Page 14

Lovie

F ucking Harrison in his office isn’t a good idea, but I’m already wet, throbbing for him, and when he steps back to me, a hand planting on the small of my back and pressing me down to his desk, I gasp, core throbbing so hard that I think I might come then and there.

“You have no idea how often I’ve thought about this,” he growls, and I hear the familiar zing of a belt sliding through the loops, then dropping to the floor.

I’m embarrassingly wet, and when Harrison brings his hand to me under my skirt, I expect him to slide my panties to the side again.

Instead, he grips them, sliding them down my legs in one smooth, solid movement.

“Nothing in the way this time,” he grunts, hands sliding back up my thighs, my ass, until my skirt is pulling against my skin.

I reach back, popping the zipper and loosening it enough that he can get it around my hips.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he says, and I brace my hands against the desk, my breath coming in hot spurts that fogs the surface, expecting him to slide inside me in the next moment.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about it, remembering how well he filled me back on the plane, the quiet, hot tension of that silence. How being silent made it a million times better.

But instead of his cock, I gasp against the hot, insistent flick of his tongue, his face between my legs again, his hands circling around to the front of my thighs to hold me in place.

“So.” He punctuates the words with the flick of his tongue, and I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out at the feeling of it—bent over his desk, bare to him, cool air rushing back in when he stands. “Wet. Are you wet for me, Lovie?”

“Yes.”

“Speak up,” he murmurs, curling his body around mine, and in the next second, his fingers slide into my hair at the base of my neck, tangling there and gripping, tugging slightly until my torso arches, my ass bouncing against his cock.

Harrison kicks at my heels, and when I widen my stance, the tip of his cock slides against my clit, making a whine catch in the back of my throat for him.

“Yes,” I repeat, surprised at how much I like this—him being in control.

When was the last time I could trust someone else to be in charge?

“Say you want me to fuck you,” he says, dragging his cock over my ass, then against my thighs, teasing me.

“I…want you to fuck me.”

“That’s right,” he says, and when he notches at my entrance, it’s like the entire world tightens to that one point of contact, my lungs full of a held breath, the anticipation of him knowing when he slides inside me it’s going to be the kind of sweet, torturous stretch that I felt before.

At first, he goes mind-numbingly slow, pushing in at a pace that has my legs shaking with impatience. When I try to rock my hips back against him, take more, he anchors his hands on my love handles and presses me to the desk, holding me in place.

“So needy,” he murmurs, swiping his thumbs back and forth, sending shivers up my back. “You want more, baby?”

“Yes,” I say, turning my head sideways, speaking loudly enough for him to hear me but still being quiet enough that someone in the hallway wouldn’t hear. “Please.”

That seems to be enough for him, because he takes me the rest of the way in one quick thrust, a noise coming from his throat when he’s fully seated inside me.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his hands tightening on my hips.

And I know why. Because this feeling—the skin against skin of fucking without a condom—it’s something I’ve never felt before.

After that, everything blurs, the pleasure tightening and winding up inside me, Harrison matching each of my breaths with the drive of his hips, his cock burying so deeply inside me that I swear to God he must be hitting my G-spot.

My legs tremble, threatening to give out, but Harrison is gripping me tightly enough to hold me up on his own, his hips meeting mine faster and harder, like he can’t get as deep as he wants.

He’s a singular force, intent on burying himself inside me, and it’s sending me to the edge.

“Harrison,” I gasp, winding an arm under my stomach, reaching for my clit, only wanting one thing and not caring how the edge of the desk bites into my skin. “I’m going to?—”

The moment I touch my clit, I come apart, not even needing to apply any pressure. I feel my walls squeezing around him, and his cock jerks inside me.

“Lovie,” he says, voice impossibly low, “You want me to come inside you?”

I blink, eyes watering at the sensation, waves of pleasure still rocking through me with such force that it feels like I might be taken right out to sea.

“Lovie,” he demands, getting his hand on my hair again, and when he tugs, it sends me into a second wave of orgasming, so it’s hard for me to focus on what he’s saying. His voice comes out strained, like he’s barely holding himself back. “Tell me you want me to come inside you.”

“I want you…” I pause, letting out a noise between a laugh and a sob—I have never had an orgasm like this, so intense and all-encompassing. It’s enough that it scrambles my brain.

But I’m afraid that if I don’t say it, he’s going to pull out. And even more than the contract, even more than making a baby, losing contact with him right now would feel like the end of the world. So I say it.

“I want you to come inside me, Harrison.”

His entire body shudders, his cock moving with it, and with one final thrust, he goes still except for his hips, which continue to jerk against me.

When I feel it, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever had a man come inside me without a condom.

Even when I had time for sex, it was always, always with a condom. I couldn’t risk a pregnancy throwing me off my game. Couldn’t risk anything, frankly.

But now…now he empties himself inside me, and I realize there’s something about it that feels even closer than what we did leading up to this moment. More than his hand on my back, or his fingers in my hair.

It’s him, fusing with me.

And there is absolutely nothing I can do now to take it back—and even worse than that, there’s not a single part of me that wants to.

The second we’re done, my body screams at me to clean up, get out of here, tidy everything back to how it should be. But Harrison moves languidly, reaching over to his desk to grab a few napkins for me, then surprising me with wet wipes.

“What?” he asks, laughing at the surprise on my face. “I’m not a slob, Lovie.”

“I never said that,” I say, folding the wipe delicately and dropping it into his trash. Everything about this should be weird, awkward—but it’s not. I pull my panties up, my skirt down, straightening and adjusting everything while Harrison picks his belt up from the floor and clasps it.

“Are you impressed?”

“I never said that.”

He laughs again, and when I clear my throat, preparing to scoop up the contract and walk out, he puts his arm out, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, narrowing his gaze. “You should come to the game tonight.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What?” I can’t stop the laugh that comes out, fusing with the word, “Why?”

Dropping his arm, Harrison shrugs, and even though my body is still buzzing from the organism I just had, I can’t help but trace a line over his shoulders, his strong biceps, his chest.

“You’re all about that data, right? How can you really get a good feel for the team if you’re not there during the games?”

I open my mouth to respond to that. There are a million things I could say—that I can observe the games from home, in a soft robe, on my couch, and collect better data without a headache from the screaming fans. That watching game film is easier because I can rewind.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just smile and say, “Okay.”

“Hi—Lovie, right?”

I blink and look up, spotting a woman who looks vaguely familiar standing at the end of the row, her eyes flitting between me and the empty seat beside me. Her strawberry blonde hair is wild with curls around her face, and her brown eyes are bright, freckles spread over her round cheeks.

And she’s wearing a bubblegum pink, bejeweled Baltimore Blue Crabs jersey.

“Yep,” I chirp, still trying to remember her name or how I’m supposed to know her.

She laughs, sliding down the row and dropping into the seat next to me, bringing with her the overwhelming smell of cherry and vanilla. Normally, I don’t like it when people smell too strongly, but it’s drowning out the scent of nacho cheese and beer, so I can’t complain.

“Maya Winthrop,” she says, sticking out her hand. “I’m in human resources.”

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, there are so many names to remember.”

“No worries,” she settles into her seat, and I realize she has a massive bucket of popcorn with her, which she centers in her lap. Glancing at me, she says, “I mean, I like to think I’m memorable, but I’m a lot more fun outside of work.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is this outside of work?”

“Games don’t count,” Maya stuffs a handful of popcorn in her mouth, shaking her head so her curls roll over her shoulders. “It’s in the employee handbook.”

“It is?”

“No,” she snorts. “But it might as well be. Nobody takes themselves seriously on game day. And, if I’m being straight with you, I came over here to protect you from that.”

“Protect me?” I frown, wondering what in the world she could mean by that.

“Yeah,” she shrugs one pink shoulder, glancing down the stands, where the other PR guy—Jared—stands, laughing loudly with some other guys.

“If he saw you here, he would have sat with you and flirted the entire night. Jared gets like this sometimes—sights set on someone, and he doesn’t care how big of an HR nightmare it would be. ”

“O-oh,” I don’t mean for it to, but the word comes out as a halted laugh.

Maya laughs too, looking at me with wide eyes. “What? What does that laugh mean?”

“No—nothing,” I say, bringing my hand to my mouth, shaking my head. “He’s not…he’s not really my type.”

“Oh, really? What is your type, then?”

Without my consent, my mind conjures an image of those stubble-covered dimples, that bright smile, the feel of Harrison’s hands on my hips earlier, the rough press of him into me.

“May I?” I ask, reaching over for a bite of Maya’s popcorn, only to distract from the blush on my face, the thoughts that must be obviously running through my mind.

“Sure,” she says, pulling her chin back and laughing, “but only if you answer the question.”

At that moment, there’s a blur down by the bench, and I turn just in time to see Harrison there, arms crossed, clipboard in his hand, a microphone in front of his face. He’s wearing his signature game-day quarter-zip, the dark color that makes his skin look so good.

Only a few hours ago, his skin was on mine.

He’s pleasantly flushed, the slightest color on his cheeks, a half-grin popping one of those dimples as he leans in, no doubt saying something in that low voice to the blonde female reporter.

Later, when I watch the interview, I’ll see exactly how charming and charismatic he always shows up on screen, the way that they flirt back and forth without ever being obvious that’s what they’re doing.

“Oh,” Maya says, and when I turn back to her, there’s a shit-eating grin on her face. “I see. So, you like them a bit older? You’re into aged wine? Finely aged wine?”

“Oh, no. Shut up.” The words just come out of me, then I realize it might be too much for a woman I’ve kind of just met. “I mean—shit, sorry?—”

“No, no,” she says, patting my arm, her eyes sparkling under the lights of the arena. “I liked it. I think you and I should be friends.”

“Okay,” I laugh, feeling strangely like the popular girl has picked me on the playground.

“And don’t worry,” she says, gaining my attention again just as the arena gets loud, and the lights go down for the opening ceremony.

“Worry about what?” I ask, leaning in close to her so she can hear me.

With a sly smile, she says, “I can keep your secret about having the hots for Coach Clark. I may be human resources, but I won’t narc about a crush. Crushing isn’t a problem. It’s only an issue if you follow through on it.”

I nod and smile, leaning back against the seat so I won’t have to make eye contact with her until the panic fluttering in my stomach dissipates again.