Page 50 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Thirty-Four

W e went to her hotel after the game. We could have gone back to the apartment, but I didn’t want to run into anyone we knew. I wanted no small talk, no prodding about going out to celebrate that night. I’d had my fill of Miami nightlife. I only wanted to be alone with her.

I showered quickly after the game, eager, almost restless to be reunited, as if washing off the sweat and confetti would somehow make it easier to close the distance that had grown between us.

We changed into more comfortable clothes and ordered hotel room service—the plates sat half-finished on the little table by the window.

The bedroom was dim and warm, the ocean beyond the balcony barely a murmur, and for once, we weren’t filling the silence with tension.

I lay on my back, and she used me as a pillow, her head resting on my chest. There was no talk of schedules or upcoming flights, just the steady rise and fall of her breathing against me.

“Why did you come see me this morning?” I asked. “We could have talked after the game.”

She ran her thumbs along the raised, pink scar on the inside of my right wrist. She always touched the scar gently, like she was afraid of undoing the healing.

“I didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t win a championship,” she said softly. “Again.”

My mouth ticked up, half smirk and half genuine curiosity. “You think you affect how I play?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

I huffed out a laugh, more exhale than sound. There had been a time when I would have argued with her—defended my independence, my focus, my ability to compartmentalize. But tonight I didn’t bother because she wasn’t wrong.

We talked in bed, wrapped up in each other, until the words ran out. We talked about boundaries, about trust. About what it meant to stop protecting each other with half-truths and start letting the full, messy version of ourselves exist side by side.

She admitted she’d been scared when Kate had come back into her orbit, not because she wanted her, but because she knew how it must have looked—how it must have felt for me, standing on the outside of a family that already adored her ex.

I admitted that I hadn’t been as untouchable in Miami as I’d pretended. The temptations, the parties, and the late nights—none of it was really about desire; they’d only tested how much it hurt to feel disposable.

It was the kind of talk that didn’t solve everything, but it made the idea of after this feel possible again.

Her fingers curled at the back of my neck, steady and claiming, like she wanted me closer without needing to say it out loud. And God , I wanted to close the gap. To press my mouth to the soft curve of her jaw, to remind myself of every inch I’d gone without.

So I did.

My lips brushed against the place where her jaw met her ear, a touch so careful it almost wasn’t a kiss at all. She inhaled sharply, and I felt her body tilt toward mine, a small surrender in the road back to each other.

My hand kept drifting, tracing the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her arm, until my fingers skimmed gently over her breast.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a long moment we just breathed each other in. It was the kind of closeness that wasn’t about urgency or making up for lost time. It was about proving we could still find this—that after all the fractures and doubts, we still knew how to fit together.

Her fingers moved up to trace the line of my jaw like she was learning the shape of me all over again. “Come here.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and tugged at the front of my T-shirt. “You’ve been in my head for weeks. I need the real thing.”

We shifted slowly, carefully. I hovered over her in bed, letting her guide the pace.

I kissed her gently, then deeper, as her hands slid under the back of my shirt.

Our tongues tangled while her short, polished nails raked down my back.

When she gasped against my mouth, I stilled, worried I’d nudged her knee the wrong way.

“I’m good,” she insisted, sounding a little breathless. “I just missed you.”

I kissed across her collarbone, savoring the faint salt of her skin, and then lower to the swell of her breasts. Every hitch of her breath felt like permission, every scratch of her nails across my back another reminder that she wanted me closer.

I tugged her tank top higher until it was bunched under her arms. I drew my tongue across her nipples, slow and deliberate. Her body answered with another quiet gasp, her chest arching just enough.

My mouth trailed lower, down her stomach, where her muscles fluttered under the touch of my lips.

I dipped my tongue into the shallow of her bellybutton and licked—a promise of things to come.

Her eyes followed me, hazy but intent, as if she wanted to memorize the exact shape of what we were right now.

She lifted off the bed to help me remove her sleep shorts. She didn’t stop me when I nudged her thighs apart, always mindful of her injured knee. She shifted to give me space, trusting me to know her limits.

I kissed the inside of her thighs and let my breath fan across her skin. Her hand threaded through my damp hair before sliding back to the sheets.

I traced my fingers along the scars on her knee, lingering on the tender skin that had carried her through so much.

“Still doing okay?” I quietly asked.

She gave a tiny nod. “Mmhm.”

I lowered my mouth to her naked sex, moving slow and deliberate, with a rhythm I knew she loved. She was soft and warm against my lips, her hips giving the slightest tilt toward me before settling again, as if she couldn’t quite help it.

I was in no rush to reach the finish line—I tongued and sucked on her clit with the steady persistence that always unraveled her.

With my hands at her thighs, I watched her face for every flicker of pleasure and any sign of discomfort. Her fingers twitched against the sheets and then curled tight. Her breathing deepened. Her lips parted.

“Don’t stop, Lex,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Keep doing that.”

I stayed steady, coaxing her open with my mouth and easing my fingers inside her with the same patience. She trembled under my touch, tiny gasps and sighs escaping her lips. Her hips rocked as much as she dared; her body trembled in a way that was more surrender than strain.

I tongued her clit with the flat of my tongue. Her lips pressed together in a firm line before she let them part again with a gasp.

I curled my fingers inside of her. Her thighs quivered. I sucked her clit. Her stomach tightened.

“I’m … getting close,” she warned.

I paused for a moment, brushing my lips lightly across her skin.

Part of me wanted to tease her a little, to delay her orgasm and savor the way she trembled under my touch—but the memory of everything we’d been through lately, her injury, the fights, the fear of losing each other—it all grounded me.

This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t about testing limits or proving something.

“You feel so good,” I murmured, my voice rough but gentle. “Just … like this.”

I pressed my thumb against her clit and rubbed tight, steady circles. She let out a low, needy moan.

I kept my fingers moving inside her, curling, brushing, stroking, alternating pressure and speed. She bucked against my hand, small desperate presses, until I felt her tighten around me.

I didn’t ease up.

I kept my thumb rubbing, my fingers curling, pumping inside her in a slow, insistent rhythm, letting her ride it fully, moaning, shivering, clinging to me.

I felt her muscles clamp—the sudden shudder of her release. She came undone, back arching just enough, biting her bottom lip to muffle the cry before she gave in and let me hear it.

I stayed with her through the aftershocks, holding her steady with my hands against her thighs. When her body finally slackened, I wiped my mouth on her inner thighs before crawling back up beside her. I brushed a kiss against her bare shoulder.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice still thick with the aftermath.

“Hey,” I echoed back, meeting her gaze.

She cupped my face and smiled. “When I’m medically cleared, I’m gonna ride you until you forget what time zone we’re in.”

Laughter bubbled up my throat. “That’s the hottest threat I’ve ever heard.”

I leaned in and kissed her again, soft and slow.

Her hand slid down, resting over my heart like she was checking to see if it was really still beating for her. I covered her hand with mine, threading our fingers together and holding her there.

The upcoming season would scatter us—she would continue to rehab her knee in Boston while I would take the next steps in my second year as a professional basketball player. But this time, I wasn’t afraid of the distance or busy schedules.

We’d already proven, time and again, that we would find our way back to each other.