Page 29 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Ale

When I wake in the morning, the scent of jasmine envelops me. For a heartbeat, I don’t want to open my eyes, convinced I dreamed the entire thing.

Marlowe’s possessive hold on my shoulders.

The arch in her back as she pressed her chest into mine.

The sweet moans and desperate pants that echoed in my eardrums, driving me to the edge.

The feel of her hot hands on me, tracking, memorizing, feeling .

When she looked into my eyes moments before release, she stared straight into my soul.

And everything fucking changed.

Amor . Love. The word flashed like a neon sign in my mind. I felt it—the all-consuming understanding that she is it for me—rush through my veins, burst in my chest, settle in my core.

I am in love with Marlowe Claire Prescott.

She shattered a heartbeat after my earth-shaking realization and that pushed me clear off the edge. I followed, crying out her name. And I called her mi amor .

My love.

I pull in a shaky breath and open my eyes. Marlowe is still asleep, her body curled into mine like a cat. Her lips are pillowy soft and slightly parted. Her eyelashes long and casting half-moons on her cheeks.

I smile, drinking her in.

I’ve never called a woman “my love” before. I’ve never been anywhere near crossing a line like that. But last night, with Marlowe…

Somewhere over the past six weeks, I fell in love with my fake girlfriend. Hopelessly in love with a woman who is leaving in a month.

This wasn’t part of the agreement, not even close. And yet, as I watch Marlowe sleep, my heart rate increases, my stress melts away, and I want nothing more than to spend the morning—the entire fucking day—in this bed with her.

As if she feels me watching her, she stirs. Fluttering eyelashes that open to cornflower blue eyes. Eyes that hold the world in their depths. She stretches, flexing her back, craning her neck, and turning into my body. “Good morning.”

“ Buenas, mi nina .” I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well?”

She snickers. “Is that what we’re calling last night?”

My blood heats from the sound of her voice, still husky with sleep. From the humor and heat already flaring in the depths of her irises, from the feel of her body against mine.

She tilts her chin, a silent question.

And I answer it by kissing her. Soft, slow, and sweet.

She shifts, tossing a slender leg over my thighs and tugging me closer.

I lift a hand to her cheek, my fingertips threading through her hair, as I roll over her.

Pinned beneath me, our limbs tangled, our hands caressing, Marlowe smiles. “Best birthday ever.”

I chuckle, dropping my mouth to hers for another kiss as I finger the gold anchor around her neck. The only thing she’s wearing. “I’m happy you enjoyed it.”

Kiss.

Her eyes widen. “I more than enjoyed it.”

Kiss.

“Can we stretch that pleasure a little further?”

Kiss.

Her giggle. “We should definitely try.”

Kiss.

This time, the sweetness turns spicy. I slip my tongue between her parted lips and drag it sinfully slow across hers. She moans, her arm banding around my back, her hand gripping my shoulder blade as her hips tilt up. Seeking. Wanting. Loving .

Marlowe and I make love on an ordinary Thursday morning. And the entire world shifts on its axis. My future opens up even as seeds of worry plant themselves in my heart. I ignore them, too caught up in this moment of pure ecstasy.

Flipping us, I turn until my back hits the mattress.

Marlowe grins at me, her expression open and happy.

Pure fucking sunshine in one of the sunniest cities in Europe.

And she eclipses it. Marlowe blocks everything out until there’s only her.

She moves sensually, one hand wrapped around the bed frame, one hand tangled with mine.

She works me over until I’m panting, desperate for release, but not until she gets there first.

“Oh, God, Ale, please,” she practically begs as she slides up and down. Up and down.

Slow and torturous. Fast and needy.

“I got you,” I growl, reaching between her legs to drag my fingers across the bundle of nerves pulsing. Her clit is slippery with her want, and the intensity of her arousal has me gritting against my own impending release.

Not yet. Not fucking yet.

I rub her clit once, twice, and then?—

“I’m coming,” she says, a little bit shocked.

I don’t stop my ministrations. Instead, I stare up at her as she breaks apart—a fucking sunburst that turns me inside out. My blood heats, my body strains. Marlowe collapses against my chest and I hold her tight, banding an arm around her back.

I piston my hips up. Powerful thrusts that have her moaning and me teetering on the edge of the sweetest ecstasy I’ve ever known.

“ Joder ,” I swear, fisting her hair.

“I got you.”

And on my next thrust, she grinds down, rolling her hips over me.

“ Mi amor ,” I growl as I fall over the edge and break apart. Pleasure flows through me in ribbons, in game-day confetti, in waves. It’s all sensation and want. Desire and need.

Strong, powerful, complex emotions I’ve never experienced before but they rattle me to my fucking core.

Mi amor.

A sunburst.

A winning match.

My everything.

I’m holding the handles of two coffee mugs and a Tupperware of leftover birthday cake when I rest my shoulder against the bedroom door. While I anticipated coffee and cake in bed, sweet Marlowe fell back to sleep.

I smirk, watching her for several seconds. She’s dressed in a barely-there bralette and lacy underwear I yearn to snap at the hip. Wake her up with my head between her thighs.

I sigh. If we start that up again, I’ll be late to practice and Javi will rip me apart.

Especially now that I’ve been given the opportunity to lead one of the teams in the upcoming charity match. An opportunity to show up for my team and demonstrate that I’m capable of more responsibility on—and off—the field.

I place our coffees down on the side table before perching on the edge of the bed. I watch Marlowe’s chest rise and fall before bending over to kiss her forehead.

Then, I force myself to stand, to shower, to get ready for a mid-morning workout and an afternoon practice.

On my drive to the fútbol field, I revel in the city as it wraps around me.

The groups of kids kicking a soccer ball at the park, students reading outside cafés, their headphones drowning out the noise of the motorbikes, and the elderly taking a leisure stroll, their small dogs navigating the cobblestone streets.

I crack the windows for some fresh air and enjoy the scenery of the city as it passes. The ornate bridges, the proud palm trees, the brightly contrasting colored buildings.

I love my city. I love my home. And now, now I can’t fathom either of them without Marlowe.

I shake the thought away. I hate the anxiety that snakes through my thoughts on the heels of such a perfect—a fucking blissful—night.

How is this going to work?

Does she feel the same way?

Am I going to lose her?

I sigh, shutting the door on my mental spiral and reaching for some levelheaded coolness. Objectivity.

At some point, in the very near future, Marlowe and I will talk and sort things out. But things are different now. I’m different. And I won’t lose her or let her slip away.

Not when I’m making strides to be a man worthy of a woman like Marlowe, worthy to lead a team like League Valencia. Our arrangement may have started out as a mutually beneficial ruse, but that’s no longer the case. My feelings for Marlowe are deep and complicated and…life-changing.

All I have to do is stay the course. Keep showing up for Marlowe, keep showing up for my team, keep winning games, and everything will be fine.

Relieved by this conclusion, I turn up the volume on a throwback playlist and enjoy the rest of my drive to the stadium. Practice is smooth and fluid, the team gelling together, riding a wave of confidence for tomorrow’s game. And I surf that wave, feeling on top of the world.

Except the following day, League Valencia suffers our first loss.

And I can’t help but feel that it’s my fault.