Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

I nod, seeing and feeling his worry. “You need it.”

“I do.”

“What was it like for you . . . without your mom?”

“Like someone tore a limb from me. She was the kindest person, but she took shit from Harvey. She kept thinking he was going to change, I think. He didn’t.” He gets a faraway look on his face. “Sometimes I think I’m . . . uncertain around people . . . because of him. He scared me. I fucking walked on eggshells around him. Any little thing would set him off. Cold dinner, messy house, my face.”

I picture him as a little boy, frightened of the man his mom refused to leave. I don’t like it.

“And Lucy, your foster mom, she was good to you?” I’m hanging on his every word, aching to figure him out.

He nods. “I moved in with her when I was fourteen . . . after everything happened. She was widowed, a retired schoolteacher who had all these rules about behavior and exercise. She stuck by me, pushed me to try new things, or I might never have put a football in my hands, but when I did, it was like . . . home.”

He has known goodness. I want him to have had everything.

“What about you? You lost your dad young, right?”

“They think he fell asleep and ran into a tree. It’s just been me and Mama, Giselle, and Aunt Clara. My nana passed two years ago. It’s why I moved back home. For some reason, I haven’t left.” I pause. “And how did you know my dad was gone?”

He winces. “Lawrence looked you up after I asked him to. That’s how I knew your address, remember?” He exhales. “I was determined to see you again.”

“NDA.” My eyes narrow.

“Let’s not discuss the NDA. It wasn’t just that. It was you.”

“You wanted to teach me all your wicked ways.”

He laughs. “My wicked ways? You blew my mind. Glittery panties with unicorns. Please. How am I supposed to just let that slip away?” His hand strokes my leg, turning me so that we’re facing each other. He glances down at me. “How are your knees?”

“Hmm, my doctor was excellent. Very good bedside manner.”

His eyes hold mine. “How good?”

I ease on top of him. “Best I ever had.”

“Knew it.”

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?” He shifts until his hard length is at my apex.

My breath stills. “All cocky.”

“You want this cock?” He picks my hips up and maneuvers so he glides inside me, slick and hard as he pushes deep. I moan as he slides back out and then in again.

“Hmm, I think you do . . .”

“The dirty talking is all I’m here for,” I murmur. “Maybe another orgasm. Maybe pie.”

“No pie until you come again.” He moves fast, flipping me over, hovering over me as he settles between my legs, hitching one over his arm.

“Promises, promises,” I pant as he holds my hands above my head and thrusts inside me. We move like it’s a perfectly choreographed dance, his strokes soft and unhurried, his mouth on mine, kissing me slow, savoring me.

“You’re all mine.”

His thumb arrives and drives me insane, circling as he takes his time. I lose myself again in the feel of him, the way he looks at me, the emotion that carries me away when I come apart and call his name.

He goes over with me, eyes honed in on mine, something . . . something there in the way he looks at me as we ride it out together.

I close my eyes, holding him. Does he feel this too? How good we are?

You’re mine, he said.

But . . .

For how long?

Chapter 26

ELENA

I take down the last drape from the front windows in the dining room and fold them carefully. Velvet and a deep brown, they’ve been up for nearly twenty years, but they’re classic and hang beautifully—although they’re a bit dusty. After a good cleaning and pressing, they’ll be perfect for everyone by the time the engagement party arrives in a few weeks. We’ve picked a date after the play, and I am going to do it right. Lots of food, a bar for drinks, snapshots of Giselle and Preston around the house . . .

“Elena! Your phone keeps beeping with texts, and now it’s ringing,” Giselle calls from the kitchen, where I left her earlier, polishing silver. “It’s Weatherman Wannabe? Is that the football player? Want me to bring it to you?”

“Crap!” I stop folding and dash to the kitchen, skidding in my fuzzy cat socks. I need to put shoes on.

“She’s practically falling down to talk to him,” Aunt Clara says slyly as I grab my phone and answer it, ignoring her grin as I clear my voice.

“Hey.”

“You left before I woke up.” His voice is low and husky, and I picture him still in that big bed when I left around five o’clock this morning. It’s nine now. Did he sleep this long?