Page 71 of Offside Angle

For about a minute.

He kisses me, all hunger and frustration and finally giving himself permission to want something. His hands move over me without hesitation, gripping my hips before slipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, and he presses me deeper into the cushions as he tries to settle between my legs in a way that is clearly familiar to him.

I let him.

Then I decide I’ve been generous enough.

My hands close around his thighs and I pull him forward, shifting him into my lap before he has time to realize what I’m doing. He follows easily at first, still kissing me, until I settle him over me and hold him there by the hips.

The sound he makes against my mouth is surprised and very fucking satisfying.

Then he stops.

Matteo pulls back abruptly, breathing hard as he looks down between us. His eyes widen slightly when he realizes where he is, and I can almost see the thoughts start piling up behind them.

There it is.

I keep my hands on his thighs, rubbing my thumbs slowly over the denim while I give him a second to catch up.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking back at me.

There’s enough uncertainty in his voice that the teasing answer dies before it reaches my mouth. His hands have tightened on my shoulders, and his breathing is getting a little too fast.

“Matteo.” I wait until his eyes meet mine. “Breathe, guapo. You’re okay.”

“I am breathing,” he protests, which would be much more convincing if he weren’t currently gripping me like I’m the only stable object in the apartment.

“Mm. Good.”

His glare is weak, but at least it’s there.

I run my hands once along his thighs, keeping the touch slow and easy. “There’s no rush. We can stop.”

That makes him frown.

He looks down again, apparently reconsidering the entire situation now that his brain has caught up with his body. His cheeks are flushed, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move away.

“This is weird,” he says after a moment.

I bite back a smile. “Good weird or bad weird?”

Matteo hesitates, then looks at me again. “Good weird.”

The admission seems to catch him off guard almost as much as it pleases me.

“Okay.” I slide one hand into his hair and gently draw him closer. “Come here.”

This time I kiss him softly.

I don’t flip us around or push for more. I just let him settle back into it at his own pace, my fingers moving through his hair while my other hand rests on his thigh.

Matteo exhales into my mouth, and little by little the tension leaves his shoulders. Then he leans closer on his own, kissing me again with less panic and more curiosity.

Much better.

We lost Game 5 in Ravensburg.

The series is now 3–2 for the Bastards. If we don’t win the next two, we’re done. Out of the playoffs. Season over. I can still hear the silence that swallowed the home crowd at the final horn, and I can still see Damian afterward, sitting in the locker room with his face set in stone. He didn’t even yell. He stared at us with the cold disappointment of a man personally offended by what he’d just witnessed. Elias has been spiraling ever since, constantly checking his phone, his leg bouncing through every team meeting. Damian is royally pissed, and the whole team can feel it.