Her cheeks flush again. I don’t want to stop touching her. I work my hands slow and worshipful. My cock stirs, heavy between us, brushing her hip as I stand. She feels it and reacts, but I lean into her.
“You’ll get it again after dinner,” I promise, kissing the spot behind her ear. “If you’re good.”
I’m in the kitchen with a glass in my hand, cold water running down my throat. The house is quiet, but it’s not the empty kind anymore. It’s the occupied kind.
I check the clock on the oven: 12:32 AM.
I set the glass down and lean on the counter, staring at nothing. The kitchen still smells like the dinner I cooked for her. I try not to think about how much that pleases me — the knowledge that I can bring something good to her life, take care of her in some way. I’ve never felt like that with anyone besides Melody, my little sister. I’m overprotective of Melody by default.
Jessica… Jessica is something else entirely.
This place has always been quiet. Melody stayed with me for a while when she first moved to Miami, but it was only temporary before she moved in with Jace. Now I see them for morning coffee, ten minutes after grocery runs — a little noise at the door, then gone. This house always returned to silence.
Until her.
At first it pissed me off. Being forced into it as one of her conditions. She takes up space without asking, leaves her things around like she’s testing how far shecan go, talks when I’m thinking, touches the things I leave exactly where I want them. I don’t like people in my space. Now I notice when she’s not in the room. I crave her presence.
Fuck.
What am I doing with this girl? If this were just sex, it’d be easier and cleaner. But she let me be her first. That’s not casual.
And if I’m honest? It’s not casual for me either.
I pulled strings for her, made calls I don’t make for anyone, got her into rooms she didn’t even know exist. I researched fucking coloring pencils, took her on a date. A date. This isn’t nothing. I’ve never felt like this about anyone.
And then the thought I’ve been dodging all season pushes back in. It’s been happening more often.
Zed.
The conversation we had keeps coming back like a bruised spot you forgot about until someone presses it. I told myself to drop it. I didn’t. I never do when something doesn’t add up. I think about his brother. The careless question I asked without thinking: Does your little brother still play?
Zed locked up. Not stiff, not annoyed — murderous. As if I’d reached into something buried and yanked it out.
I’ve heard things: whispers, half-sentences that die when you walk in, suited men lowering their voices, coaches changing the subject.
I can’t believe they let him play after… after what?
That kid used to be all laughter, all noise, loved life. Now he’s something entirely different. The only things left are surface details: pale eyes, black hair that still falls into them. Except those eyes don’t laugh anymore. They chill you to the bone.
I’m already walking toward the living room before I realize I’ve moved. My laptop sits on the couch. I grab it and flip it open. I don’t usually do this — digging into teammates’ lives isn’t my thing — but this won’t let me go.
I type his name and hit enter. The first results are boring: stats, draft history, injury reports. Then the tone shifts the deeper I go. Old headlines. Scandals. Arrests that never quite stick, charges quietly dropped. Language that dances around something instead of naming it.
I scroll, opening article after article, skimming. Arrests pile up.
Battery.
Property damage.
Assault.
Disorderly conduct.
None of it fully sticks. Charges dropped, evidence insufficient, statements retracted. But the arrests remain.
I lean back, jaw tightening. Zed’s family name is everywhere. I know his folks; they were close with my own once. That’s how Zed and I met as kids in the first place — both families with old money, political donors, foundations, the works. It doesn’t take a genius to know how Zed got out of those charges.
The language turns more careful the more I dig — hedged, padded, wrapped in distance. Words chosen to avoid blame, to avoid naming names.
