“Get over here,” she says. “Both of you. I’m tired of watching you from sixty feet away.”
I climb off Cole’s lap. He follows me up, one hand still hooked in the back of my shirt. Maya is standing by the desk now, laptop closed behind her, and I reach her first this time, my hands on her waist, pulling her in. She tips her chin up, eyes dark in the dim room. The scent of her—warm skin and the faint floral of her shampoo—hits me, and my body tightens with a fresh, sharper want.
“You played the best game I’ve ever seen tonight,” she says, low, just for me.
“I know,” I say.
“The arrogance.”
“You just said it was the best game you’ve ever seen. I’m agreeing with your expert analysis.”
“My expert analysis also noted the turnovers,” she says.
“Your expert analysis is standing very close to me right now.”
“She can leave,” she says.
I tighten my hands on her waist, feeling the delicate bones beneath my palms. “She hasn’t moved.”
Her hands are on my chest. She pushes up on her toes and kisses me hard, her teeth catching my lower lip, the bite she knows makes my hands tighten. I pull her flush against me. Against my mouth, she makes a sound that goes straight through me, a low, hungry noise that unravels my control another inch.
“You taste like Gatorade,” she says.
“You taste like the wine you drank while I was winning a championship,” I say.
“Someone had to stay hydrated.”
“You were sitting in a press box drinking pinot while I blocked a shot with my shin.”
“Your shin is very brave. I’ll write a feature about it.”
I bite her neck. She gasps. Her hand fists my shirt, and the sharp pull of fabric against my shoulders is a brand.
Cole comes up behind her. His chest presses to her back, his mouth at her ear. “Is this the part where you two stop flirting and admit you want to take your clothes off?”
“We’re debating,” Maya says.
“You’re debating with your tongue in his mouth,” Cole says.
“It’s a persuasive technique,” Maya says.
“Take her to bed,” I say to Cole over her head. “Before she writes an editorial about my turnovers.”
“You take me to bed,” Maya says, chin up, eyes on mine. “You want me? Come get me yourself.”
I pick her up. Her legs wrap around my waist, reflex and muscle memory, her weight a perfect, familiar anchor. Cole follows close down the hall. My mouth stays on her neck, tasting salt and perfume. Her hands stay in my hair, tugging just enough to sting. At the bedroom door, Cole reaches around us and opens it. The lamp is already on. She must have turned it on before we left for the game.She knew, I think.She knew exactly how this would end.
I set her on the bed. She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me down with her. My mouth finds hers, and the kiss is different from the living room, deeper, slower, my hand spreading wide against the small of her back. The frantic energy from before settles into something thicker, more intentional. The championship high is still there, but it’s morphing into a different kind of hunger—one that needs to be felt, not just won.
“Off,” she says, pulling at my shirt. “I want to see what I won tonight.”
“You didn’t win anything. I won. You watched,” I say.
“I watched from the best seat in the house.” She drags the shirt over my head. Her hands land on my chest, then slide down. Her fingers trace the tattoos she has memorized, the ink and scars and muscle. Her touch is a map she knows by heart. “And I want my trophy.”
“I’m a trophy now.”
“You’re a trophy with too many clothes on.”
