Page 6 of Overtime with Orion (Mountain Men Fall Harder #1)

ORION

“Alright, quarterback,” Larkin said, her voice taking on that mock-serious tone that always made me grin. “Show me that perfect spiral you’ve been bragging about.”

I picked up the small foam football from our nightstand, weighing it in my hands. “You sure you can handle my arm, librarian? I don’t want to overwhelm you with my athletic prowess.”

She snorted, settling into position at the foot of our king-size bed. “Please. I’ve been catching your passes for ten years. I think I can manage.”

Ten years. Had it really been that long since I’d stumbled back into Maple Ridge—broken, lost, and convinced my life was over at thirty-five? I’d been so certain that without football, I was nothing. That identity crisis felt like a lifetime ago now.

The throw was gentle, a perfect spiral that landed softly in her waiting hands. She caught it with the same determination she’d shown that first night at Osprey Lake, when she’d been terrible at everything but refused to give up.

“Not bad for an old man,” she teased, tossing it back to me.

“Old man?” I caught the ball and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know the Maple Ridge High football team thinks their coach is in his prime.”

“That’s because you still run drills with them and beat half of them in sprints.” She grinned. “Show-off.”

She wasn’t wrong. Coaching had turned out to be everything I never knew I wanted. Teaching these kids not just how to throw and catch, but how to work together, how to push through when things got tough, how to find their own strength—it filled something in me that playing professionally never had.

“Your turn to be quarterback,” I said, settling back against our headboard. “Let’s see if you remember the grip I taught you.”

Larkin positioned her fingers on the foam laces, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, still got that little furrow between her brows when she was focused, still made my heart race every time she looked at me.

“Like this?” She held up the ball, and I nodded.

“Perfect. Now show me what you’ve got.”

Her throw was wobbly but enthusiastic, landing somewhere near my left shoulder. We both started laughing.

“I think I need more practice,” she said, crawling across the bed toward me.

“Lucky for you, I’m an excellent teacher.” I caught her hand and pulled her closer. “In fact, I think it’s time for some advanced techniques.”

“Advanced techniques?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Like what?”

“Well, there’s the proper tackling form.” I wrapped my arms around her waist and rolled us both over so she was pinned beneath me. “Very important to understand leverage and positioning.”

“Mmm.” Her hands slid up my chest. “What else?”

“Defensive strategies.” I nipped at her earlobe. “Knowing when to hold your ground and when to…surrender.”

She laughed, the sound that had made my heart race for a decade. “I don’t think that’s real football terminology, Coach.”

“Maybe not. But it’s damn effective.”

Down the hall, I could hear the soft sounds of our house settling into evening quiet.

Our daughters Tatum, seven, and Phoebe, five, had been asleep for an hour, exhausted from a day of playing in the backyard and helping Larkin organize the library’s new children’s section.

Our life had a rhythm now, a steady beat of school days and bedtime stories, football practice and library events, family dinners and stolen moments like this one.

My mouth found hers, swallowing her laugh in a kiss that tasted of mint toothpaste and the red wine we’d shared after putting the girls to bed.

It started slow—a familiar, comfortable exploration—but the embers between us caught quickly, as they always did.

A decade together, and the spark was still a live wire.

I broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and looked down at her. Her hair was fanned out across our pillow, her eyes dark with desire.

“Then there’s the most important position of all,” I whispered, my voice rough. “The victory formation.”

I shifted my hips, the rough denim of my jeans a stark contrast to the flimsy knit of her pants as I settled more firmly between her legs. A soft gasp escaped her lips.

“And what does that entail?” she breathed, her hands sliding down my back to grip the fabric of my old jersey, the number fourteen stretched tight across my shoulders.

“It entails…” I murmured, my lips tracing a path down her neck to the sensitive hollow of her throat.

“...taking complete control of the field.” My hands slid from her waist to the hem of her T-shirt, my thumbs stroking the warm skin of her stomach.

She arched into my touch. “Eliminating all defensive threats.” I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her pants. “And securing the win.”

In one slow, deliberate motion, I pulled the soft fabric down her legs. The air left her lungs in a quiet, shuddering sigh. I tossed the pants aside, my gaze locked on the beautiful, naked length of her. No underwear, just as I’d hoped.

“So this is the two-minute drill,” she whispered, her legs falling open in a silent, breathtaking invitation.

“No,” I corrected, my voice a low growl as I kissed my way up the inside of her thigh. Her skin was like silk. “This is the game-winning drive. And we’re going to take our time.”

I reached her center, and she was already wet, hot, and ready for me. The scent of her, uniquely Larkin, drove me wild.

I didn’t hesitate. I lowered my mouth to her and licked a slow, firm line from her entrance to her clit.

Her back bowed off the bed, a choked cry catching in her throat. Her hands flew to my head, not pushing me away, but tangling in my hair, holding me closer.

“Orion,” she gasped, her hips lifting off the mattress.

“Quiet, baby,” I whispered against her, the vibration making her shudder. “We don’t want to alert the opposition.”

I settled in, my tongue and lips working a rhythm I knew as well as any playbook.

This was my favorite kind of practice. I licked and suckled, responding to every gasp, every twitch, every silent plea of her body.

Her breaths came in ragged pants, her thighs trembling against my ears.

I slid a finger inside her, then another, curling them just so, and felt her inner muscles clench around me. She was close.

I lifted my head for a moment, wanting to see her. I pushed her T-shirt up, exposing her beautiful breasts to the dim light. Her nipples were tight peaks, and I took one in my mouth, swirling my tongue around it as my fingers continued their relentless rhythm below.

“Orion, I’m… I can’t…” she begged, her voice a broken whisper.

“Yes, you can,” I urged, my mouth returning to her core.

A soundless scream tore through her as she came, her body seizing, her fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. I gentled my touch, drawing out her climax until the last tremor subsided and she collapsed, boneless and breathless, beneath me.

I kissed my way back up her body, tasting her on my lips. Her eyes were hazy with satisfaction as she looked up at me.

Her hands went to the buckle of my belt. “Your turn, Coach.”

I stood up just long enough to shuck my jeans and boxer briefs, my erection springing free. But when my hands went to the hem of my jersey, to pull it over my head, her voice stopped me.

“No,” she said, her voice still throaty from her orgasm. “Leave it on.”

I paused, my eyebrows raising in a question.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “I like fucking the football coach.”

A groan rumbled in my chest. I moved over her again, settling between her legs, the soft, worn fabric of the jersey brushing against her sensitive skin. The head of my cock nudged at her entrance, slick with her release and my own anticipation.

“Tell me what you want,” I whispered, my forehead resting against hers.

“I want you inside me,” she breathed, her hips canting up, trying to take me in. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

I pushed in slowly, an inch at a time, letting her feel every ridge, every stretch. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her mouth fell open in a silent cry of pure pleasure. “Oh, God…”

“That’s it,” I murmured, sinking deeper until I was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt in her incredible heat. I stilled, letting us both adjust to the perfect, tight fit. “Jesus, Larkin. Your pussy…it’s like it was made for me. So tight. So perfect.”

I began to move—a slow, deep rhythm that had her clutching at my back, her nails digging into the jersey. Our whispers became a frantic, urgent dialogue in the dark.

“You feel so good,” she panted into my ear. “So deep.”

“Who do you belong to?” I growled, driving into her with a little more force.

“You,” she gasped. “Always you.”

The bed creaked softly, a rhythmic counterpoint to our ragged breathing. I lost myself in the feel of her, in the way her body welcomed mine, in being stretched over the woman who was my entire world. This was better than any championship, any roaring crowd. This was home.

My control began to fray. “I’m close, baby.”

“Me too,” she cried softly. “Don’t stop.”

I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit, and circled it firmly.

That was all it took. She came beneath me with a muffled sob, her inner muscles milking me, pulling my own release from me in a powerful, blinding wave.

I buried my face in her neck, my own groan stifled against her skin as I emptied myself into her.

For a long moment, the only sound was our shared, shuddering breaths. I rolled us to our sides, keeping her tucked against me, my jersey sticking to our damp skin. I kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.

She nuzzled into my chest, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “I think I finally understand the victory formation,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

A laugh, low and content, shook my chest. I held her closer, my gaze drifting to the framed photo on the nightstand—the two of us on our wedding day, on the day we began building our beautiful family.

The house was silent, our girls were safe and dreaming, and the woman I loved was curled trustingly in my arms.

Ten years ago, I thought my life was over when I lost football. I was wrong. It was just beginning. This—the quiet, the chaos, the love that filled every corner of this old house—was everything. I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Cassie finds love in S’more of Silas by Pippa Brook. It’s part of the Mountain Men Fall Harder series, and it’s available here.

Want another fall romance? Check out Mountain Man’s Flirty Farmgirl, Book 1 in the Wildwood Valley Harvest series.