There were worse places to sleep the night before the French Open final, a king-sized bed in a five-star hotel with the girl of his dreams beside him and the Eiffel Tower in the distance just becoming visible as the sun began to glow orange and pink on the horizon.
But if he let himself sleep, he’d be missing out on an even better view than a Paris sunrise. The long line of her back, the wild locks of her hair spread across the pillow, the smattering of freckles on the curve of her shoulder, the gentle fall and rise of her body beneath the sheets.
Penny was absolutely gorgeous, always, but there wassomething especially fascinating about her when she slept, when the strength and stoicism and grace she carried herself with fell to the wayside and she was finally able to simplybe.
The contrast was even more noticeable in the last week, when the reality set in that she wasn’t just hurt, butinjured. That her run at the French Open was over and any hope of playing Wimbledon was reliant on the vagaries of how fast her body would recover. Four to six weeks, according to the doctor, but that two-week gray area would be the difference between fighting for her first major championship or not.
She was devastated by the possibility even if she wasn’t letting it show. He knew, because he’d been there before. But instead of wallowing, she channeled it into supporting him. After she went down with an injury, all he’d wanted to do was wrap her in his arms, get her on a plane, and fly off to somewhere, anywhere, where the world could disappear around them and she wouldn’t have to think about tennis or how her body had betrayed her.
But that wasn’t their world and she’d never want that anyway.
He was still competing, still carving a path through the men’s draw. And she showed up to every match, sat beside Dom, and cheered as hard as she could through it all. It was her voice he could hear echoing over the crowd after a tough point, pulling him through when his body felt like it couldn’t give any more. And she was the first face he saw when he clinched his spot in the final two nights ago, the relief and joy coursing through him immediately coalescing into the heady mix of love and lust he could never fully control around her.
Alex reached out, letting just the tip of his finger hookbeneath the gold of the chain around her neck, tugging gently to lift the coin that served as a lucky charm into his hand. It was warm from her body heat and he closed his fist around it, careful not to pull too hard.
God, he loved her, and he wanted her in ways he never imagined before.
He could see it, all laid out ahead of them, a ring and a wedding, an entire room in their house dedicated to their trophies. No, two rooms, one for him and one for her.
A life together.
But not yet.
He knew he was in deeper than she was, had known that since Australia, when he woke up to find the sheets beside him cold even though his body was still burning from her touch. He’d never been a particularly patient man, but for Penny, he would wait, and while he waited he’d spend every day proving himself. He’d fucked up and it was a miracle she’d forgiven him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
He’d never loved anything more, not even tennis. He used to think winning was everything, that it could cure any ill and that he’d do anything to experience it again, but with her beside him, winning was nothing but an afterthought. Hell, he’d trade places with her in a second if he could, swap his healthy Achilles for her partially torn one. She was the best in the world, and she deserved a chance to prove it on the biggest stage.
She let out a soft sigh and then rolled over slowly, even in her semiconscious state still careful not to put pressure on her ankle as she moved. She reached for him and he shifted closer as her hand landed gently on his chest and her head tucked in against his shoulder.
“You need to sleep,” she murmured, the words a soft kiss against his skin as she settled against his side, their legs tangling together.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, even as the slide of her body along his banished any thought of it. His hands found her waist and he pulled her even closer, then slid his hand up to cup her breast, filling his palm, loving the way her breath caught when he brushed his calloused thumb over the rise of flesh.
“Alex,” she murmured contentedly.
His name on her lips drew a smile as he lowered his head to trace the line of her jaw with his mouth. He trailed his hand in a deliberate path, knowingly scraping the calloused tips of his fingers over her smooth skin and reveling in every goose bump that rose against them.
“What were you saying about sleep?” he said, his voice raspy.
“Overrated,” she said, and he was going to tease her about her sudden change of opinion when her hand sifted through his hair, tightening around the strands, and she gave it a sharp tug.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his body reacting instantly, his hips canting into hers while her sweet mouth found the cords of his neck, knowing she’d leave a mark, one he’d be happy to sport on Chartier later today.
“Yes,” she said.
“C’mere, love,” he said, gripping at her hip as he marveled at the way she fit just right against him as he guided her to turn over, her back to his front. He propped himself up on an elbow behind her and she took his cues easily, lifting her thigh over his as he slid between her legs.
She tossed her head against his shoulder, the silk of her hair spilling against his chest. She reached back between them, her hand sliding over him. Alex had always prided himself on his control, on his ability to draw out his own pleasure while he made sure his partner went first, at least once or twice, before him, but Penny tested every ounce of restraint he had—in bed, on the court, everywhere.
“Hang on,” he ground out from between clenched teeth, and rolled away from her, patting blindly at the nightstand before finding the foil packet, the last one in the strip he’d fished out of his luggage earlier that night.
Alex knew he could live a hundred years and never hear anything better than the way Penny said his name as her body pulled him in and she arched against him.
He kept his grip firm around her thigh—her ankle was still fragile and there was no need for her to do any of the work, not when he had strength enough for the both of them. He was just getting lost in her, but he knew the signs, a fine sheen of sweat on her skin, her thighs shaking, the curl of her toes against the back of his calf, her breath coming hard and fast.
“Close, love?” he asked, though he already knew the answer, and that hand on her thigh slid between her legs to get her there faster, because he was already barreling toward the end, and if he couldn’t hold out, at the very least he wanted her to take him with her.
A sweet keening sound lit from her throat as she tensed and then released into a shaking, incoherent, beautiful mess in his arms as he lost his rhythm, his hips rutting wildly before he fell right behind her.
