I chuckle, rearranging us and putting her on her belly, pulling her hips in the air. I dip my cock into the tight space between her legs and tease her entrance. She arches and allows me to sheathe myself fully in her.
“Are you ready to get fucked, baby?” I grit out, barely able to hold myself back. She looks over her shoulder and nods, and I start pounding into her. She takes it all, pleading with encouraging pants of “More” and “Yes.”
I thread my arm beneath her chest and growl between thrusts, “I take care of my girlfriend. Every. Single. Time.”
She breaks on my words, pulsing around me, while her body takes and takes. I hold her through it, then surge up into her, control slipping, the world narrowing to heat and the way she feels around me when I empty into her.
I release her slowly, dropping on the mattress, breathing hard. I smooth a palm down her spine, slow strokes until the tremors ease. Her body is soft and pliant, both of us wrecked and still clinging. Her hair sticks damp to her cheeks, her chest rising fast against mine. I smooth it back, kiss the line of her jaw. For a long moment, the only sound is breathing. The kind that steadies you, anchors you.
“You good?” My voice is wrecked.
She smiles, flushed and smug. “So good.”
I kiss her throat, taste sweat and the faint salt of her skin. “I should probably check your nightstand. Make sure Leo hasn’t tampered with your birth control. The guy’s invested.”
She snorts. “He’d swap the pills for Tic Tacs. Good thing he doesn’t know I’ve got an implant.”
I grin against her skin. “Smart.” I kiss her again, then lean back to take in the room. “Nice place. Girly. It fits you.”
Her brows lift. “Already redecorating in your head?”
My laugh rumbles. “Before I start on that, I need food. Pretty sure I burned a few thousand calories between the game and you trying to kill me dead.”
She swats my chest, laughing. “Kill you dead?”
“Nearly.” I nudge her shoulder. “Please tell me the fridge is nottoogirly and holds more than kombucha and Greek yogurt.”
She rolls her eyes, still smiling. “We’ll see.”
“Trouble, I’m telling you, if you don’t give me some food, you’re doing all the work in round two.”
“Oooh, empty threats,” she deadpans. “Better bring a grocery list next time, big guy.” Her smile softens; the air between us steadies. “I’ll set you up with all the organic, in-season bougie produce the farmers’ market offers.” She kisses the corner of my mouth and tips her chin toward the kitchen. “But I draw the line at imported zucchini flowers in the middle of December.”
I laugh and pull her in. “Deal. I’ll let that slide. Now let’s go feed these bodies.”
45
BREAKFAST AT THE CHEROKEE (NATE)
We were up for hours. Eating, talking, fucking, until sleep finally dragged us under.
Morning comes soft and gold. I wake first. She’s sprawled on her stomach, hair fanned across the pillows, one arm thrown over my side of the bed. For a second, I just look. Then I ease out, pull on boxers, and take in the battlefield: my suit in a heap, her jeans and underwear scattered across the floor.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee, rinse yesterday’s pans, and load the dishwasher. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, spilling across the hardwood, lighting up the quiet courtyard below—ivy climbing brick, a couple of pigeons strutting along the fire escape. From the fourth floor, the world looks calm.
By the time Eden pads in, hair mussed, drowning in my shirt, I’ve got coffee poured, grapes scrubbed clean, and eggs on the stove. She leans in the doorway, arms folded, smile soft and sharp all at once. It hits me right in the chest.
“You look…settled,” she says.
I flip toast onto a plate. “I adjust well.” I nudge the bowl of grapes toward her. “Still team green?”
Before she can answer, the front door bangs open. Liz tumbles in, scrubs under her parka, hair sticking in every direction. She stops short when she sees me in the kitchen, eyebrows up.
“Well, well. The famous Nate Russo. About time I caught you here.” Her gaze sweeps me head to toe, then flicks to Eden. “You didn’t exaggerate one bit.” She smirks, turning back to me. “And I see you are a cook?”
She drops her bag with a thud. I hand her a steaming mug. She takes a sip, blinks. “How do you know how I take it?”
“I’m a goalie. Observation’s the job. Oat milk in the fridge, no sugar anywhere in the cabinets—it wasn’t a stretch.”
