But Grentley and I are still navigating our forced therapy sessions, our mandatory team-building exercises. Things are better—less hostile, more professional—but fragile. I don't want to risk that progress by parading his ex-wife around the arena.
So, I keep my distance on both fronts, and my dick suffers for it.
In mid October, I have a rare day off and I'm sprawled on the couch watching West Ham play Chelsea in men’s soccer. It's a lazy afternoon—no practice, no commitments, and I already jerked off in the shower, so I’m treating myself to sports on TV.
Sloane’s at class, so I’m shirtless in gray sweatpants, barefoot,wondering if I should grab one of Wyatt’s jerseys for luck since the game is tied 1-1. But then I hear the elevator.
Sloane steps into the apartment, backpack on her shoulder, keys in her hand. She looks tired, distracted, like she's had a long day of classes.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes go wide. Her keys clatter onto the side table. The backpack slides off her shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.
She just stares.
I raise my eyebrows, unable to help the small smile tugging at my mouth. "Something you need?"
She shakes her head. But she doesn't move. Doesn't look away.
Enough of this shit.
I stand slowly, letting her look. Letting her see exactly what she's been staring at for weeks. "You sure about that?"
Her chest rises and falls, breath coming faster.
I take a step toward her. Then another. Moving slowly, giving her time to stop me, to tell me to back off.
She doesn't.
"I read somewhere," I say, my voice low, "that pregnant women have a high libido in the second trimester."
Her lips part. Her eyes are huge, dark with want.
"Is that true, Sloane?" I take another step. "You feeling that?"
She nods.
"I need words, Sunshine. You need to tell me what you want."
Her voice comes out breathless, desperate. "Please fuck me. For the love of God, Tucker, please."
Something in me snaps.
I close the distance between us and scoop her up, one arm under her knees, one supporting her back. She wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face against my shoulder.
"I've got you," I murmur against her hair. "I've got you."
I carry her to her room and lay her on the bed carefully. She's breathing hard, her hands already reaching for me.
"Wait." I catch her wrists gently. "What's comfortable for you? I don't want to hurt the babies. Or you."
“Ugh,” she says immediately. "My belly—it's too much pressure if I'm on my back. And I can't—I need?—"
"Show me."
She rolls onto her hands and knees, that perfect ass in the air, and looks back at me over her shoulder. "Like this. Please, Tucker. I need you like this."
I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die from wanting her this much.
