destroy our happily-ever-after.
16
Lachlan
I expected my first exhibition game to go badly.
And it did.
But the second game was going worse.
I hadn’t learned shit since our preseason game—only that my body, knees, arms, back, and fingers would inevitably get crushed on the field.