Page 24

WE DRIVE TO the club in silence, Niko going ten miles over the speed limit. I watch his hands clench the steering wheel and suspect this is him being restrained.

We are out of his car in seconds, and he grabs my hand as we stumble toward the front door of the club. I move like I’m on fire, twisting the lock open and tapping the alarm off before shutting the door behind us.

I dash toward the stairs, but he grabs my hand before I can take another step and swings me around until I’m pressed between him and the wall across from the reception desk.

“Niko,” I say, and each syllable of his name lands heavy with want. My hands fly up to his chest, and I trace the edges of his shirt collar, grasping it tightly and tugging him closer to me. I’m desperate to kiss him, to bring his lips to mine, but he twists his head slightly, hands coming up to my hair, as he runs his lips down my neck.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to walk in here every day and see you sitting behind that desk?” He’s savoring me in a slow, deliberate way that I feel with every sense I possess. “How much I want you?”

“Please,” I croak, and I don’t even know what I am asking for exactly, just that I want him to give it all to me.

“I stand out there on the court and try to practice but all I can do is think about you, and it’s torture.” He presses slow, burning kisses along the curve of my shoulder and then my collarbone as my head falls back against the wall behind me.

My hands find his waistband, and I pull him closer and then run my palms across the expanse of his thighs, finding his groin as he thrusts against me with a low moan.

“This needs to happen right now,” I plead, insistent. Somehow I can feel the warmth of him through the distracting layer of clothes, and I want them off, immediately.

“What’s the first thing you taught me about pickleball, Bex?” he asks as he takes a small step back, releasing my hair and tucking it over my shoulders.

“That’s what you want to talk about right now?” I ask with a frustrated groan, as I nuzzle into the broad expanse of his shoulder. “Pickleball?”

One hand skates across my shoulder, finding the zipper at the back of my dress. He gives it a slow tug, pulling it down just an inch as his other hand glides up to my lower back, steadying me.

“Patience, Bex,” he replies, his lips moving against my neck, a kiss coming between every word. “You said the key to pickleball is patience.”

He gives the zipper another tiny tug as his lips drift across my cheek, planting painfully slow kisses along the way like he’s trying to map each freckle with his mouth.

Before I even know what he’s doing, his hands are at my waist, and he’s lifting me in one fell swoop, sliding me up the wall until my thighs are around his waist, dress bunched around my hips.

“Do you know how hard it is to be patient with you like this?” His voice is gruff with want, but still steady. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s going to take his time.

Me on the other hand? I’m a mess already.

“Because I make you crazy?” I ask, panting, my forehead resting against his as my fingers cling to his shirt like I’m hanging off a cliff.

“Because I want to be everything for you,” he says, and as he does, I feel him relax against me as if just saying these words releases all the tension from his body. “And I can’t wait any longer.”

His words cause me to moan, and before I know what’s happening, he’s carrying me, pushing open the doors that lead to the courts. I’m so drunk on him, on the possibility of what’s to come, that I can barely process the change of scenery. But sure enough, the night sky appears overhead, and somehow, a few steps later, we’re in the middle of court 1, where he spends most of his days.

With every step he takes, I feel myself fall apart just a little bit more, piece by piece, limb by limb. Niko is built like a redwood tree, unwavering and rooted, and he is the first person I’ve let myself lean on in so long. But I still don’t totally know how to ask for what I need. And so all I can do is show him, to try to give myself what I’m desperately craving.

The second my feet hit the ground, I pull away from him, and his eyes are confused, searching, until I reach my hands toward his face, giving him no choice. This time, when I greedily bring his mouth toward mine, he doesn’t veer off course.

I part my lips, sliding my tongue against his, searching, asking, demanding.

“Please,” I mumble desperately against him, and I can feel his entire body respond, his hands moving up my body and then back to the zipper, which he wrests undone in the most achingly slow, careful way.

He reaches up to my neck, gently pushing the dress off my shoulders, tugging it down to my waist. I take a step back and shimmy out of it and then slide my fingers through his shirt, fisting the cloth between the pearl-white buttons. Whatever the opposite of an out-of-body experience is, I’m having it. Every small touch, every brush of his skin against mine, seems to light me up from the inside. We’re outside and completely exposed, and yet it feels like we’re the only two people left in existence on the planet.

I pull him closer as he tears his shirt free from his waistband, yanking it over his head, while I wrestle with my bra and then the button of his pants. He groans as my hand grazes his stomach and then shuffles us closer so I’m flush with the net. He kisses me with abandon as I find his pants with the ball of my foot, halfway off to his knees, and push them all the way down to the ground.

He takes a moment to kick them away before hovering back over me, hooking his index finger into the black lace underpants I wore especially for tonight, toying with them playfully. I grab a hold of his ass and am pleased when I get the answer to one of my most burning Niko questions—he does, indeed, wear boxer briefs. I shift my hips, electric against his touch, and a small smile emerges on his face.

Niko’s eyes trail across my brow, down my body and up again, asking me silently, one last time: Are you sure?

I dip my chin, the smallest of nods, and the second I do, he holds me to him as he hitches my thigh over his hip, tugging me closer as he kisses me deeply, thoroughly. His fingers tangle in my hair as it pools around my shoulders, and Niko, normally so focused, so precise, unravels against me as he crushes his lips against mine.

“Fuck,” I moan as our tongues meet, slick and desperate. His hands are steady, learning my body as they travel down the curve of my neck and the slope of my spine.

“I love seeing you naked,” he says, his fingers painting imaginary scenes across my hips and up my waist. I let out a little gasp as the pad of his thumb runs circles around my nipple. “But I might love seeing you out here, in your wild pickleball outfits more. When I close my eyes and think of you, I see a rainbow.”

“I thought you didn’t like all that color,” I mutter, my hands enjoying every hard line of muscle until they find his ribs with a teasing poke. I’ve seen him shirtless enough to know that he is cut like marble, his body fat percentage nonexistent. But to feel his warm skin and the pounding of his heart against my palm is another thing entirely. My eyes shift over to his shoulder, where there’s the faint hint of a scar, a relic of his past life and the havoc it has wreaked on his body. He is beyond beautiful, and I feel a deep ache of sorrow for him.

“I like everything you do,” he rasps. “You keep telling me I have to have a soft touch, to stay calm when we’re playing, but being around you makes me want to crawl out of my fucking skin.”

He intertwines our fingers and drags our clasped hands just below his waist so that I can feel the burning need that’s consuming him. “I can’t focus out here when you’re next to me. I can’t sleep at night knowing you’re alone, a couple of miles away. I can’t remember my training schedule. Hell, I can barely play tennis anymore. I can’t do anything but think about you, Bex. I know we never meant for any of this to be real, but it is now, at least for me.”

His words make me whimper, an actual pleading sound that escapes my lips, as I grind against him, desperate to show him that I feel the exact same way. I don’t want to think about anything but Niko, but us, but this very second in time, not a minute before or after.

He grunts as our bodies collide and move, and he leans forward, pressing wet kisses along my shoulder and across my collarbone before looking up at me, his eyes alight with fire. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Princess.”

“You’re all I think about, too.” The words slip out of me before I even know what I’m saying, and he pauses, clasping my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Tell me.”

I press my lips together, teetering between self-conscious and wide open. Am I really going to do this, reveal my sweaty, dirty thoughts about this man to his face? I no longer loathe him. Niko is tender and kind, silly in his own way. And now he is here, naked in the middle of the racquet club, eagerly ripping my clothes off.

“I play back the memory of you kissing me constantly,” I whisper, as he cups both my breasts in his hands, running his thumbs slowly across my nipples in the most deliciously tortuous way. “I imagine what it would be like to…”

“To what , Bex?” he asks, his lips curling into a devilish, pleased smile. “I’ve never seen you this quiet.”

“To fuck you,” I say, and the words come out like a plea. I want this so badly I can’t contain it. “To feel you inside me. On top of me. Behind me.”

Niko drops to his knees in front of me with a groan and slips my underwear down the length of my legs.

“Oh god,” I whisper, because if he comes any closer, I might completely self-combust.

He grazes his hand softly down my calf, nudging my heel up as he helps me step out, first one foot, then the other. “Niko, please,” I croak, dragging my fingers through his satiny hair. Touching him is like racing into the ocean on a winter day, shocking and thrilling. It makes me feel wildly, unabashedly alive. “I want to feel you.”

“Patience, Bex.” His words dance along the inside of my thigh, his breath a soft tickle on my skin. “It’s all about going slow. Watching your opponent, learning their strengths and weaknesses, and being one step ahead of them.”

I am so caught up in the all-encompassing sensation of his mouth licking my hip that it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying. It’s the exact thing I told him during our first pickleball lesson together.

He traces a knuckle over the tuft of hair between my legs, just barely touching me. “You want to have a light touch.”

His hands glide up the backs of my thighs, cupping my ass. I lean into him, desperate for the sensation, but he scolds me, clucking as he pinches me lightly. “I learned this from an amazing teacher. She told me my grip was too tight, and if I just loosened up a bit, I’d be a much better player.”

“I like your tight grip,” I plead. “Holding the paddle lightly is way overrated.”

“But maybe if I’m gentle now,” he says, his touch feather-soft, “my opponent won’t have any idea when I’m about to punish them.”

He is using my words against me in the sexiest way possible. I am an ice cube melting in the sun, a ball of clay in his hands, begging to be bent and molded exactly as he wants.

Every thought that has been weighing on me for the last month, every bill and cracked court, drifts away as he presses delicate kisses to the inside of my thighs and then shifts one hand to softly stroke my clit, spreading me open so that he can replace his finger with his mouth.

“You’re so wet,” he says as his teeth skim the sensitive skin there, his voice a reverential growl. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you like this.”

“Niko,” I say, pitching my hips forward, closer to him, craving some friction.

He lets out a tsk , and it vibrates against me in the most maddening, delectable way. “Moving too quickly, not waiting,” he says, and I tug at his hair, frustrated. “That’s how you lose a game, Bex.”

He toys with one finger at my entrance, swiping slow circles inside me. “Do you want to lose?”

“No,” I squeak, as my hands drag through his hair, holding on to him for support.

“Good,” he says with a chuckle, still tracing me lightly with that maddening finger. “I’m going to need you to follow one very simple rule.”

“What is it?” I gasp as his tongue gently twirls a circle against my clit.

“It’s easy,” he says as our eyes meet. This man is downright smoldering, completely in charge as he worships my body. “Do less.”

With a soft push, he nudges my legs wider. Somehow he trusts that I can stand here like this, with him on his knees in front of me, and let go. I’ve never had sex with anyone outside of a bedroom—much less a bed—but suddenly with Niko, it feels like we’re defying gravity. I lean against him, steadying myself, as he continues to rub me in small, deliciously slow circles. “Niko, I don’t know if I can—”

“What?” he says. “Relax? But you’re such a good coach.”

“It just feels so good.” I look down and watch as his brows twitch, eyes fluttering closed for a split second, a glimmer of something passing across his face. I know what it is instantly, a momentary loss of control. He slides one finger inside me, his gaze never leaving my face. The slow pace is agony. I want him fiery, full of aggressive, grunting rage. But this Niko reminds me of glimpses I’ve caught of him recently, and it hits me as he watches my body jerk against him with a smile on his face, orgasm pulsing through me, all my patience gone. He’s giving, tender, generous—as a lover, yes, but as a person. And I realize something about myself too, a truth that’s becoming harder and harder to avoid: I love these things about him, because, well, I…

Fuck.

I push the thought aside. Don’t even go there , a voice in my head warns. But I know it’s too late to stop myself, or these feelings for Niko. I’m already gone.