Page 15 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

My body’s buzzing.

Still.

Like some kind of erotic aftershock is working its way through my blood, sparking every nerve, rewiring every thought.

Last night?

Last night was the single most intense, erotic, soul-level experience of my entire goddamn life.

I’ve been with women. Plenty.

But I’ve never felt like this before.

Not even close.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles out of my chest— part growl, part prayer of thanks —as I tighten my arm around the warm, soft, perfect woman curled against me.

Annabeth.

Naked, tangled in the sheets, her thick hair spread across my bicep like a crown of fucking silk.

She’s everything I didn’t know I was missing. And everything I want more of.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand and grimace.

Shit.

We have to get up soon. The alarm’s due to blare any second. The wedding looms.

The act we’re supposed to keep playing. Her family’s fake smiles and cutting jabs.

But all I want is more of this.

More of her .

We didn’t sleep. Not really.

We kept waking each other up with touches, kisses, whispers that led to more moaning, more gasping, more desperate pleas for please don’t stop .

Turns out my little Angel is a fucking wildcat. And I am gone for her.

One night and I’m wrecked.

Ruined.

Addicted.

I press a kiss to her bare shoulder, breathing her in like she’s my only source of oxygen.

And maybe she is, because I haven’t been able to take a deep breath since the second she let me in.

She still doesn’t get it. Not really.

Deep down, my girl still thinks this is pretend.

A fantasy.

A good time wrapped in heat and orgasms and sun-soaked chemistry.

But I meant every goddamn word I said when I dared her to trust me.

I want her.

Not for a weekend.

Not as a post-match victory lap.

Not as a distraction from the bullshit.

I want her in my life.

I want her at my games, cheering in the front row.

I want her in my bed, in my house, in my arms every night.

I want her laughing with the wives and girlfriends of my teammates, being part of their crew.

I want to see the way she responds to being spoiled by me.

Fuck yeah. I’m gonna marry this girl.

But I know I need to slow down.

Still, I want to bring her back to Consequence.

To show her off like the goddess she is.

To let the world know— this is the woman who owns me now.

We’re still stuck with Lisa the Viper and her human accessories for the next twenty-four hours.

But after that? After we make it through this circus of a wedding?

I’m not letting her slip away.

Not without a fight.

Hell, I’ve never played harder in my life.

And I’m damn sure not going to lose the only game that’s ever really mattered.

No way. No how.

We shower together. And it’s—well, it’s perfect, but we need to do it over because once I start touching her, I can’t stop.

“Right there, Luca,” she moans as I kneel between her legs, licking her until she’s screaming my name.

She tastes so good. Like cinnamon and sex.

“Turn around,” I growl, standing behind her, pulling her hips so I can slide inside her tight sex.

I’m so far gone, I don’t even realize I forgot a condom until she says it.

“Condom?”

“Fuck, I?—”

“Don’t stop! Please, Luca, I’m on the pill, and I trust you,” she whimpers, looking over her shoulder at me, and I think I fall in love right there.

I pound into her, rutting like a fucking beast. I can’t help it.

She undoes me completely.

After we rinse off, we dress quietly. Annabeth wears a stunning gown with layers of sheer pink fabric so delicate it makes her look like something out of a fairytale.

I don’t even know what I have on. A dark gray linen suit. Something my tailor made me for formal events.

Whatever.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

“You ready?” she asks.

I nod, incapable of speech.

Last night, I knew I wanted her, but today? Today, I don’t think I can live without her.

She is so beautiful it hurts to look at her. But I do.

I bear witness, and I don’t take my hand off her waist for anything.

She anchors me.

The ceremony is nice. At least, I think it is.

I couldn’t tell you what the venue looked like or what song the string quartet played as Lisa walked down the aisle.

Hell, I barely noticed when the crowd stood or sat or clapped or gasped.

Because all I can see is her.

Annabeth.

My Angel, on my arm.

Her dark hair is swept up in some mysterious style that seems like magic, but somehow, there it is. Soft tendrils are curling around her cheeks, framing her pretty face and making my heart squeeze inside my chest.

Her lips are painted in a soft berry color that’s driving me insane because all I can think about is how they taste. How they looked wide open screaming my name last night and again this morning.

She glances up at me, a shy smile tugging at her mouth.

My chest expands like I’ve just scored a try from halfway down the field.

I want to kiss her.

I want to drag her back to the suite and remind her that none of this is pretend— not for me.

Instead, I tighten my hand around hers and lean close enough to murmur, “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, Angel, I’m going to carry you out of here before they even say I do. ”

She blushes— God, I love that blush —and squeezes my hand like she wants me to.

Somehow, we make it through the ceremony. Through the awkward line of people congratulating the bride and groom.

Somehow, I don’t punch David, Lisa’s new husband, when he hugs my girl a little too close.

And more, I manage not to lose my shit when we stand for a slew of family photos, but I do glare just enough to keep Lisa and David from wedging themselves between us for a second time .

And finally, we’re seated at the reception— round tables dressed in too-white linens and adorned with flowers that smell expensive.

The first course is being served by waitstaff in white shirts and black bow ties.

Annabeth has just picked up her fork, and I’m about to steal a bite from her plate when I feel it.

A shift.

Not loud. Not sudden.

But sharp.

Like the air itself thickens— cooling down even in this warm, candlelit room.

The low clink of silverware pauses.

The murmur of conversation shifts direction.

People are turning.

“Annabeth, your father is here,” a woman says. Gray curls, coral lipstick, double strand of pearls—the infamous Aunt Cecilia, I think.

She’s pointing toward the front of the ballroom, where a ripple of polite excitement is moving through the tables.

Annabeth sets her fork down.

“Oh, okay,” she says. She turns to me, a flicker of nervousness in her voice. “You okay meeting my dad?”

“Of course,” I tell her.

I rise first, hold her chair like I was raised right, and take her hand in mine.

Her grip is soft but sure.

Together, we step away from our table and begin weaving through the crowd.

Faces turn to watch us pass. Annabeth lifts her chin and smiles—polite, practiced.

But when we get closer and her eyes find him, something real blooms on her face.

And I see it hit him, too.

So, this is Marco Martinez.

Sharp suit. Expensive watch. Silvered temples and a predator’s posture.

He sees us approaching, and his expression shifts like a scene change in a movie.

First guarded, then curious, and then it softens. Only slightly.

But enough to let me know he loves his daughter when his dark gaze reaches her.

“Mija,” he says, his voice warm. “There you are. You look radiant.”

Something in me eases. A breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes my chest.

I think it’s pride and gratitude because Annabeth deserves love and respect. And something in me is happy she gets it from her father.

But not only him. Because even though it’s too soon, too fast, too damn crazy—it doesn’t matter, because I know I love her, too.

“Papa, you’re late,” Annabeth says, a mock scolding in her tone.

“Apologies, I had a very important meeting I couldn’t rush. Potential new partner. You can meet the man in a moment, but first, tell me something?” His gaze narrows slightly as it shifts to me.

“What, Papa?”

“Well, I see you’re not alone. So, who are you, young man?”

I open my mouth to answer.

But then a throat clears behind him. A deliberate interruption.

“I can answer that,” says a voice I’d know in my sleep.

Slick. Smooth. Cold as a razor.

“Luca Moretti—oh wait. He goes by Warden now. Don’t you, Luca?”

My blood runs ice cold.

I lift my gaze.

And there he is.

Anthony Moretti.

My father.

Tailored charcoal suit.

Wedding-inappropriate sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.

One hand resting on the shoulder of a smug bastard with a Rolex and a vaguely mafia-adjacent vibe.

Peter Galetti. One of his top advisors.

A pit opens in my stomach.

Annabeth tenses beside me like a live wire. I squeeze her hand tighter.

Because right now, I’m standing in a war zone in formalwear.

“Well, son,” Anthony says, flashing that politician’s smile. “What a surprise.”

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I manage, keeping my voice tight. Controlled.

He shrugs. “I could say the same.”

His eyes slide to Annabeth, and something in them sharpens.

Not cruel. Just calculating.

“You look well, Luca,” he says. “Very cozy with your date.”

“This is Annabeth,” I snap. “My girlfriend.”

“Of course,” he says smoothly, extending his hand to her like we’re playing house. “Anthony Moretti. And this is a dear friend of mine, Peter Galetti. We’re here as guests of your father.”

Then, to Marco: “I had no idea your daughter was so lovely.”

“Um, thank you,” Annabeth says, her smile tight as piano wire.

Marco nods. “Yes, well, I must congratulate the bride. I’ll catch up with you in a moment, mija.”

And then he’s gone—swept up by a wedding planner or a guest or one of a dozen people all vying for his attention.

Which leaves me standing between the woman I want and the man I hate.

“What are you doing here?” I ask my father, the words like gravel in my throat.

“Just business, mostly,” he says, oozing charm like motor oil. “Though it seems I’m crashing the family party.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s steel beneath it. A glint in his eyes that sets every one of my defenses on high alert.

Because he didn’t just stumble into this.

Anthony Moretti doesn’t crash parties.

He infiltrates.

Tests boundaries.

Leaves chaos behind.

I glance down.

Annabeth’s hand is trembling now.

So I do the only thing I can.

I hold her tighter. I press my palm to the small of her back and anchor us both.

Because if he thinks he can waltz in here and unmake the progress I’ve clawed my way toward?

If he thinks he can rattle me, control me, make me feel small again?

He’s about to learn something.

I’m not a boy anymore.

I’m a man. With a future. With someone I want in that future.

And I will burn the world down before I let him touch it.