His fingers traced idle patterns along my spine, his touch possessive even in exhaustion.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest.
I closed my eyes, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
The image of him beneath me – bound, tattooed, helpless, completely in my mercy – lingered behind my eyelids.
There would be more nights like this. More games, more boundaries to shatter.
And I couldn’t fucking wait.
The last thing I remembered before sleep claimed me was the steady beat of Lex’s heart beneath my ear, and the promise of darkness yet to come.
CHAPTER NINE
LEX
The light in London is different in the morning.
It slips through the windows softly, like it doesn’t want to wake anyone who’s still dreaming.
Jamie is still asleep when I get back from the store. Curled on his side. Hair messy. One arm thrown over my pillow like it belongs there—likeIbelong there. The sight of him hits me right in the chest, sharp and warm all at once.
I don’t wake him.
I move quietly through the kitchen instead, setting bags down, rolling my shoulders like that’ll somehow shake off the exhaustion sitting deep in my bones.
I poured myself a coffee strong enough to punch back, because I barely slept. Not because I couldn’t—but because my body doesn’t really know how to shut off, and because every time I closed my eyes, all I could feel was him.
His confidence last night. The way he looked at me like I was something he wanted just as much as I’ve always wanted him.
Worth it.
Every second of it.
I lean against the counter, mug warm in my hands, and for a moment everything goes quiet in my head.
Then the thoughts come. They always do.
I think about what it means to love a man when the world has already decided who you’re supposed to be.
What it means to want something that could cost you everything you’ve worked for.
Soccer isn’t just a game to me—it’s my future, my reputation, the thing people see before they ever seeme. I know how fast that can disappear. One headline. One locker room rumor. One look that lingers too long.
I think about my dad.
About how love, to him, is something measured in optics and damage control. About how if he ever finds out, his first concern won’t be whether I’m happy—but whether I’msafe for business.
And for years, I let that fear rot inside me.
I hated myself for wanting what I wanted.
I told myself it was a phase. A mistake.
Something I could outrun if I just ran fast enough, lifted heavier, kissed enough girls to drown it out. I told myself I was broken. Wrong. Weak.
Until Jamie.
