“Two. You’re a three-time NBA champion. Most players can’t even claim one championship, much lessthree. And three. You’re one of the rare few to win NBA MVP, All-Star Game MVP, and Finals MVP awards all in the same year.”
“You have no idea what any of that means, do you?” I interrupt to ask.
She draws to an abrupt halt and scowls at me. Her lips part, then snap closed. Then open again to admit, “No, but it must be impressive since it’s on your Wikipedia page.”
My snort of laughter hurts my nose, but damn, that’s hilarious.
Throwing me another glare, she resumes her pacing. And ranting.
“And I’ve met your mother.”Thatsobers me up quickly. “Grace would be appalled and hurt to know that you’re using her welfare, her happiness, as some sort of screwed-up whipping post. Because in her eyes, you’re perfect. You were perfect before you ever even picked up a basketball. And if you decided today to never touch one again, you’d still be.”
That isn’t true. It’s a beautiful thought and sounds nice, but I’ve been in this league too long. You’re only as good as your stats. Only as worthy as your next endorsement. Only as legendary as your next championship.
Hell, even my own father nailed that lesson home. The man who couldn’t be bothered to stick around long enough to teach his son how to hit the toilet bowl had somehow found his way back years later when I was drafted into the NBA. Only when I had something to offer him.
Only when I was worthy.
So no, that shit doesn’t fly with me.
“You’re not a failure, Jordan Ransom,” she says, stopping again, and though her frown is just as fierce, her voice is gentler. “It’s not in your DNA. And this game doesn’t define you. Not theyouwho matters.”
I don’t agree with her, so I just nod and give her the words she needs to hear. “Thank you, Marilyn.” I cock my head, squinting up at her. “That delivery needs a little work, though.”
She huffs out a laugh and crosses back over to the couch, then drops down next to me and curls up against my side. For a moment, apounding wave of tenderness and lust grips me, tugs me under, and I can’t move. All I can do is experience.
Feel the thrust of her breasts against my side. The press of her knees to my outer thigh.
Glimpse the dense fringe of her lashes on the arc of her cheekbones, the sensual bow of her top lip, and the impudent, fuller curve of her bottom one.
Inhale the earthy and sweet scent of cinnamon and vanilla from her hair and skin.
Moving, touching her, especially when all my senses are so sharply attuned to her, might be the thing that breaks me. But in this moment, I can’t give a solitary fuck.
I’m going to be selfish and indulge myself with this one small thing.
Slowly, I lift my arm and slide my fingers into her hair. The strands slide over my skin, and I lock down a moan at the caress. But I don’t stop, don’t remove my hand. Not when I’m finally caressing her in a way that’s even faintly similar to that night. And she’s allowing it.
Dragging my fingertips over her scalp, I don’t miss the little shudder that runs through her. An answering one ripples down my spine, the tiny electric currents pulsing along my veins. Because I’m like an addict when it comes to her, I do it again, hungry to glimpse that reaction again. To see if I can have more.
More. More. I always want more when it comes to Miriam. I’m never satisfied.
And it’s that relentless craving that will ruin our friendship if I am not careful or don’t protect it. From myself.
Dropping my arm, I curl it around her shoulders and squeeze. But my fingers still tingle, and I flex them, trying to banish the phantom sensation of curls stroking over them.
She shifts her head a little, presses it closer, so her breath skates over my nipple. Only cotton separates that puff of air from my naked flesh, but it might as well have disintegrated. My body has transformed intoone sensitive, exposed nerve, and anything she does is pleasure edged with pain.
“Why’d you stop?” she asks, her voice low, almost quiet.
“Because I didn’t ask if it was okay.” Not a lie. I got wrapped up in my greed and neglected to ask her permission to touch her.
But it’s not the whole truth about why I stopped.
Yet in the immortal words of dear old Jack, she can’t handle the truth.
“You’re not fooling me, y’know,” she says against my chest.
I stiffen, my arm involuntarily tightening around her. What is she saying?
