“Are you trying to put me to sleep?” she asks, laughing.

  I wink. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”

  “Put on the good stuff,” she says, and I switch to a playlist that starts with “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele.

  “I love this song,” she says, her face animated as she taps her foot against the floor.

  “I know. That’s why I picked it.”

  I adjust the ice pack as she sings the first few lines, then I join in for the chorus, using the beer bottle to sing into, while she cranks up the volume courtesy of her wineglass turned microphone.

  “We would kill it in a karaoke duet.”

  “But I insist we sing ‘Islands in the Stream.’”

  “I accept your insistence,” I say, as I refill her wine and grab a second beer.

  We make our way to the living room. Violet tips her chin at the Christmas tree in the bay window. Red ribbons and silver ornaments hang from the plastic branches, along with ceramic candy canes and green felt mini-stockings. Blue and white lights flicker on and off, set on a timer for the evenings. “You set up your tree. It’s adorable.”

  I give her a look. “Violet, how long have you known me?”

  “Twenty years. Why?”

  I gesture to the perfectly appointed tree. “Do you really think I pulled that off? Lined up ornaments with that kind of pinpoint precision?”

  “Let me guess. Mama Armstrong did it?”

  I laugh. “You guessed correctly. The whole nine yards.”

  “Tell Mama Armstrong she’s a masterful decorator. Oh wait, I’ll tell her myself when she comes by for her color.”

  I flop on the couch, adjusting the ice pack.

  Violet kicks off her shoes and joins me, tucking her feet under her. “Does it hurt still?”

  “Not really.”

  She arches a brow as she takes another drink of her wine. “Not even a little?”

  I hold up my finger and thumb as the music shifts to “Wonderwall.” “Okay. A smidge.”

  She puts her wineglass on the coffee table and waggles her fingers. “Let me help.”

  I put my beer on the table too. “Ooh, is this where we play quarterback and physical therapist?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Is the team’s PT your fake girlfriend?”

  Violet cracks her knuckles, sets a hand on my shoulder, and tells me to face the other way. I turn so I’m looking at the stark white wall and the framed prints of Italy and Spain, New Zealand, and Australia, all the places I want to go someday. I release the ice pack, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands curl over my shoulders, and my reaction to her touch is instant.

  I groan because it’s so goddamn good as she digs her fingers into my flesh. “Tell me about meeting the players’ wives.”

  “They were fantastic,” she says, and as she recounts her time in the suite, I sink into the magnificent sensation of her hands on me, her thumbs driving into my muscles, her fingers kneading my flesh. The way she touches me sends sparks through my body as if an electric current sizzles under my skin, spreading into my every molecule.

  While I’m on edge like this, everything in me buzzing toward her, I close my eyes and images flash. All the ways I want this night to go. How good it feels to have her hands on me. How dangerous it could be to get closer. Her brother. Our friendship. Whether she feels the same way. My contract. The pact. My focus.

  But then I think about how I feel with her. How my heart bounced around in my chest when she watched me today. How warmth radiates through me when I see her texts. How her lips feel sliding across mine.

  I remind myself that I take chances all day long. I play a risky, violent sport for a living. I can either stay safely in the moment of this impromptu massage, or I can run into the fray.

  I choose risk and all the possibilities of reward.

  I lift my hand to take hers, running my thumb along her wrist. Her breath hitches. Her hands still. She stops moving as I glide farther up, brushing my fingers from her wrist to her forearm. She trembles.

  I don’t rush it. There’s no one stopping us. No line coming after me, trying to take me down. It’s only us, here in my home. No agents, no photographers, no Maxine. No one else.

  I run my thumb back down over her palm to her fingers. I thread mine through hers and clasp. She squeezes back, her breath rushing against my neck. And it’s then that the moment unfurls into something else entirely.

  To something unquestionable.

  I cover her hand with mine, and in one strong move, I pull her around me and onto my lap.

  Her eyes widen, shining with longing. They lock with mine.

  “What are we doing?” she asks, her voice so goddamn breathless it’s like an extra dose of an aphrodisiac after I’ve already consumed the whole bottle.

  I bring my face nearer, my forehead touching hers. “This.”

  Then we kiss, and it’s the first kiss that belongs solely to us.

  19

  This kiss is ours, and as my lips crush hers, she melts under me. We sink into this, lips, tongue, teeth. Heat, hands, arms.

  I lean back into the soft couch cushions and bring her closer, kissing her the whole time. She loops her hands in my hair, sliding her fingers through the strands.

  We kiss as if this is what we’ve wanted all along. A private kiss. My hands cup her cheeks, and I hold her face as my kisses do the talking.

  It’s you.

  You’re what I want.

  Stay.

  Part of me should be shocked that these thoughts trip through my brain. But then, I’m not surprised at all. My head’s always been in the game with her. My heart has tried to get in on the action from the start.

  From the moment she kissed me on stage at the auction, it felt right. Now, as we kiss on my couch, tongues tangling and lips sliding, our kiss feels inevitable. I tug her closer, craving more of her taste. She presses against me, her chest to mine, her legs sliding around my thighs so she’s straddling me.

  I curl my hands through her hair, loving the way the soft strands spill over my fingers. As I slide my tongue inside her lips, she whimpers. It’s so fucking arousing. I kiss her deeper. Her taste goes to my head, short-circuits my brain.

  The sounds she makes are killing me—little murmurs, sighs, and needy gasps. I want to swallow them whole, give her everything she needs.

  With a rough hold on my hair, she yanks me closer and kisses me so hard the world sizzles into a white-hot blur. Then she bites down, her teeth scraping my lip, and I groan.

  My Violet has a rough side. And I like her rough. She lets go of my hair, slides her hands up my chest, and curls them over my pecs through my button-down shirt. She presses hard, like a stop sign.

  Her breath comes in harsh pants. “What are we doing?”

  “Kissing like crazy.”

  “I know,” she says on a sigh, her breath fluttering over my face. Her eyes are hazy, as if she’s drunk on this kiss. Drunk on me. But she needs something too. Reassurance? Confirmation?

  “What do you want, Vi?”

  I watch her, tracking every move. She swallows, breathes out, and brings her hand to her hair. She brushes it from her cheek, looks down then back up. Her eyes pin me. “I need to know something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want me?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I scoff, grinding up against her. It’s unmistakable how much I want her.

  “I know. But do you want me?”

  “God, yes.” I brush the backs of my fingers across her soft cheek. “You have no idea. How can you think I don’t?”

  “I just need to know it’s me, and not because I’m a warm body.”

  “Give me more credit than that.”

  She covers her face with her hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just want to know . . .”

  I peel her hand off her face and make her look at me. “That I want you? That I want this gorgeous, funny, sharp, clever woman who keeps me on my toes and takes no shit from me?”

  She smiles. “Yes.”

  I press a soft kiss to her lips. “It’s you.”

  She curls her hands over my shoulders, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want to get hurt.”

  That feels like the heart of the matter. She’s afraid, and I hear it in her voice. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”

  She nods and bites her lip as if she’s holding something in. Her worry curls around my heart, charges through my body. Wanting her is simply a fact in my universe. It’s gravity. It’s the moon spinning around Earth. I’m barely thinking of our history, of all the ways our lives overlap. I’m only thinking of the next few minutes, and how good I can make her feel.

  I lift her chin so she looks me in the eyes. “I won’t hurt you. I want to make you feel good.”

  “You do make me feel good,” she says, clasping my cheeks in her soft hands. “That’s what’s freaking me out.”

  I drop a kiss to her nose then dust my lips across hers in a promise. “Let me make you feel even better.”

  She shivers as she ropes her arms around my neck. Her eyes glitter with lust. “What would you do?” Her voice is feather-soft, an invitation.

  With her on my lap, looking at me as she plays with the ends of my hair, my entire body hums. I bury my face in her neck, blazing a trail of kisses that makes her squirm as I lick a path to her ear then back to her lips, whispering against them, “I want to kiss you . . . everywhere.”

  That last word hums between us. It slips back and forth between our mouths. With my lips, I press everywhere into hers, and she kisses it back to me.

  “Everywhere,” she repeats, her mouth sliding over mine. Her voice is raspy; the word sounds as if she’s been hypnotized by it. It sounds like a prayer.

  “Will you let me?” I ask, my fingers straying down her body to the hem of her shirt.

  She sits up straight. “What about you? Your vow of chastity?”

  “The way I see it, if I keep it in my pants, I can still touch you without breaking the vow.”

  Her eyes drift to my crotch. “I can’t touch you?”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Cooper.”

  “Violet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look, I want to be totally blunt—my dick isn’t coming out to play. But what part of I want to kiss you everywhere involves my dick? None of it. The things I want to do to you, I want to do with my tongue and my lips. Will you let me?”

  She inhales sharply. “Will I let you? How is that even a question?”

  “You still haven’t answered me,” I say, as she slips off my lap and scoots backward along the couch, moving her head toward the armrest. I slide her along the rest of the way, laying her flat across the cushions, setting a pillow under her head. I straddle her, my palms by her shoulders. I raise an eyebrow. “Do we have a yes, Violet?”

  “Are you really going to do this to me? And I can’t touch you?”

  “Do you want to touch me?” I ask, dragging my hard length between her legs. She’s so warm already, and I can feel the heat of her arousal through our clothes.

  She answers with a lift of her hips against me. She loops her arms around my neck. “I do want to touch you.”

  I bring my mouth to the hollow of her throat. I lick her there, drawing her taste into my mouth, then kiss along her neck, sucking on her jaw until her body arches into me again and again, begging me.

  “Another time for me. Let me touch you,” I whisper.

  “Yes. God, yes. Please.”

  We stop talking about getting hurt, and who’s touching who, and what any of this means once I unbutton her jeans. I tug them down her hips, and each inch is a revelation—of flesh, of curves, of femininity.

  “My God, it gets better and better.” Her purple panties are tiny, with illustrations of zebras on them. They’re unbearably sexy and ridiculously adorable at the same time. Like her. I love a good pair of black lace underwear, but I love these because she’s not trying too hard. She is sexy, and she is sweet because she wears purple panties with zebras.

  “Victoria’s Secret has some damn cute panties,” she says.

  I place my hands together in prayer. “Please God, I’ve been a good boy. Let me help pick next time you go shopping.”

  “Let’s see how good you can be,” she says, a naughty glint in her amber eyes.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  I peel her jeans down the rest of the way, savoring the view of her bare legs. She kicks off the jeans, and as I drag my gaze along her long, lush frame, my hands tremble. I want to do right by her. I want to worship her and make her feel adored.

  As I crawl back up her body, my hands trail along her legs, tracing a path up the soft flesh. She shudders in the wake of my touch then gasps when I drag a finger across the damp panel of her panties. My cock is thick and begging to come out. But that’s not in the cards. Tonight is for her pleasure and hers alone.

  “Can I convince you to take this shirt off?” I say tugging on the end of her jersey.

  She gives me a saucy look. “Doesn’t it turn you on to see me in your number?”

  I rise onto my knees and drag a hand over the bulge in my jeans. “Yes. Fucking immensely. But you know what else turns me on?”

  “What?”

  “Tits. Specifically, your tits. And I want to taste them and suck on them before I kiss my way down your body and settle between your legs, where I plan on introducing you to my tongue. And my tongue is very much looking forward to making your pussy’s acquaintance.”

  She laughs. “My God, when did you become so dirty? Wait. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”

  I wiggle an eyebrow. “You don’t like this side of me?”

  She reaches for the bottom of her shirt, tugs it off, then grabs her tight tank top and shucks that off too. She’s down to a pink bra and purple panties, and I’m about ready to burst. I’m so turned on, wanting her so much. I ache everywhere.

  “I love this side of you, actually,” she says, as she reaches her arms behind her and unhooks her bra, letting it fall to the floor.

  The heavens part. Angels sing. Her tits are glorious. Perfect teardrops, rosy nipples tipped up, asking to be licked.

  “There is a god,” I murmur as I lean in to suck on a nipple.

  “Cooper,” she says, starting my name like an admonishment then turning it into a long, low moan of pleasure. “Cooper.”

  “You have world-class tits,” I say when I come up for air, palming those beauties. “They’re fucking astonishing.”

  “You’ve been checking them out?”

  “I have been an admirer of your breasts for a long, long time. They’re my happy zone.”

  She smiles and laughs. “Play with them, then.”

  “If I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.”

  I’m a devoted aficionado of racks, and honestly, I could spend an entire day, hell, a week, staring at breasts. I’ve often lamented the lack of paid jobs in this area, and in my future utopian society, this sort of ogling work will indeed warrant financial compensation. For now, I’ll gladly accept a volunteer assignment gazing at these beauties.

  I lavish praise on her gorgeous globes with my tongue. “So sexy,” I murmur as I lick. “So delicious.” I pinch her nipples. “So perfect.” She writhes under me, moaning and groaning and grabbing my head in the valley of her tits. She’s as turned on from this as I am.

  I move down her body, drop my head between her legs and kiss her sweetness through the panel of her panties. I can taste her arousal through the cotton. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue. “I don’t think you can wait either.”

  She rocks her hips up into me. “Cooper,” she begs.

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “Take them off.”

  I close my eyes for a second, letting the sheer sexiness of those three words imprint on me. When I open my eyes, I peel her panties to her ankles, and she helps kick them off. There’s something intensely erotic about the way she moves. How she lifts her hips so I can tug her clothes down, making it easier for me to undress her. Like she trusts me. It’s such a small thing, but it says we’re in this together.

  I see it in her eyes, too, as I slide my hands up her legs and gaze at her face. Her golden-brown eyes are trained on me—wide and guileless. At one point, she licks her lips, flicking the tip of her tongue over them. I reach her inner thighs, parting them, absolutely in lust with the view of her glorious pussy. One brunette landing strip and the rest is smooth. And there, right there, is where I want to be.

  She glistens. My throat burns as my hands inch closer. The sight of her arousal, all silky and wet, is so ridiculously enticing.

  I lower my face to her legs and kiss the inside of her thigh. She quivers. I kiss the other thigh. She shudders. “Does that hurt?”

  “No,” she murmurs.

  I slide my tongue close, so close, right along the edge of her pussy, teasing her. “This?”

  “God, no,” she says, lifting her hips, seeking me.

  “I told you I won’t hurt you.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean like that.”

  “I know what you mean.” I press the gentlest kiss to her clit. She draws a sharp breath. “But I want to show you I’ll do the opposite.”

  “Show me.”

  I skim my hands under her thighs and wrap my arms around them, my shoulders settling between. “Open your legs more for me.”

  She spreads wider, and I’m in heaven at the first taste.

  She’s so slick and wet, from the way we kiss, how we talk, how we touch. I explore all that sweetness with my tongue, lapping her up, flicking the tip against the delicious rise of her clit. She grabs my hair, clutching it like a lifeline, holding on so damn hard.

  And then I bury my face between her legs, licking and sucking and kissing. Devouring.

  She’s mostly quiet at first, and I register that she’s a soft moaner. I grin wickedly. Because now I know this private detail. Violet is a moaner, and I love that. It’s like I’ve been given the secret keys to her body. I have the code, and I’m unlocking her. She’s a rocker, too, because soon she rocks into my face, holding my hair like a pair of goddamn reins. I fucking love her abandon. I love how hot and wet she is, how good she tastes, how her noises turn to feral groans when I bring my mouth to her clit and suck hard on that gorgeous little diamond of pleasure.