Long Shot (Hoops 1)

His expression doesn’t change or soften when I tease him, but he finally blows out a tired breath, running his hands through his hair. “You will tell me everything soon?” he asks. “Because I’m gonna lose my shit if I walk up on him like that with you again. What the fuck? He’s creeping hard, and—”

“Yes. I’ll tell you soon, but not yet.” I close my eyes and press my lips tight against the tears, the emotion that if I uncork, I won’t be able to stop. “Promise.”

He bends until our lips are level and takes mine between his, and the day, the scrutiny, the fear, the anxiety—it’s all eclipsed by this. By his lips, sweet and urgent and hungry over mine. By his devotion.

“I just need …” I let the words rest on his lips. Time? Space? Grace? Understanding? Patience? “You,” I breathe into our kiss, angling my mouth to take more of him, to take as much of him as my lips can hold. “I just need you.”

“You have me.” He straightens and looks over to the car where his mother watches us through the window. “Wow. My mom is watching us make out.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” I groan into my hands. I don’t know how much of the interplay she could see with Caleb either, but after our conversation in the stands, I think I care less about that.

“She probably suspected that we make out when I told her we were staying in a hotel tonight.”

“We’re what?” I’d assumed we’d stay at his mother’s.

“Lotus is gonna keep Sarai,” he says. “And you and I are gonna spend the whole night together.”

The mom in me immediately wants to protest. No one else should have to look after my daughter. I should be able to do it, but August’s had to leave before the sun came up every time we were together.

I’m going to give this to myself. Give this to us.

I lean my head on his shoulder as we approach the car and his mother’s knowing grin. “That sounds marvelous, baby.”

48

Iris

What was I thinking?

My reflection in the mirror mocks me. August and I get a night on our own in a billion-star hotel. One night when he doesn’t have to leave. Instead of lingerie to tempt him, I’m wearing a basketball jersey. I mean, it’s his jersey, but still. It’s not as sexy on me as it is on him.

I fluff my hair around my shoulders and over my arms, crossing one foot over the other like Sarai does when she has to pee.

“Well, all your crap is in the other room,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “So you gotta go out there at some point.”

I need this. Today’s game was stressful. Seeing Caleb was a nightmare. Dinner with August’s family was great, but the anticipation of tonight hung over me the whole time. The prelude of covert touches under the table, stolen kisses in the hallway, long looks charged with promise—it’s drawn my nerves tight and has me poised on a fine edge. The Stingers’ game was the end of a road trip, so August hasn’t been home, and we haven’t been together in days.

Lo is the only person I trust with Sarai overnight, and with them safely up the hall, I can relax completely.

When I enter the bedroom, I don’t even take in the white and gold furnishings, the thick pile carpet, the stunning view of the city. The only thing I notice about the huge bed is the man sitting at the foot of it.

August showered shortly before I did, and he’s hasn’t bothered dressing. He’s always a luxury for the senses. August naked, the muscles in his stomach stacked, his skin beaded with moisture, his hair a chaos of messy curls? That’s a matter of irresistibility.

I make it my business to know sports stats, so I know August’s wingspan, but that’s not the same as seeing his shoulders stretched wide, a horizon of muscle and bone and bronzed flesh. I know his vertical, how high he can jump from standing, but that’s a flat number. It tells you nothing about the legs of a man six inches over six feet, long and lean with chiseled flanks and thighs, or the calves carved from clay, hardened and burnished in the sun. He’s a shooter. He’s one of the best the league has ever seen and deadly from behind the arch. But I know those arms, carved and sculpted, as a haven, and those “handles”, his hands, the safe place where I leave my heart.

His eyes widen on me, a heated scan of my body. “Damn, Iris.”

I cross over to him, and he tugs me to stand between his legs. His cock, hard and stiff and hot, brushes against my skin. My toes curl into the carpet and my fingers curl into the dark silk of his hair. He palms my shoulders and strokes down my arms. There’s reverence in the hands tracing the shape of my hips through his jersey.

“I should have worn something sexy,” I say in a rush. “Like a negligee or—”

“Just stop.” His laugh comes out, a wisp of smoke. “Seeing you wear my number is like a wet dream wrapped in a hand job.”

He outlines his number, thirty-three, emblazoned over my chest with one finger. When he pinches and rolls my nipples, the cartilage in my knees goes to goo. I grab his shoulders, smooth and velvet, to keep me on my feet. His hands wander over my legs, creeping under the hem of the jersey to cup my bare butt, squeezing until his fingers meet at the crack of my ass. With his eyes locked with mine, he spreads my cheeks and runs one thick finger along that secret, sensitive ridge. Like he’s pulled a lever,

moisture leaks from my body, dampening my thighs.

Stealthily, one hand slips between my legs, and for a few moments he just caresses my lips. My breath grows jagged. I’m a moaning, shameless girl spreading her legs, silently begging him to touch me there. To open me up, invade, and own this pussy.