Page 62 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sloane

After the game, Sly takes Vivian, his family, my security team, and me out to dinner at a private room in a famous Austin barbecue restaurant.

I’m usually more of a veggie or pasta girl myself, but right now I’m up for doing whatever I can to fit into Sly’s world.

Besides, the food is good and the company is even better.

Now that we’ve spent an afternoon getting to know one another, even Camila and Vivian have loosened up.

Though, to be fair, I’m pretty sure Vivian’s good mood has more to do with Sly’s late fourth-quarter pass that won the game and left the Twisters one win away from the Super Bowl than the fact that she might be starting to like me. But I’ll take what I can get.

Especially since it turns out that Vivian pours even more vinegar on Sly than she does me. Maybe sarcasm is her love language, because the two of them are hilarious.

“Told ya it wasn’t just you,” abuela Ximena whispers to me with a wiggle of her brows and a raise of her margarita.

“You did,” I agree, clinking my own glass against hers. The fact that it’s my second when I rarely allow myself a first says everything about how much fun I’m having. And how safe I feel here.

After we eat what feels like our weight in brisket, macaroni and cheese, and homemade potato salad, and I hear more than a few stories about Sly’s younger, wilder years, we split to go our separate ways.

Abuela Ximena and Sly’s sisters head home together, while Vivian insists on taking an Uber back to her hotel.

Which leaves Sly, Marco, G, and me to head back to his house—Sly and me in his truck, my guards trailing behind us in their SUV.

But when we pull into the driveway of a beautiful, Mediterranean-style villa, my stomach sinks as I realize it’s crawling with sports and entertainment reporters.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, feeling sick. How long is it going to take him to get tired of this mess? And the fact that I bring it wherever I go?

“Why?” Sly looks genuinely baffled as he pauses to give the reporters currently crowding his driveway a chance to scramble out of the way. “I want you to see my house. Surely you’re not planning on letting a few reporters scare you away?”

“There are more than a few—” I start, then break off as Sly reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a small bag of pecan pralines.

“Do you mind if I—” He gestures toward the window.

I realize he’s asking permission to let them take a few shots of us, and I nod, more because I want to see what he’s up to than because I’m dying to have my photo taken.

Seconds later, he rolls down the window of his truck. “Hey, Rita,” he calls to one of the reporters closest to the car. “I got these for your daughter when I was in New Orleans last weekend. Tell her happy birthday from me.”

I’m not sure who looks more surprised—the reporters, including Rita, or me as he hands the bag through the open window.

It’s the only unadulterated view they’ll get of us together—Sly’s windows are heavily tinted—and cameras go crazy even as a woman leans in and takes the candy from him. “I can’t believe you remembered,” she says with a grin. “Thanks, Sly. She’ll really appreciate it.”

He gives her a smile and a little two-finger salute to acknowledge her gratitude, then rolls the window up and keeps on driving forward while I just stare at him, wide-eyed.

“What?” he asks when we finally make it up the driveway without any reporters or paparazzi on our asses.

“You buy candy for the children of the reporters who stake out your house?” I ask, brow raised.

Sly gives me that grin of his, the crooked one that makes my toes curl and everything inside of me blossom. “I’ll buy you candy, too, if you want it.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Though I’d be lying if I said a praline didn’t sound exceptionally good right now. “Didn’t abuela Ximena ever teach you not to feed the pests or they’ll just keep coming around?”

“She also taught me you catch more flies with honey.” He pulls the truck into a four-car garage, right next to a sleek black sports car and a bright-red Mach-E, before immediately pushing the button to close it again.

“And the pralines are the honey?” I ask, earning myself a reproachful look when I climb out of the vehicle before he can come around and open the door for me.

“The shots of us together are the honey,” he tells me as he closes the car door behind me. “The candy was just a little added sugar on top. Once we get in, look outside. Everyone’s probably leaving now that they’ve gotten their money shot.”

He grabs my overnight bag and guitar case in one hand, then wraps his free arm around my waist as he starts guiding me toward the door that presumably leads into his house.

“You think the two of us in a car together is their money shot?” I ask in a tone that tells him just how naive I think he is. “And here I thought it was catching us with our pants down.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen and they know it. Now that they’ve got something to sell, they’ll head on home.”

The moment we enter a small hallway next to the kitchen and the garage door closes behind us, Sly sets the alarm, then pulls me into his arms. “Though I am more than happy to help you pull those pants of yours down any time you want.”

“Are you really?” I ask, all wide-eyed innocence. “That’s so very kind of you.”

“What can I say?” He gives a wicked little shrug. “I’m a nice guy.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” I ask with a snort.

“It’s what I’m calling it.”

I start to give him another smart-ass reply, but before I can, he pulls out his phone and calls Marco to let him know we’re safely locked down for the night and he can head home.

As the two of them work out tomorrow’s security plan, a new chord fills my mind—and it comes with lyrics. A major chord that thundered through the silence I’d survived .

Excitement zings through me as I fumble my journal out of my bag and write the words down before they disappear. Sly watches me, even tries to take a peek at my notebook, but I slam it shut before he can see anything.

Being able to write again—to hear the music again—is so new that I’m not ready to share it with anyone, even Sly. Even if he tempts me to break every rule I’ve got for myself. And even if the song is maybe, just maybe, about us.

I stow my journal back in my bag, then turn just in time to see Sly hang up the phone.

He reaches for me, and I go willingly into his arms as he lowers his mouth to mine. And any thought I had that wasn’t yes, please, more leaves my head in a rush.

Unlike most of our other kisses to date, this one isn’t rushed or frantic or desperate for whatever we can get. Even though we’ve been apart for weeks, it’s like Sly decided he’s going to take it slow this time.

And, oh my God, is he slow as he kisses and nibbles and licks his way gently, inexorably around my mouth.

My lips part for him as if on command, but that’s nothing new with this man. Every single part of him calls to every single piece of me, and it’s all I can do not to start begging at the first slide of his tongue against mine.

But this isn’t my first rodeo with Sly, and there’s no way I’m going to be the first to crack. Not this time. Not when the last time he touched me, he fucked me senseless in my dressing room and then walked away before I could so much as think to return the favor.

So instead of pleading with him to take me, I settle for tangling my fingers in the cool silk of his ebony hair as I press my body into his.

“Sloane.” He hisses my name out on a long, slow exhale so that it sounds like a curse and a prayer—desperation and salvation all rolled into one fucked-up, fucked-out syllable.

He says my name again as I tug his head back, baring his jugular to my lips and tongue and teeth. Only this time it sounds like hope.

And it’s the hope that gets me.

That has me sinking my teeth into the soft skin above his collarbone and nipping hard enough to make his body convulse against me and his gorgeous, glorious eyes fly open.

There he is. There we are. I can see my reflection in the dark, tumultuous thunderstorm of his gaze, and nothing in my life has ever looked or felt so right.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he growls.

“You better hold on, then,” I purr back in my best Black Widow voice. “Because I’m just getting started.”

I pull back enough to fumble my dress over my head. And then my hands are back in his hair and I’m tugging his mouth down to my leather-and-lace-covered chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were wearing this,” he adds right before he sucks my nipple into his mouth.

“I didn’t want you to get distra—” I break off on a moan as his tongue flicks over me once, twice, then again and again, my body arching and trembling against his as pleasure rears its now-familiar head.

It feels different with the lace between his mouth and my body—tighter, more constricting, harsher. But it’s hard to complain.

“I’ve been distracted since the day I met you,” he says as he reaches between us and rips my bra off with his bare hands. “But I was going to take it slow this time. I wanted to make sure the margaritas had worn off—”

I cry out a little, my entire body arching as he buries his face against my delicate flesh.

“They’re long gone,” I manage to gasp out. “This is all me.”

“Thank fuck.”

He takes my nipple in his mouth and sucks me in with one long, hard draw as his stubble razes over my skin.

My knees go weak at the sensation and threaten to buckle, so I grab his shoulders and hold on tight as he licks and kisses his way from one breast to the other.

“I was going to be so careful,” he grinds out.

“I don’t need careful,” I gasp as my heart stutters in my chest. “I just need you.”

“You’ve got me,” he hisses, his teeth scraping against the tender underside of my breast even as his fingers clench on my hips. “As long as you want me.”

Forever. I want you forever.

The words tremble on my lips, begging to be said.

Begging to be let out instead of ricocheting around inside of me where they tear through everything.

But I can’t do it, not yet. And then his mouth is on mine again, his lips and teeth and tongue ravaging everywhere they touch, and the moment passes.

“I need you,” he says as he slides his hands lower.

“Yes,” I breathe back, my arms wrapping around his head and holding him to me even as he curls his fingers into the waistband of my panties and yanks everything down, everything off.

And just like that, I forget about having the upper hand. I forget about everything but Sly and me and the need burning so brightly between us.

But when he reaches for me this time, I push him away.

“Did I hurt you?” He rears back, eyes lust-drunk but determined to focus. “Did I—”

“You would never hurt me,” I tell him as the melody—Sly’s melody—pours through my mind. And then it’s my turn to fumble his pants open. My turn to yank them as I slide my way down, down, down every inch of Sly’s too-beautiful-to-be-believed body.