Page 43 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Upper Hand

Izzy

I t has been exactly twelve days—twelve full rotations of the Earth—since I last laid eyes on him, and in that time, I’ve replayed our last encounter so many times it’s embarrassing.

Then he finally returns to New York like he’s just popping back to pick up his dry cleaning.

Not a single hint on any of his social accounts, not even a check-in to bait the fans.

Just a sudden, silent arrival, tanned and more muscley than I remember, Mississippi sun painted across his cheekbones, hair falling in casual, sun-kissed, lazy waves.

So yeah, Griffon looks … delicious. Also, yes, I’m hungry.

My hand is resting on his thigh, which is honestly a little like squeezing a marble countertop wrapped in jeans. I’m not even going to try to play it cool anymore. He certainly hasn’t, stopping at my parents’, wearing my name, playing my fan, seriously adorable, yet still …

His eyes flick to me every few seconds like he’s trying to read a play. Right now, I still have the element of surprise, just like he had earlier, but I can imagine it won’t take him long to figure out my motive.

I can feel the heat through his jeans, can tell from the grip he has on the wheel he’s already half-hard. So, I decide to take control back, right here, right now, with the moon shining and the village ten minutes away.

I let my fingertips wander, tracing lazy circles over the denim, feeling the tension coil beneath my palm. He doesn’t say anything, but his breath hitches just enough to make me smile.

I slide my hand higher, and he gives a tiny, involuntary jerk of the hips.

“Hands at ten and two,” I say, barely louder than the sound of the engine.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the passenger, Iz?”

I squeeze. “Trust me; I can drive stick from over here.”

He makes a sound, deep in his throat, something between a laugh and a groan, and his knuckles go white on the wheel.

I unbuckle my seat belt, slow and deliberate, and twist to face him as I move my knees up on the seat. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, trying to keep his attention on the road and failing.

I press my mouth to his jaw first—soft, just a hint of teeth—then follow the stubble down to his neck, where the skin is hot and slightly salty. He smells so good.

He shivers. “You trying to get us arrested?”

“That’s possible,” I say as I undo the button of his jeans and slide the zipper down, inch by inch, like I’m opening a present. To be fair, Skinner’s huge dick is a gift.

He keeps driving, but I can see him calculating: do I pull over, or do I keep going and see what happens?

I slip my hand inside and smile up at him. His eyes are locked on the road, but his jaw is clenched, and his breathing ragged.

“Eyes on the prize,” I say as I bend down, my hair brushing against his leg, and take him into my mouth, slowly, intentionally, until he hisses out a breath.

The passing streetlights outside tell me we’ve made it to town.

His fingers tangle in my hair, not pushing or guiding, just holding on for dear life. “This is—fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

I look up at him, lips glossy, tongue flicking along the head of his cock. “Now, why would I do that?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not when I suck harder, take him deeper, and stroke him faster. All he can do is let out a strangled sound and bite his lip so hard it goes white.

I take him again, deeper this time, and feel every muscle in his body go taut.

A vehicle behind us honks, but he doesn’t move.

I’m not sure it even registered, but I don’t really give it much thought.

I’m sucking Griffon’s dick, something I have wanted to do every time we’ve been together, and no, not just to give back because he’s so giving in the oral department, but because I simply want to feel him come apart.

I keep the rhythm—slow, steady, just enough twist of my wrist to keep him off balance—and taste the salt and sweetness of him on my tongue.

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is my name, like a prayer or a curse, and it hits deeper now. Not his dick, but the realization that I have him—really have him—right where I want him. The power rush is addictive, intoxicating.

I bob my head, nails digging into the muscles of his thigh, and he shudders, one hand gripping the wheel and the other still knotted in my hair.

I feel him getting close, hips lifting off the seat, body straining for release. He tries to warn me, but I ignore him, doubling down, sucking harder, until he pulses hot and wild against the back of my throat. He gasps, almost sobs, as he comes—hard.

I don’t stop sucking until I feel his body unknot and his hand untangle in my hair.

I sit up, wiping my lips and zipping him back up, maybe a little too roughly. He just stares at me, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“Jesus, Iz, that was … Fuck, that was amazing.”

I buckle myself back in and pat his cheek, like I’m the coach, and he’s the rookie.

“Now”—I sink back into the leather—“take me home.”

He takes my hand and holds it to his chest. “Love the fact you want my cock as much as I want inside you, Iz, but I don’t want that to be it.

I need it to be here, too. I’m falling, and it may seem fast, but it’s not, and you know it.

And I’m not a bitch, but those posts, they were like Grand, and your folks—hell, everyone else sees it, too, Iz. ”

“So once two people start falling in love, then sex has to be missionary position after poetry is read?” I ask.

“Shit, I’m fucking this up. That wasn’t an insult about the best blow job I have ever received. It was?—”

“Skinner.” I smack his chest. “I don’t need a participation trophy, an atta girl, or anything else to know I just blew your mind.”

He takes my hand and holds it right back against his chest. His eyes met mine, a little desperate, and my heart sinks as he says. “Maybe I do then.” He squeezes my hand, and I feel it right down to my toes.

The thing is, I talk a big game about emotional detachment—no-strings sex, friends with benefits, all that—but Skinner—and only Skinner—has this uncanny ability to grab me by the guts and make me want things I spent years pretending I don’t need.

Not just the sex—though, Jesus, the sex—but the weird, messy, scary intimacy that comes with it.

The way he looks at me right now, like I am everything, makes me want to believe all the things I, Izzy Ross, never dared to believe I could have.

I stare at our hands, tangled together on his chest, and feel the reality of it: the heat, the weight, the pulse. This is all real, and like both my parents have pointed out, I could easily cut and run, but I don’t want to.

I tilt my head and press a kiss to his jaw. “You want me to say it? Fine. I’m crazy about you, Griffon.” I take a deep breath; honesty is a lot harder than oral. “Not just in your vehicle, in my bed?—”

“On a desk.” He squeezes my hand, and I look down, letting my hair curtain my face.

“You’re under my skin, and I don’t want it to stop, okay?”

I glance up, and he gives me a grin so big it’s almost dopey.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pumps the brakes, and jerks the vehicle, just barely making it into the Stables’ driveway.

We both laugh.

“I was gonna let you know that was damn good because I have no breaks when it comes to you and no plans on slowing down, but …” He laughs. “Just fuck.”

He puts his vehicle in park. “Love this place, Iz. When I moved here, it was the nicest place I’d ever lived.”

“I saw bits of your place in Mississippi, so I’m gonna have to call?—”

“Bought that for Gramps and Grand.” He shrugs as he looks at his townhouse. “One day, I’m gonna want more, here, you know. A place to come home to after being on the road, where I walk in and it feels like home.” He shuts off his vehicle, unbuckles, and opens his door. “You feel like home.”

I sit there, trying to figure out if he just said that after just a few weeks. Is he talking about living together, or …?

My door opens. “I’m not buying a place until you’re ready to help me pick it out. So until then …” He takes my hand and basically pulls me out.

Part of me wants to grab the oh shit handle because, oh shit!

He continues, “Until then, you gotta schedule me in for sleepovers every now and then like you do your girls’ nights.”

I exhale a held breath. I can handle that. “Okay.”

He continues, my hand still in his, him punching in his lock code. “And I’m not opposed to Mags living with us until someone worthy falls for her.”

Oh. My. God.

He steps in and pulls me with him as a motion light kicks on.

“Seriously, when I’m on the road, and if you’ve got too much going on to come, I’d rather know you’re not alone, because trust me, I know how alone feels and?—”

“Okay, stop,” I cut him off.

“Too much?” he asks, hands tensing.

I try to explain, but all I can do is nod. “I mean … yes, but also no? Just … it’s a lot.”

A lot to metabolize, a lot to admit to him, let alone myself, that yes, maybe I already started imagining our names on a mailbox, credit card bills stacked on the table, him making pancakes, shirtless of course, while I halfheartedly threaten to murder him for leaving his shoes everywhere.

His laugh is one of relief. “We need to soundproof wherever?—”

I tackle him with a kiss, shutting up the sentence before he can say something more.

“Griffon!” I say against his lips, my head spinning—not the bad way, but like a carousel you never want to end. “How about no plans? We just go with what feels right.”

He pulls back and looks at me hard, searching for the joke, but when he sees I mean it, he relaxes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.

He presses his lips to mine, and I push up on tiptoes to meet him. He scoops me by the ass, lifting me off the ground. A groan, deep and relaxed, vibrates through his chest.

He sets me down, face flushed, and pulls back just enough to make me wish he hadn’t.

“Tour?” he asks, meaning the house.

“Sure?” I barely get the word out before he sets me down, spins me around, arms circling my waist, and leads me into the kitchen.

I’ve seen the townhouses—hell, I helped Dad work on them, brought food, delivered supplies. But I didn’t imagine they wouldn’t feel homier.

I picture him here, alone, after games or practice, and I don’t want this for him.

He watches me take it in, looking for something in my reaction, and I realize it matters to him that I like it.

“Your TV is huge.”

He chuckles. “You get one yet?”

“Working on it,” I lie.

He guides me from room to room: the laundry closet with a pair of headphones hanging from the shelf, a living room with barely any furniture in it, just an older couch and coffee table with an old pair of cleats on it, and of course a gaming system.

Upstairs, the guest rooms are all empty, the whole place barely lived in. Then we end up in the master bedroom, which is shockingly tidy.

The massive bed looks incredibly inviting, but the rest of the room is bare, with nothing on the walls, nothing saying Griffon Skinner lives here.

I move us to the dresser where there are a few pictures of a young Griffon and who I know immediately is his baby sister.

“She looks just like you.”

He stands behind me, one arm around my shoulders, the other around my waist, chin resting on my head. “Mags reminds me of what I imagine she’d be like. Same energy. Angela was so happy and full of energy.”

“You’ve always loved Mags.” I smile.

He turns me to face him. “Like a little sister.”

I nod, because I’m feeling way too emotional right now to speak, and … I don’t like it.

He closes his eyes and inhales, slow and deliberate. “Will you do something for me?” His voice is tender and maybe a little scared.

“Yeah. Anything.”

He brushes the tip of his nose up mine. “Be the first girl I have and will ever make love to?”

For a second, my whole body goes light, like the air in my lungs is replaced by helium and fireworks. Then I pull him close and allow myself to feel all that is right and real between us.

“Yes,” I whisper, as my lips brush his.

We kiss, and it’s everything at once—hungry and careful, messy and precise, his hands charting the curves of my back with a slowness that makes every nerve ending stand at attention.

He isn’t just touching me; it’s like he’s relearning my entire body.

I swear I could feel him memorizing me, one palmful at a time.

His hands trace down to my hips, and every inch of my skin prickles where his thumb presses into it. He kisses me under my ear, and I make the sound that, until him, I was embarrassed of, the one I use to muffle against a pillow when I was alone and pretending it was someone else’s hand.

His.

We sink down onto the blankets, and I press my hands to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, letting him know it matters. He shudders, and I feel my eyes get damp. We’re both trembling, nervous energy making us somewhat clumsy and, God, it’s so damn sweet.

Nothing like before.

Clothes come off with the gracelessness of two people learning, not like we’ve already learned—this is new.

He’s reverent, almost, the way he looks at me. We become sharp breaths and whispers now, and I memorize every sound he makes, every tremor, every time he curses quietly into my collarbone or says my name— Isobel .

When we’re finally there—when he eases into me—it’s different. Again, I get emotional because it’s beautiful and how it should have been. My heart feels heavy, almost unbearably so, when I realize what I lied to myself so many years about … this.

We move slow, together. We hold each other and kiss. We kiss so much.

I hold him like he’s both a confession and a prayer, and he holds me right back, just the same.

When he whispers that he loves me, not once but over and over, I feel it emotionally and on a much higher physical level.

When I say it back, I mean it with every part of me.

We move together, gentle and wild, until the world goes black and bright at the same time.

When it’s over, we don’t let go. We just stay tangled up, skin on skin, holding each other.

“You okay?” he asks, holding me closer.

“I’m … something.”

“You mean it, though, right?” he asks so softly I’m not sure I’m hearing him or his thoughts. “’Cause I do, Izzy, to my soul.”

I lift my head and rest my chin on his chest, locking eyes with him. “Griffon Skinner, I love you.”

He nods. “Okay.” Then he pulls my head to his chest and lets me listen to his heart and feel it at the same time as we lie there, our legs twined, as he traces shapes on my skin, heart shapes, and then …

“Did you just write your number on my ass?”

“Damn right I did.”