Page 26 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)
NOVA
T he crowd is on their feet, the deafening roar of the stadium washing over me. I clutch Roxy’s arm while Delaney leans forward in her seat, both of them screaming like lunatics.
“There he is! Your man!” Roxy shouts as Finlay jogs onto the field, helmet under his arm, grinning like the show-off he is.
“He’s not just my man. He’s our Victory Bowl champion,” I yell back, though my voice is already hoarse from cheering.
The game is long over, confetti still littering the turf. The New York Nighthawks have done it again. They are Victory Bowl champions. This time, I’m not watching from the stands with a knot of uncertainty in my chest. This time, I’m here as his wife.
The silver band on my finger catches the stadium lights, and I can’t stop smiling.
Life hasn’t just been about football these past two years.
I’m still dancing, still performing at Heaven’s Edge, and Finlay has never once asked me to give it up.
In fact, he brags about it. Says he loves that I own who I am and that my strength is part of what drew him in from the start.
He’s front row at my big performances when his schedule allows, the loudest and proudest one in the crowd.
When Finlay spots me in the stands now, his whole face lights up, like the noise, the cameras, the crowd all disappear. He makes his way over, ignoring reporters and cameras, stopping only when he’s right in front of me.
He reaches up, pulls me down by the back of my neck, and kisses me like we’re the only two people in the world. The stadium erupts. Somewhere behind us, Roxy and Delaney are wolf-whistling like maniacs.
“Still my good luck charm,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Always,” I whisper back.
He grins, eyes darkening in a way I know all too well. “Think you’ve got one more performance in you tonight, Mrs. Reed?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Depends, are you planning to tip generously?”
His laugh is low, hungry, and full of promise. “Baby, I’m planning to spend every damn dollar I’ve got.”
When he pulls me down onto the field, spinning me in a shower of gold confetti, I know without a doubt that giving Finlay Reed a chance was the best decision of my life.
The door clicks shut behind us, and Finlay doesn’t give me a second to breathe.
His mouth is on mine instantly. This kiss is hot, hungry, and tasting faintly of champagne from the locker room celebration.
His hands are everywhere, sliding over my hips, gripping my ass, tracing my spine like he’s trying to relearn every inch of me.
“You have no idea what it did to me,” he growls against my lips, “seeing you in that dress on the sidelines.” His voice is low, dangerous. “Victory Bowl or not, you were my real win tonight.”
My lips curve against his. “Funny,” I murmur, my breath warm over his jaw, “I thought you liked the view when I was on stage last week.”
He freezes for half a beat, just long enough for me to see the heat flare in his eyes. “Baby, when you’re up there dancing and every single person in that place is looking at you, do you know what I want?”
I shake my head, already breathless.
“I want to drag you off that stage, throw you over my shoulder, and make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.” His mouth brushes my ear. “And I’d do it in front of all of them if I could.”
My thighs squeeze together involuntarily, heat curling low in my stomach. “And tonight?” I ask.
“Tonight,” he says, scooping me into his arms, “you’re gonna give me a private encore.”
He carries me to the couch, dropping into it with me straddling his lap. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to leave a bruise, his eyes locked on mine. “Take it off,” he orders.
“The dress?” I ask innocently.
“The dress. The bra. The heels stay on.”
My pulse thunders as I rise to my feet. I slowly, painfully slowly, slide the straps down my shoulders, letting them fall one by one before the silky fabric pools at my feet. My fingers trail over my bare skin as I unhook my bra, watching his gaze drop to the swell of my breasts.
“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning back with a lazy sprawl, his legs spread wide, his eyes devouring me. “You’re trying to kill me.”
When I climb back onto his lap, his hands grip my hips, guiding me down so I can feel every thick inch of him pressing against me through his jeans. “Move for me, Nova,” he demands, his voice gravelly. “Show me how much you want me.”
I start slow, rolling my hips in a lazy grind, each motion dragging a low groan from his throat. His head tips back, jaw tight, breathing hard. I know I’m driving him insane, and that’s exactly what I want.
But then his control snaps.
With a growl, he flips me beneath him, pulling my panties down in one swift motion before shoving his jeans down far enough to free himself. The first press of him against me steals my breath.
“You ready for me, baby?” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over mine.
“I’ve been ready,” I breathe.
He slams into me in one deep thrust, filling me completely, and we both moan. His forehead drops to mine, his pace steady at first, each stroke deliberate, hitting that perfect spot that has my nails clawing into his back.
“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps, his breath hot against my lips. “So tight. So mine.”
His words push me closer to the edge, and I wrap my legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts with desperate urgency. The sound of our bodies moving together fills the room, mingling with our heavy breathing and loud moans.
I can’t stop it. My release hits me hard and fast, and it’s with his name on my lips, my body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over me. He follows moments later, pulling me tight against him as he groans into my neck, as he loses himself.
We stay there, tangled and breathless, his weight warm and solid over me.
Somewhere in the living room, the Victory Bowl trophy is sitting on the coffee table. But lying here in Finlay’s arms, I know I took home the only prize that matters tonight.