Page 37 of Broken Play (The O’Ryan Family #1)

THIRTY-SEVEN

GREYSON

Sutton bursts into the locker room, excited, waving her arms. She throws her arms around J.D. "You did it! You put the Armadillo opening home-game curse to rest."

J.D. eases out of the hug and says, "That was all the QB."

Freshly showered and with a towel wrapped around my hips, I have satisfaction written all over my face, but with Sutton's eyes trained on me, I start to feel uncomfortable.

Don't get me wrong, I love that I can have this effect on her, but she's the one who's scared of people finding out about us.

I watch her swallow like she's got cat hair stuck in her throat.

She asks, "What do you mean?"

J.D. looks at her, but I say, "No, it wasn't. You and Coach Stricker were willing to listen, and the guys executed. It's all you, Coach."

The team chants, "Coach! Coach!" They say it louder, and J.D.

gestures for them to quiet down. "Men, we're going to need to play better to win in Atlanta, but think about how good it feels to start the season 2-0.

How good it feels to be winners. Speak the words into existence.

I'm a winner. My team wins. And I promise that the more you win, the more you want to win, and the more you will win.

Enjoy a day off tomorrow, other than physical therapy.

We'll see you here on Tuesday. Great game.

Dillos on three. One. Two. Three. Dillos! "

Sutton stands by the door, congratulating each player, and I overhear her saying things like "Terrific tackle," "What a return," and "You were locked in.

" I sort of chuckle inside at how far she's come in just a couple of months.

I have no doubt Sutton would have been a Rhodes Scholar had she taken the academic route. She takes studying seriously.

When it seems the locker room is empty, she calls out, "Anyone still here?" Her shoes click against the floor, and I know she's wondering where I am because she hasn't congratulated me. "Hello? Anyone here?"

Wanting to tease her, I sweep her into my arms as she turns the corner. The way she giggles sounds nothing like my straightforward, calm general manager. It's a sound that Sutton doesn't give to others; it's just for me.

Her back is to me, and her legs are flying in all directions. "I thought you snuck out after saving the team from another opening-home-game loss."

My voice is low, just above a whisper. "I've been waiting to have you all to myself." I let her down and spin her so she's facing me. "Do you want to show me your gratitude, Boss?" I murmur over her lips, grazing her flesh just enough to cause a shiver. I grin, tightening my grip around her waist.

She arches a brow, looking from left to right, her lips turning upward in a sly smile. "Is that what you want, Ten?" Her hands slip around my neck, and her fingers draw circles on my skin. My body is ready and aware of what we both want. "You want me to show you how grateful I am? "

"How grateful are you?"

"So grateful," she rasps, her voice already full of need. "But don't get cocky."

"I'll let my body do the talking—on and off the field." I keep her close, our mouths only an inch apart.

"Oh, you will? Can you perform?" she asks, her laugh soft and wicked as she drags out the word perform .

"You've never complained." My hands trace the curve of her hips, feeling the fabric of her leggings. "If you want me to demonstrate, I'm more than willing." My erection presses against her stomach.

Her eyes glimmer. "So, you think you call the plays off the field?"

Spinning her around, I pin her against the cool, gold lockers. "I've let you be in control, but now it's my turn. You can thank me later." My lips graze the curve of her jaw.

"You've got forty-four seconds, Ten. Prove you can handle the pressure off the field too."

It's not lost on me that that was how much time was left in the game when we got the ball back. Her words are barely out of her mouth before my lips collide with hers, claiming any words she may have left. Her hands twist in my damp hair, urging me to kiss her deeper and longer.

I push her leggings down. "No panties. You're being a bad, bad girl.

And this jersey has to go. It's not mine, and if you plan on wearing a jersey again, it better be mine.

" I sling it onto the floor. I'm probably down to thirty seconds, so I suck on her chest while fingering her and playing with her bundle of nerves.

Sutton rasps, "The clock is...ticking."

Anticipation lingers in the air as I drop to my knees and suck her folds and her pretty pink clit while my fingers plunge into her silken, juice-covered inner walls. Her body stiffens, and her muscles tighten around my fingers. She calls out, "Ten, Ten."

I don't know whether she's counting down or calling me by her nickname, but I suck harder, bite harder, and she pants, "Yes, yes, yes."

Her juices cover my fingers when I pull them out and stand. I lick one and then stick my finger in her mouth. "You taste like fresh summer rain. Delicious and fresh."

"It's all for you, Greyson." She tries to smirk, but it comes out all breathy and seductive.

"Since I won the challenge, it's my turn." The last of my self-control burns away. Her body is full of sweet heat.

She nips at my bottom lip, fumbling with my belt.

Damn, why did I dress?

Her impatience is a turn-on—every frantic movement of her hands making me harder, every urgent tug at my belt a silent plea I want to answer. Her skin is flushed and feverish beneath my palms, burning with a hungry need I can feel all the way to my bones.

The locker room lights flicker out on the other side of the room, not detecting any movement.

She slides down my body as my pants pool around my feet.

She takes me in her mouth, and my body stutters—it feels so good.

It's like I've never gotten a blow job. I'm not sure why it feels so different, but it does.

She's trying to get me off in forty-four seconds, which I promise will not happen.

If it does, then I'm not man enough for her.

Sutton Anders deserves a man who can please her ten times over before he comes.

Hungry and confident, she hollows her cheeks and takes me as far as she thinks she can. I plant my palm at the base of her neck and pull her closer, pumping, over and over, into her mouth. Her little moans cause me to praise her. "Your lips should be on the Ten Most Wanted list."

She pops off, still holding my base, and says, "As long as I'm on your most wanted list."

"Fuck, babe, you're the only one on my list."

Neither of us can get enough; the harder I piston my hips, the more she takes. I'm getting so close, but I can't go yet. "I'm making another list. It's been a dream of mine to fuck you in my jersey in the locker room."

"It has?"

I tug her up, keeping one arm around her as I yank my dirty jersey from the locker and pull it over her head.

"It's big."

She loves it when I tease her and make her blush, so I say, "I'm about to show you how big."

"Is that a promise or a wish?" she asks between broken breaths.

I press her against the cold metal, and my vision blurs as my burning tip meets her hot, soaked center. I release a heavy sigh, fueled by a foreign feeling I've never had before Sutton. I'm tumbling into a place I want to call forever—a place that feels like home.

Warm and challenging.

Sweet and spicy.

Gentle and insatiable.

That's how I feel when I'm buried inside her or when we're just sitting on the couch watching a movie. We fuck standing up until she says, her voice lined with need, "Deeper... please."

I flip her around. "Bend over." She gets a glint of the unknown in her eyes.

She flattens her palms against the metal, moving her feet back and lowering her body. "No back door," she says, with little to no command in her voice. She's just as desperate as I am, but I hold back, respecting her wishes as I tease her, sliding the head of my erection through her wetness.

I start off slow, and when I push all the way in, she moans in appreciation.

And that's all the self-control I have. "I love seeing my number on your back.

You're a perfect ten, Sutton. Never in my life have I dreamed of someone wearing my jersey except you.

Your ass shining like the full fucking moon, sucking me into your orbit.

It's a fucking dream. A dream I want to keep dreaming. "

"Yes, so good," she admits as her tennis bracelet clinks against the metal locker, each delicate chime syncing with the rhythm of our bodies. I'll never forget this night and the soft drum her bracelet creates.

A burst of uncontrollable energy hits me; I know I can't hold myself in check much longer.

But I want her to have another orgasm, so I press my thumb against her puckered hole, not trying to enter but just to give her that last bit of pressure she needs.

It works; her body starts jerking, and she reaches back with one hand, holding my thigh.

"Coming."

Damn, she sounds desperate, and that's the last thread before I unravel to the point that someone might hear the growl that rips from my chest. Cum covers her ass and spots my jersey. There's even some in her hair.

After we catch our breath, I tip her head back, kiss her, and words I've never said tumble from my mouth. "I think I love you."

With my palm pressed against the locker, I feel her body rotate slowly underneath me. Her chest inflates, her hands skid up my chest, and I feel the current flowing through us. She arches into me, rewarding me with a deep, smoldering kiss meant to be savored. And I will.

"Sutton, no expectations. I wanted you to know how I'm feeling."

She tucks her lips together and nods. She lowers her gaze to my body. "Can I spend the night?"

Laughing, I ask, "Here?"

She gives me a playful smack on the arm. "No. I want you to hold me... all night long."

"Is that code for you wanting to have sex all night long?"

"It's code for I need to feel you next to me. If it leads to something else, then that's a bonus."

"You're always welcome at my house. I don't care who knows." I cup her cheeks and kiss each side. "Always."

She smiles, and butterflies flutter in my belly.

Is that supposed to happen? It feels strange, yet like it's how it should be.

She kisses my palm and then reaches down for her clothes.

When she gets ready to take off my jersey, I dare her.

"If you take it off, I swear I'm going to make you pay later. Just put your jersey over it."

"So possessive."

"The quicker we get dressed, the sooner we get to my house." I wiggle my brows in jest, kind of.

Motivation.

She drives to my house separately, leaves her car in one of the equipment barns, and then rides with me. The silence hums while the words I spoke in the post-sex afterglow echo— I think I love you . The words feel dangerous and true, but what if I'm just her rebound?

When we finally get through my front door, she moves through the house like she's feeling it out for the first time, vulnerable and indecisive.

"Normally, I need time to wind down after a night game, but after what happened, I'm beat. Do you want to just go to bed? Talk? Listen to music?"

"Sounds perfect."

"I need to drink a protein shake first. Do you want one?"

"Can I take a glass of water up?"

I grab her a glass of water while I open the fridge and get my canned drink. After I hand her the glass, my fingers curl into hers, and I lead her up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I pull back the covers, suddenly unsure if I should lead or let her take her time. I throw her the Armadillo shirt that she put in my drawer. It's not like I don't have team swag; I do. But I wear them to practice, not at home.

Sutton's mouth grows into a smile as she chuckles, "I knew that would come in handy."

"I guess so. You can sleep naked, you know."

She sits close, settling beside me with an intimacy that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust. "I don't like sleeping nude. What if a spider bites my... you know. Or a bedbug."

"You think I have spiders and bugs in my bed?"

Sutton squishes her nose. "Bugs are silent and sneaky. I hate them."

"Well, since you didn't wear panties, do you want some boxers to wear?"

"Yes, please."

She rolls them down three times so that they don't fall off, then slides into the bed, and I'm right behind her.

She rolls onto my chest, running her fingers up and down my forearm, slowly and tenderly.

It's relaxing, reminding me of how my mother would scratch my back until I fell asleep.

I'm not comparing Sutton to my mother scratching my back, but it feels especially intimate, like she's nurturing my mind as much as my body.

Her thumb swipes over my wrist several times, then stops when she realizes it's a scar, a faded memory I try to keep hidden. Very few people even know about it.

I don't dare look at her; I stare at the ceiling.

She lifts her head a fraction from my chest. It's dark, and I have no idea what she's thinking.

Her touch lingers, and I feel exposed and raw, like it's happening all over again.

Somehow, I keep it together when she rolls onto my chest. Her eyes search mine for answers I've never offered to anyone, ever.