She isn’t hesitant.
She’s fierce.
And she wants this just as much as I do.
“Look at me,” I demand. Her eyes collide with mine and I swear I see into her soul. “I know you’re close and I want to watch you come undone.”
I drive into her, feeling my own release right on the edge, but she cries out as her hits moments before mine.
“Wilder!”
Fuck, hearing my name fall from her lips does me in. My release hits hard and fast, both of us moaning in ecstasy.
By the time we finally collapse into each other, breathing ragged, bodies tangled, the dominance has melted into connection, which is just as powerful.
I brush my thumb along her jaw, studying her flushed face.
“You’re mine,” I say quietly.
Not ownership.
Not possession.
Just certainty.
And she smiles like she likes the sound of that.
SEVENTEEN
Amelia
The stadium feels different during the day. It’s less electric, more real. The echo of cleats on concrete, the muted hum of voices drifting down the hallway, the faint smell of turf and coffee blending together.
I’m seated across from Susan in her office, my tablet open, notes pulled up from the morning sessions. She’s reviewing something on her screen, then looks up at me with a smile that makes my stomach tighten.
“You’re doing wonderful work, Amelia,” she says.
“Thank you,” I reply, keeping my tone steady.
“No, truly,” she continues. “I’m impressed. The way you’re reaching the players. Especially Wilder.”
My pulse stutters.
She leans back in her chair. “It’s been difficult for years trying to get him to open up. He’s charming, deflective, stubborn as hell. But with you? It’s effortless.”
Guilt creeps in slow and heavy.
Effortless.
If she only knew.
Part of the reason he opens up to me is because I’ve seen him in the dark. Because I’ve held him when he couldn’t breathe around his grief. Because we’ve built something far beyond this office.
I force a professional smile. “I think he just needed the right approach.”
Susan nods thoughtfully. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
We both return to our notes, the tapping of keys filling the silence. I focus on my breathing, on the clinical language in front of me, trying to drown out the image of Wilder’s hands on my waist last night.
