Nothing rattled him last night either. Not the pressure of my hands. Not the weight of my body above his. Not even the first time I whispered a command in his ear and watched himobeylike it was instinct.
He gave in so beautifully.
Same mouth. Same walk. Same reckless ease in his body that I had pinned to my sheets a few hours ago.
No makeup now, no glitter, just sleep-rough hair shoved back with his fingers and a loose practice shirt clinging to his shoulders.
Santo cielo. Shit.
“Luke Maddox,” I repeat quietly, the name familiar now in a different context—one that involves my hand around his throat, not a football. “Got it.”
Harris keeps talking, oblivious. “The other two are Tyrell Jenkins and Will Rivera. Linebackers. Good instincts. Dumbasses off the field but smart enough with a playbook in their hands. Jenkins is a hothead. Rivera usually pulls him back.”
I nod once, still trackinghim. Luke.
He’s laughing now, saying something to Jenkins that makes the other boy shake his head and chuckle. Maddox tosses his curls back like he owns the field already, as if being late means nothing to him. As if he doesn’t remember me at all from last night.
Which would be easier to believe if he hadn’t looked me dead in the eye and smiled like heknowswhat that mouth did last night.
“Maddox,” I repeat, committing the name to the part of my brain that processes threats and temptation.
“Mmm,” Harris grunts. “Can’t break his rhythm with Colton Taylor—our quarterback. The two of them are in sync like they’ve been playing together for years. Don’t let the mouth fool you—Maddox has discipline when it counts. No matter how much he’ll try to test your patience.”
Test it?
I can still feel his nails in my back. And I know he has discipline. He had more control than I expected. Even as he squirmed under me. Even as he begged for more. Even as he waited because I told him to. Even worse, I can still taste the wordHermosoon my tongue like a sin.
I clench my jaw hard enough it aches.
And now he’shere. Smirking. Pushing buttons in front of my boss, in front of his teammates, pretending not to know who I am except to poke at the sleeping beast just enough to watch me flinch.
He’s playing a fucking game.
And he’s good at it.
I flex my fingers at my sides, the phantom weight of him still lingering on my hands. The way he looked, mouth parted, body flushed, wrecked and mine for one night only.
Except now he’shere. A player. Under me in a very different way.
This is going to be a goddamn problem.
“And he will test you,” Harris says, following my gaze. “Maddox pushes boundaries for fun—he’ll push harder with a new coach.”
My jaw flexes.No shit.
“He’s not malicious,” Harris adds, like that softens the blow. “Just cocky. Smart as hell when he wants to be, but always toeing the line. Think you’ll have any trouble setting expectations?”
I don’t look away from the field.
Luke finishes his second lap, that same infuriating smile still ghosting across his face—as if he knows exactly what’s at stake, and he’s enjoying the hell out of the view from the edge.
“I don’t have trouble setting boundaries,” I say flatly. “I have trouble when people don’t listen.”
Harris grunts. “Well. Maddox listens—eventually.”
I snort.Oh, I know.
He listens just fine when he’s panting my name, desperate to please. When his body’s shaking because I’ve told him not to come. When I’ve got my hand on his dick and he’s whisperingpor favorlike it’s a prayer.
