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Chapter Thirty-Nine

IVY

The aftershocks still ripple through me, my whole body buzzing from everything Jackson just did to me.

I let out a slow, deep breath, sinking against his warm, solid chest. His fingers trace absentminded circles over my bare shoulder, his other hand resting low on my stomach.

His touch is lazy. Thoughtful.

And then?

His fingers move, brushing featherlight over my belly.

I freeze.

Not because I don’t like it.

But because it feels… different. Intimate in a way I’m still getting used to.

Jackson keeps going, his palm flattening over the small curve, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. Of us.

His voice is quiet, rough from everything we just did.

“Have you thought about names?”

My heart stutters.

Names.

For the baby.

I clear my throat, suddenly shy. “A little.”

He smirks against my hair. “Yeah?”

I nod, playing with a loose thread on the bed sheet. “I don’t know, though. I feel like it has to be something strong.”

Jackson’s thumb brushes soft, lazy strokes over my belly. “I like that.”

I glance up at him. “What about you?”

His eyes flick to mine, something warm and unreadable in his gaze. “I was thinking about that on the drive here.”

I blink. “Really?”

He grins. “Yeah. I mean, you’re the one doing all the hard work. But, I want to be part of it, too.”

My chest tightens.

God, I love him.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Well? Any ideas? I guess I’m not making it easy, since I decided that I want it to be a surprise if it’s a boy or girl.”

Jackson tilts his head, thinking. “If it’s a girl…I kind of like the idea of something classic. Something strong, like you said. Maybe… Eleanor? Call her Ellie for short?”

I bite my lip, smiling. “Ellie.”

He nods. “Yeah. Cute, but solid.”

I exhale, warmth spreading through my chest. “I like it.”

His grin grows. “And if it’s a boy…What about Beau?”

I blink, tilting my head. “Beau?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Simple, strong, a little old-school. And it means ‘handsome’ in French—which, let’s be honest, is pretty much a guarantee.”

I laugh, swatting at his chest. “Oh my God! Why not go full Beauty and the Beast and just name him Gaston?”

He grins, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I love the sound of that.” His grin turns mischievous before he launches into song, full Gaston mode.

I burst out laughing, pressing a hand to my face. “You’re ridiculous.”

I shake my head, still laughing, but then something settles in my chest—something real. “Ellie or Beau. I like them both.”

Jackson nods, his hand drifting over my belly again. “Then it’s settled. Gaston it is.”

I bite my lip and smile as I close my eyes again.

The sunlight sneaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden streaks across the room.

I stretch, reaching across the bed, expecting to find Jackson. But my fingers brush empty sheets.

I frown, blinking my eyes open.

Jackson stands at the window, already dressed in his gray Stallions tee and sweats, staring out at the Miami skyline.

His arms are crossed, his muscles tight, his jaw clenched—like he’s forcing himself to stay in game mode.

Like he’d rather be anywhere but on that field today.

I smile sleepily. “You’re up early.”

He glances over his shoulder, his expression softening. “You were tired.”

I yawn, stretching. “Still am. I don’t know what could’ve possibly worn me out…”

Jackson huffs out a low chuckle, running a hand through his messy hair. “I have no idea.”

I watch him, taking in the way the sunlight kisses his skin, the way his biceps flex when he shifts his weight.

God, he looks good.

Too good to let leave just yet.

I push back the covers, sitting up slowly. “What time do you have to go?”

Jackson checks his phone. “Soon. I already ordered room service for you. Figured you’d want to hang out with Cassie and Reagan, have a bougie little day in the box.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

He grins. “Nah. I just know you. You’ll be up there eating shrimp cocktails and drinking fancy-ass mocktails while I’m sweating my ass off in the heat.”

I tilt my head. “Poor baby.”

Jackson snorts. “Something like that.”

I slip out of bed, padding across the room toward him. “You could stay a little longer…”

He exhales, shaking his head. “Ivy?—”

I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his chest. “Just one more round.”

He goes still.

I tilt my head up, meeting his gaze.

It’s conflicted.

Tormented.

Like he knows he shouldn’t.

But he wants to.

Badly.

I rise on my toes, brushing my lips against his jaw. “Come on, Coach. What’s a little pre-game warm-up?”

His breath shudders. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

I grin, trailing my fingers down his abs, slipping my hand beneath the waistband of his sweats. “Then at least you’ll die happy.”

Jackson growls, gripping my hips, lifting me onto the dresser in one swift motion.

He nudges my legs apart.

Jackson’s eyes flash with heat, with something dark and desperate.

His fingers dig into my hips as he tugs my panties to the side, his other hand wrapping around the back of my neck.

I shiver, my breath hitching.

“Better make it quick,” I tease again, trying to keep the upper hand.

But Jackson?

He doesn’t play fair.

He presses his forehead to mine, his breath ragged. “Oh, baby. You think I don’t know how to make you come in under five minutes?”

I gasp as he slides two fingers inside me, curling just right, his thumb pressing against my clit.

My fingers claw at his shirt, my thighs trembling as he works me with practiced precision.

His voice is low, commanding. “You’re already dripping, Ivy. So desperate. You need this, don’t you?”

I nod frantically, my head falling back against the mirror behind me.

Jackson’s lips brush my jaw. “Then be a good girl and take it.”

And then he sinks inside me with one deep thrust.

I cry out, my fingers fisting in his shirt, my nails biting into his back.

Jackson groans, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.

I whimper, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He drives into me hard, the dresser shaking beneath us, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the luxurious hotel room.

It’s fast.

Feral.

One hand on my throat, his other gripping my thigh, anchoring me to him as he pounds into me.

I cling to him, feeling the rush build, white-hot pleasure curling low in my belly.

“Jackson,” I pant. “I’m about to…”

“Already?” he taunts, his teeth grazing my earlobe.

I whimper, my whole body trembling.

Jackson’s voice darkens. “That’s right, baby. Come for me. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

And just like that, pleasure crashes through me, blinding, overwhelming, my body convulsing around him.

Jackson grits his teeth, his grip tightening. “Fuck, baby. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

He slams into me one last time, his body tensing, his head falling back as he groans my name.

I collapse against him, panting, my body completely spent.

Jackson strokes my hair, pressing soft kisses to my temple.

He chuckles, voice still rough. “Damn. Good thing I’m a quick finisher.”

I laugh breathlessly. “Not your usual brag, Coach.”

He grins, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “Trust me, baby. I’ll make it up to you after the game.”

I smirk, tracing a lazy circle on his chest. “You better win, then.”

Jackson presses a final kiss to my lips, then reluctantly steps back, adjusting his sweats.

He grabs his bag and heads for the door, shooting me one last, wicked smirk.

“Oh, and Ivy?”

I tilt my head.

His voice drops.

“Keep those panties off. I want you wet and ready for me when I get back.”

I roll onto my side, completely blissed out, stretching like a damn cat in Jackson’s ridiculously comfortable bed.

The sheets still smell like him—warm, masculine, clean.

God, I could get used to this.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, unlocking it, and the first thing I see is a notification from my sports app.

Miami vs. Chicago – Pre-Game Analysis

I click on it, yawning as I sit up.

The screen immediately fills with a live panel of analysts, breaking down today’s game.

But what makes me freeze?

The damn story scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“Sources say Jackson Knox was spotted in Miami with a mystery woman ahead of today’s matchup. Who is she?”

Oh. Hell. No.

One of the analysts chuckles. “Well, we all saw the footage of him at that fancy hotel, didn’t we? How many ‘mystery women’ does this guy have? He’s starting to seem like a real Travis Carter.”

The other guy nods, smirking. “Sure did. A woman was with him. Only got a blurry shot of her from the back, but you could see the bump.”

The bump.

My bump.

I choke on my own saliva.

No. No. This is not happening.

I mean, seriously? Don’t these people have lives of their own?

Another commentator raises a brow. “So…you think Coach Knox has a little Knox-in-the-box on the way?”

I groan, flopping back onto the pillows.

Kill me. Kill me now.

Before I can spiral any further, my phone vibrates again.

Cassie (Group Chat: Hot Football Wives (and sisters)? :

Cassie: Ivy. Turn on the TV. Now.

Reagan: Girl. Your brother is out of control.

Cassie: Who spilled the damn tea??

Reagan: Better question—how is Coach Knox handling this? And he better be ready to really handle it

Cassie: Forget Jackson. Ivy, are you okay?!

Reagan: We need to get ahead of this. This could have repercussions for Jackson’s ability to catch the team.

I blink down at the messages, my heart still pounding.

I type back quickly.

Me: I just woke up to it. Are you guys watching live?

Cassie: We’re literally SCREAMING.

Reagan: Cassie’s pacing like a damn lawyer in a courtroom.

We need brunch. Now.

Cassie: 20 minutes. Get your ass downstairs.

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair.

Me: I just don’t understand why they’re so obsessed with this story. With us. Like…can’t we just have our little romance in peace?

Reagan: It’ll be okay, Ive. Let’s get together and chat about it. I know all about PR nightmares.

Well.

Guess I’m going to brunch.

And maybe?

Maybe it’s time to figure out exactly how the hell Jackson and I are going to handle this.