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It’s quiet for a beat too long. My pulse kicks, wild and irrational, because I swear the ground just shifted.
“You have me,” I say softly.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.
Just tightens his grip on my hand.
And for the first time all night, something in his shoulders eases.
Conversation with Kingston has always felt like a familiar rhythm—like a song we both know by heart, even if the tempo shifts. Over plates of grilled salmon and roasted potatoes at a quiet little spot tucked between a wine bar and a bookstore, we fall into that rhythm again. It’s easy. Too easy.
But under the ease, there’s an undercurrent.
A slow-burning, pulse-quickening, can’t-sit-still sort of awareness that’s making it impossible for me to focus on what he’s actually saying about the Panthers’ defensive strategy. I’m too busy watching the way his jaw ticks when he’s frustrated, the way he absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the corner of his cloth napkin, the way his voice dips low when he leans in to tell me something about the locker room atmosphere.
And, God help me, watching Kingston play football—really watching him—was a whole different kind of foreplay. Something about seeing him take control, reading the defense like a puzzle, shouting signals at the line, his biceps straining under his jersey—it did something to me. Even now, thinking about the way he moved, precise and powerful, has me squirming in my seat.
He’s still nursing the loss, I can tell. But when he looks at me—really looks at me—something softens around his eyes.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs as he signs the bill.
“Maybe I like what I see.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s laced with something rougher. Needier.
The sound shoots heat straight to my core.
The car’s idling at the curb when we reach it, but I stop short before the door opens. My hand wraps around his wrist, halting him.
He turns. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, I tug him down by the collar of his jacket and kiss him.
Hard.
I pour every last second of game-day tension, of simmering frustration, of unspoken want into that kiss. My tongue slides against his like I’m trying to taste everything he didn’t say in the locker room. Everything he won’t admit about how much the loss is eating at him. Everything I’ve been holding back, too.
His hands go to my waist, gripping tight. But he lets me take the lead. Lets me kiss him like I mean it. Like I’ve been thinking about doing it since kickoff. Like I didn’t just spend the last three hours clenching my thighs because damn, even a loss looks good on him.
When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
His voice is rough. “What was that for?”
I smile, brushing my thumb across his bottom lip. “Watching you play got me… excited.”
He groans under his breath, his hand flexing against my hip. “You’re killing me, Mya.”
“Just keeping it honest, captain.”
His eyes darken, that trademark Kingston Maddox smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “Get in the car before I show you what happens when I’m not.”
And just like that, I’m climbing into the backseat of the taxi with legs made of jelly and a racing pulse.
The air between us is thick. Electric. Like someone struck a match in the oxygen between our bodies and we’re both just holding our breath, waiting for the detonation. Kingston’s knee brushes mine and I flinch, but not because I want to move away. I want to climb into his lap. Straddle him. Rip that Savile Row jacket off and tug his shirt free of those pressed slacks and bury my face in the scent lingering on his skin—cologne, leather, and something innately him. Grit and heat. Power and precision. My fingers curl into fists on my lap, trying to resist the compulsion to reach for him.
I fail.
At the next red light, he turns toward me, and the low amber streetlight floods across the sharp cut of his jaw, painting him in gold. My breath catches. Because there’s fire in his eyes, but there’s also hunger. That same hunger I’ve seen every time he’s looked at me today—on the field, across the box, at the restaurant.
