by Ivy Hunt
Ella tugs at my hair in desperation. I want exactly what she wants.
“Condom.” My voice is hoarse as I push back and reach for the night stand.
Ella captures my hand, keeping me from my destination. “Or…”
“Or?” I wait, not sure what she’s going to say. Please don’t tell me to stop. My dick won’t be able to handle it.
Ella bites her lip and as she studies me. “I’m clean. And on the pill.” I freeze in shocked awe at her words, trying to process them, when she adds, “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn to tell you I’m clean and on the pill?” I grin, catching on.
“Idiot.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, as if she doesn’t know why she’d want sex with me.
I get such perverse pleasure in bothering her, but now’s not the time. “Ella, I’m clean. Last check up was a couple of months ago.” I gauge her expression carefully. “You trust me?” My voice is solemn now. It’s an honor. Ella Marie Dixon doesn’t trust easily.
“I do. I know you’ll protect me.”
Damn right, I will.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ELLA
Connor sinks into me inch by inch and I gasp. He’s bigger than I remembered and I instinctively tighten around his hardness. He groans and I feel him pulse within my core. The expression on his face is harsh, as if it’s taking everything he has not to lose it and pound into me. God, it’s delicious. I cling to him, feeling everything. On me, in me, around me. I can’t help but clench when he withdraws, reluctant to release him for even a moment. I whimper in relief as he pushes his dick back home. He does it again. And again. Deep, deliberate thrusts, designed to make me crazy. My moan is loud and long when I come.
He kisses my neck, tasting my thundering heart through my skin as my breath slows. I turn my mouth to his and kiss him deep. He’s still inside me and when I contract around him. When he grunts, I do it again.
He flips us around, so that I’m on top. This new position pushes him further still. And even though I just came, nerve endings come back to life.
Connor rocks into me slow, watching my every expression. He rubs my sensitive nipples with his thumbs, and I arch my back. He lifts his head and takes one of the peaks into his mouth and sucks. I bear down on him and a keening sound escapes me.
Bracing my hands on his shoulders, I look down at him again. Blue eyes blaze with desire as he takes me in. I run my fingertips along his skin, and it hits me. I’m seeing him. Touching him. Really touching him. Connor Hall isn’t just an idea anymore. He is living, breathing flesh.
His eyes go dark. He’s seeing me, too. Every bit as clearly. I have to shut my eyes and draw in a harsh breath.
I roll my hips against him, squeezing tight.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck me. Just like that.”
And then there’s no more thinking. I writhe helplessly against him. I’m dying. It’s not enough. I want more. I moan his name and that’s all the invitation he needs—he grips my hips with renewed purpose, his fingers digging into my flesh. He moves me up and down on him, his pelvic bone hitting my center just there. And then I shatter, coming apart yet again.
That’s Connor’s cue, he bucks up against me, his thrusts erratic now. He goes deeper still, his skin glistening with sweat. His pace is hard and desperate and then he lets go. I feel him pulse inside me as he comes.
I’m lying there, in my post-orgasm stupor when Connor exits the bathroom. A towel is slung over his broad shoulders, and another is knotted around his hips. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I take him in. I can’t get over his abs. I’ve seen them, of course, multiple times now. But there’s something different seeing things from a little further away. Kind of like looking at a painting: you don’t always absorb its full effect except from a distance. Solid. Muscly. Mine.
Oh, no. Not going there. He’s my aberration. My post-traumatic stress gift to myself. Just another few days is all I can take.
He settles back into bed and faces me, his head propped on a hand.
“Ogling me again, Miss Dixon?” Blue eyes twinkle. How do eyes actually twinkle? That just seems like an ophthalmological irregularity.
“You know it, Mr. Hall.” I give him a nonchalant look. His grin only gets wider.
I reach a finger out and trace it down his sternum. His gaze goes dark, hungry. I ready myself for round two.
“Will you come to my game on Thursday?”
I blink.
And that, ladies and gents, is how they get you.
They show up naked, and your brain just melts into mush. I don’t even know why army types bother with camouflage. If they all looked like Connor, and the opponents were heterosexual women, it would be all over.
“This is the big game?” I ask, my mind racing to make sense of his request.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been cleared to play.”
“I don’t know.” I swallow. Confusion swells inside me, making it difficult to think straight.
His lips compress for a millisecond before returning into a neutral line. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask,” he mumbles. Connor’s voice is casual but he’s staring down at his phone. The one whose screen is off.
One beat passes between us. Then another. “But maybe I want to see the fruits of my labors after that hellish press conference,” I say softly.
His gaze jumps to mine, his eyebrow raised. I give him a small smile. “It is why I went along with all this, remember?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
ELLA
The day is clear but cold. I’m glad to be sitting in one of the boxes overlooking the stadium instead of out in the stands. It’s filled with WAGs, and even though I am neither a wife nor a girlfriend, there are curious murmurs all around. At least one type of clique here is familiar—dripping in diamonds and just like the women I went to high school with. These ladies have managed to hang on to the jocks who made it all the way to the pros. Thankfully, I don’t have to mingle with them much, I’ve been entrusted into the care and keeping of Logan’s girlfriend, Rebecca, and she’s been given strict orders to look after me.
“So do you come to watch the Titans games often?” I ask.
Rebecca snorts into her drink, and I have to slap her on her back a couple of times when she starts coughing.
“Oh, no. Not a fan. Well, a fan of Logan’s, of course, but I’m just here for the free food,” she wheezes out once she’s caught her breath.
“Amen.” I like her already.
I eye the jersey with her quarterback boyfriend’s number on it. “Have you been together long?”
“No…” She blushes. Before I can pry, thunderous cheering sounds from the stands. We turn to the glass just in time to watch the players rush from the tunnel into the field. I search for Connor, but don’t see him. My heart thuds against my ribs, and a chill sweeps through me. Is his ankle all right?
But then he runs in and my chest expands on a breath. He’s okay.
My eyes bug out as I get a better view. He is better than okay. Connor Hall. In uniform.
“Holy fucci,” I say.
Rebecca gives me a smirk. “First time you’re seeing your man out there?”
“He’s not my man.” It’s my automatic refrain. But my, is he fine in those tight pants. I have a wicked thought. Maybe instead of using camouflage in my dreams, I’ll have him dress up in nothing but those pants. Pair it with a little tutu. I snicker at the thought. God, I can’t wait to tell him that. I wonder what kind of look he’ll give me—my favorite pastime in the world right now is translating his expressions.
A whistle blows and the players get into formation as the game starts up. And I wish it hadn’t. Connor is on the defensive line. Within minutes an offensive lineman slams into him. My hands fly to cover my eyes. Through my fingers, I see him hold steady, fending the other guy off. Connor is tall and lean, built for the game even though he’s not stocky like the other players. But those hits are brutal.
Seconds later, he sprints forward just as two members of the opposite line come for him. He braces for impact, no hint of hesitation. I wince when they collide. Since when do I care if he’s hurt? He trains for this. His body is conditioned. And why am I so invested in the health and wellness of said body anyway?
Maybe since he sexed you with it?
At halftime, the volume in the box rises to a fever pitch, but Rebecca and I are still focused on the field where the players are huddled.
“So do you know much about football?” Rebecca asks as we watch them disperse and walk through the tunnel to regroup.
“What’s there to know? They throw the ball. Someone catches it. They knock him down. They stop the clock. They throw the ball. Someone catches it. They knock him down. They stop the clock. Rinse, repeat.” I shrug, striving for nonchalance. “It’s not brain surgery. Though many of them may need it when all’s said and done.” Another slice of worry cuts through me and I scowl. Why am I getting so worked up?
“Glad you think so much of the sport, Miss Dixon.”
I spin around and stop. The man who has addressed me can only be classified as yuh-mmy—the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome.
“Ladies.” He tips his head at Rebecca and then his attention returns to me.
“I hear we owe you a debt of gratitude, Miss Dixon.”
“Umm…”
“Noah Winters.” He holds out his hand.
My eyes widen. I know the name. He’s the billionaire owner of the team. Connor’s boss’s boss or something like that. Only then do I notice the voices in the room have stalled. People are straining to tune into our conversation.
We shake hands. “Um, it was my pleasure?” I’m too distracted to be fully coherent, and my cheeks heat at his perusal. “I hope to see you around here again, Ms. Dixon.” He grants both Rebecca and me a smile. “Good to see you again, Ms. Gerone.”
We watch, transfixed, as he mingles with a few other people before sauntering back out. There’s a noticeable shift in the energy in the owner’s box as he leaves. He probably has a superior vantage spot elsewhere, free from sycophants.
I get through the second half alternating between peeking through my fingers at the action on the field and distracting myself by planning dress patterns in my head. I even entertain other horrible thoughts and try to guess the color of the dress Hannah’s gotten me for the welcome party. Yellow, Yecru, Yaupe, and yuck are all in the running.
Three hours and twelve eons later, the game ends with a win for the Titans and I suck in my first full breath. Rebecca and I bundle into our coats and make our way down to wait by the locker rooms.
We’re celebrating the win by going to Pinks, the players’ usual post-game spot. Logan, Jake, and Connor are already waiting, all freshly showered and clad in suits. Connor wore one during the press conference, but I’m only now able to appreciate the full effect. Mr. All-American Ken Doll, complete with a matching wardrobe—suit, football uniform, and my favorite, nothing at all.
“So, what did you think?” he asks, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
Rebecca answers for me. “She watched half the game with her hands over her eyes, she covered them whenever you got hit.”
Connor huffs out a laugh and drops his head to nuzzle the side of my neck. “So little faith.” His voice drops further, “And here I thought you were the brave one.”
My heart bursts. I haven’t been the brave one at all when it comes to him. It’s been false courage the entire time.
Heat touches my cheeks at all the inquisitive eyes of his friends on us. I already knew Connor was intensely private, so the fact that he’s so affectionate with me in public has to mean something, right?
I paste on an indifferent smile, still trying to make sense of the feelings rioting inside me. “Decent showing, Boy Scout. A little more effort and you might make a career out of it.”
The guys burst out laughing. Even Connor can’t hide his smirk. “You think?” His eyes gleam with barely concealed mirth.
“Damn, only you would end up with the coolest lady in a crisis,” Jake tells Connor before turning to me. “Do you need help escaping this loon? Blink once.”
I bark out a laugh and curl more tightly against Connor’s side. I let go of my fear and settle into the solid shelter of his arms. They fit me perfectly.
No, I don’t want to escape. Right now, this is exactly where I want to be.
Chapter Twenty-Four
ELLA
Everyone seems to be taking their happy meds, and for once, I’m actually ahead. I’ve spent the day sketching new ideas, cutting patterns, and updating my website. I even have a new commission—a darling vintage Chanel that needs to be re-structured. My mind’s already walking the fashion district, imagining the right materials. Best of all, Hannah’s alterations are almost done. My mannequin is in her perfectly fitted outfit and ready to party, the arms positioned in the classic Saturday Night Fever pose—but with a middle finger extended instead.
I jump into Connor’s arms the moment he’s through the door, giving him only a second to catch me, which he does without staggering. I thread my fingers through his damp hair and tug him close to plant a big smack on his lips.
“Who are you and what have you done with Ella?” he asks. He gives me a kiss in return.
I lean back and stick my tongue out at him as he laughs, then sets me down.
“What do you want to order?” Connor already has the delivery app open on his phone.
“What about we go out instead?” My voice is bright and perky.
I follow Connor's eyes as he takes in the rain-spattered window.
Right. “It’s fine. A little rain never hurt anyone. Good for the constitution—that’s what my Nana always said.” The Nana I’ve never met because she died before I was born.
“Okay. If that’s what you want.” Connor slides a meaningful glance at the bedroom door then back at me.
Maybe we can put off going out just a little bit. Work off some of that excess energy now and build up an appetite for dessert…
And boy did we work up an appetite, in the most delicious of ways. I’m much more relaxed by the time we leave my apartment. And happy. Ready to hop puddles in a single bound type of happy.
We take a cab to the Upper East Side and grab lunch at a small French bistro and then stroll through Central Park, fingers laced together in the light drizzle. At first it feels a little strange, I don’t generally hold hands with people. Even as a kid, I remember trying to free myself of Mom’s grip to cross the street on my own. But my hand in Connor’s solid grip feels comforting and not confining, keeping me steady as we navigate the slick paths.
At Bethesda Fountain, we watch besotted beaus (or suckers, depending on how you see it) paddle around The Loeb Boathouse. It’s chilly out for fall. I slide a glance at Connor, tempted to suggest we take a boat out just to see him roll his eyes—followed by his sigh of agreement. Before I can, lightning cracks the late afternoon sky and larger drops start to pelt down. Oars hit the water with increased fury as everyone scrambles for cover. We are drenched in a matter of seconds.
Connor tugs me under the Arcade Terrace, only feet away, to take shelter. I’m wet and cold, but don’t mind too much because he swipes my dripping hair out of my face. He tugs the lapels of my raincoat shut and does up the buttons before leaning in for a kiss. The scent of rain and sage and Connor fills my lungs. Before he can pull back, I loop my arms around his neck and keep my lips fused to his.
It’s almost too romantic. Almost as if we’re alone, even in the midst of the Japanese and Dutch accents surrounding us—tourists taking shelter. I keep myself from taking the kiss further only to avoid shocking the young minds by exposing them to dilettante New Yorkers. Also, I’m running low on oxygen. Our eyes meet and hold. Connor’s thoughts are obviously running along the same lines, because he pulls me to the edge of the park.
Once we’re by the road, my hand lifts to hail
a yellow cab, but like cockroaches, they scurried off at the first hint of rain.
“Uber.”
I’m fumbling with my phone. “Already on it.”
We dash across to Lincoln Center. The car says it will take twenty-five minutes to pick us up. We wait at the base of the famed steps. Lights on each riser welcome visitors in a dozen different languages and promote the current performances.
I don’t think I’ll last long enough to make it home, with my mounting desire. I’m about to suggest that we find ourselves a convenient coat closet—not that I’ve ever been an exhibitionist. I’ve always preferred to stay in the background—but it’s a day to make exceptions for everything.
A sharp shriek sounds, and both Connor and I whip around in time to see a woman slip. She lands flat on her back on a wide step, and her body is lit up by LEDs of Beinvenue and Shalom and Welkom. Passersby stop and gape. I turn to Connor, but he’s already bounding over to her. He bends to check on her and yells for someone to call for help.
I rush over, but a crowd has formed around them and I can’t get close. Connor and another man are examining the woman. It’s not as bad as it looks. They are able to help her sit up.
She rubs her temple and looks up at her rescuers. I suspect recognition sets in when her eyes widen on Connor—she’s either really hurt or a hussy because she bats her eyes at him, like literally bats them, sixty-blinks-per-second. How does that even work? I flap my own lids a couple of times, but I can only manage five before my vision clouds, and I give up. When the picture comes back into focus, I wish it hadn’t.