by Naima Simone
She stiffened, her walls clamping down on him. Then she shattered. A strangled groan filled the air as he continued to work her, making sure she enjoyed every last shiver and quake of her orgasm.
Only when her thighs eased open around his head did he stand. She stared up at him from her sprawl across her desk. Like a gorgeous, sexual pagan sacrifice. One he wanted to fall on and take again and again until they were both consumed.
He shoved his pants below his hips, freeing his cock, stroking it from root to tip. Her gaze dropped to the jacking motions of his hand and stayed there, as if transfixed. So he kept it up, even though he wanted inside her more than any gain of yards or championship ring.
Pushing off the desk, she sat and reached for him. But he blocked her hand, instead capturing it and placing an open-mouthed kiss to the palm. “No, hala,” he said, the effort of holding back, of having that soft strangled moan in his ears and not driving himself inside her already, straining the words. “I’m too close. And when I come, it’s going to be in you.”
She scooted forward and settled her hands on his abs, stroking them over skin that felt about two sizes too small over his body and sensitive as hell. Her hands stroked his shoulders and arms, tracing the tattoos before returning to his chest. Her nails raked his nipples, and he shook, pumping his dick harder. With a low murmur of words he didn’t catch, she caressed the small tips with sweeps of her thumbs.
“Kim,” he warned, clasping one wrist, and then the other, with his free hand. Shuddering, he bucked into his grip. “Look at me.” Pinching her chin, he tilted her head up. “Do we need a condom?”
She was already pregnant, and he was clean; he’d had a full physical before the season began. Plus, he’d never had sex without protection, not even with—
He leaped back from that thought and shut it down. There was only room for Kim and him here. Closing his eyes, he imagined the hot, wet suction of her body on his bare cock. He shuddered. Please, say no, he silently begged as those pretty gray eyes studied him.
“No,” she whispered.
“Thank fuck,” he growled. Not wasting another second, he notched the head of his cock at the entrance to her sex. Then he guided her arms around his neck. “Hold on to me,” he instructed, gripping her hips in his hands…and thrusting forward.
He stilled, clenching his jaw to scramble for the tatters of his control so he didn’t start plunging and bucking into her like some wild animal.
Bending his head over hers and pressing his face to her hair, he groaned. “Jesus, hala, your pussy.” It wrapped around him like a hot, wet, sucking mouth. Except being inside her was better than any blow jobs. Even hers. And God knows she’d gifted him with the best he’d ever had.
A shiver rippled through her, and his eyes damn near crossed as a corresponding quiver echoed in her sex. Carefully, deliberately, he slid free of her body until only the tip remained. Then, just as slowly, he pushed back in, savoring every drag of his cock over her sweet, firm flesh. Fuck, it was so goddamn good. It was a reward and torture. Euphoria and pain.
And he didn’t want to leave it. Ever.
Her lips parted over the base of his throat, her breath warm and sweet on his skin. She traced his collarbone, and the tip of her tongue might as well as have trailed over his dick. Cupping the back of her head, he tilted it back and crushed his mouth to hers. He swallowed every moan, whimper, and cry as he rode her, rocking into her, that laughable restraint melting under the blaze of the lust and passion between them. Their mouths crashed into each other, mimicking their bodies. He could smother the sensual, erotic sounds she loosed, but couldn’t do anything about the smack of their skin coming together. Or the suction of her soaked flesh releasing and welcoming his cock. All of it—the tight grip of her core, the rawness of their kiss, the erotic soundtrack of sex—pushed him closer and closer to orgasm.
Fingers of electricity danced up and down his spine, zipping down to the soles of his feet, and then back up to culminate in his balls. He wasn’t going to last. But he refused to come without her. Reaching between them, he stroked his thumb over her clit, rubbing until her nails pricked his scalp, and their kiss muffled her ecstatic cry.
Her sex locked down on his cock, milking him. He throbbed, managed a couple more strokes before tumbling right after her into a mind-scrambling, heart-seizing release.
Even as her flesh slowly relaxed around him, and his breathing eased into I-just-might-survive-it territory, shock slid through him. And in its wake crawled guilt and shame, thick and oily. Instead of the satisfied lassitude that should have loosened his muscles and calmed his mind, he stiffened, and a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts whipped in his head.
He’d just had sex with Kim.
Again. And unlike the other women he’d been with, she wasn’t nameless. With the others, it’d just been sex. As much of a douche as it made him, their faces were interchangeable. Because it’d been about the physical release, the moments of forgetfulness. But he’d come to this office to have sex with Kim. Not a woman whose name he couldn’t remember, or he wouldn’t see again as soon as the orgasm passed. But Kim didn’t stand out just because she was carrying his baby. He’d had dinner with her, had shared with her, had comforted her. That made her more than a random one-night stand.
And that felt like a betrayal to Grace, to her memory.
He’d kept sex surface-level for just that reason. Grace had been his one shot at a happily-ever-after. He didn’t deserve another; he hadn’t been able to take care of her, help her. To face that kind of failure and pain again? The thought of being responsible for someone again scared the shit out of him. He already had a baby on the way, and that still woke him up in cold sweats sometimes at night. But to add another person’s happiness, protection…life on the line?
Oh, fuck. Pressure the size of an anvil pressed down on his chest. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he murmured, “We shouldn’t have done that.”
She went rigid against him. And in that instant, he could’ve kicked his own ass.
“Kim,” he said, cupping her shoulders.
“You’re right.” She pushed at his chest, and interpreting her demand, he carefully withdrew from her. Immediately, he wanted to snatch her back to him and return to the warm, erotic embrace of her body. But the intensity of that need had him stumbling back a step and pulling up his track pants.
Rearranging her clothes, she didn’t face him until her dress covered her breasts once more, and the hem reached her knees.
“You’re right,” she repeated, her chin lifted. She appeared every inch the cool, unruffled executive even with her smeared lipstick, patches of lightly abraded skin on her jaw and neck from his beard, and untidied hair. “This was a mistake. One we won’t repeat.”
Before he could apologize, ask her to come back, agree—what-the fuck-ever—she strode across the room and opened another door, disappearing behind it.
How long he stood there, staring at that closed door, he didn’t know. But finally, with a low, growled curse, he grabbed his clothes, dressed, and left the office.
He’d fucked up, and he had no idea how to fix it.
Or if he even should.
Chapter Eleven
Ronin carried the tray with his lunch of a grilled chicken wrap, brown rice, and a side salad across the cafeteria. It was Monday morning, and his mood sucked. And he hadn’t required Dom to point that out to him while they lifted weights earlier. He was well aware that he was in need of an attitudinal adjustment.
He wished he could blame it on the loss to the Falcons the night before. That had been a tight game that his team should’ve won. But a couple of penalties and the offense failing to convert on third downs in the last quarter cost them the game. The Norman B. Rice Athletic Center, the Warriors’ practice complex, with its indoor and outdoor fields, training area, meeting rooms, and fully serviced and staffed cafeteria, was a great facility. But being here instead of at home, basking in Victory Monday because they’d pull
ed off a win, burned.
So, yeah, meetings and studying tape would’ve been a justifiable reason for his mood being as black as his sister’s fried pork chops. He shuddered. But he didn’t make a habit of lying to himself, and though this was one time he did indulge in delusion, he couldn’t. Because he couldn’t evict the real reason from his mind, no matter how hard he tried. And damn, he had tried over the last couple of days.
He hadn’t heard a word from Kim since Friday—not a call, a text, sky-writing. Not that he’d expected her to contact him. Not after how they’d parted. Still… It’d taken everything in him not to reach out himself. Just to check up on her. He’d pulled his phone out several times on the plane Saturday, and even more than that the night at the hotel.
But, at the last moment, he always put the cell down. He wanted to respect her obvious request for space. And he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he needed that same space.
As soon as he’d walked out of Kim’s office building, his mother had called. She’d been cheery, but he’d detected the shortness of breath and fatigue in her voice. While the surgery had been a success, she suffered side effects from the radiation treatments. His mother constantly nagged his sisters and him not to worry about her, but until the doctor gave her the all-clear, Ronin would continue to worry.
When he’d hung up, all his obligations had climbed on his shoulders and seemed to pile-drive him into the ground. Factor in a doomed-for-failure relationship with a woman who resented the hell out of his career—his passion—and it didn’t require a Ph.D. to realize crossing that line with Kim had been a bad idea. Yet, he couldn’t erase the memory of her moans, the feel of her twisting against him, under him…
Last night’s game had proven that he needed to get his shit together. He hadn’t sucked, but he’d come damn close. Maintaining one hundred percent focus on the game had been difficult. He couldn’t afford to mess up the one thing, the one place where he had control.
When his life went to shit after Grace died, he’d thrown himself into his career. Helplessly standing by like he was some fucking spectator as she died had stripped him of all his power, his sense of being master of his ship, his universe. He’d been shipwrecked. And football had been his only measure of restored order to his life.
In the last several months, especially with his mother’s illness, football had become his sanctuary. And because he couldn’t get his head out of his ass, he was threatening that haven.
“Hey, bruh,” Zeph greeted him, settling in the chair next to him with his own lunch. “Watching that game today was almost as brutal as playing it last night.” He shook his head. “That shit just doesn’t get easier.”
“When it does, we need to quit,” Ronin said.
“True that,” Zeph agreed, digging into his chicken and pasta.
“Did you hear the rumor?” Dom asked, plopping his tray down before sinking to the seat across from Ronin.
“Rumor?” Zeph arched an eyebrow. “What are you trying to do? Take over Ronin’s job as gossip whore?”
Ronin scowled. “I don’t gossip. I just hear things.”
“And spread ’em.” Dom patted Ronin’s hand. “Don’t worry, Ro-Ro. We still love you.”
Ronin flipped him off.
Dom snickered. “Sorry, big guy. You had your chance. Tenny’s got me on lockdown now.” He held up a hand, palm out. “I have news, damn it. Focus. So the rumor—I heard that we might get Dirty Harry in the off-season. Between the Giants’ salary cap and his off-field issues, they’re letting him go, and we might get him.”
Shit. Harrison “Dirty Harry” Wood was not just one of the best cornerbacks in the league; he was the best. But because of a bad attitude, a fist fight or two on and off the field, and an income that was the highest at his position, Ronin understood the Giants’ decision to trade him. Understood, but still considered it dumb as hell. You just didn’t get rid of a star player like Dirty Harry. But their loss and the Warriors’ gain. With Harrison Wood, their defense would dominate.
“Let’s hope that rumor is true. Dirty Harry,” Zeph said, shaking his head. “We would kick ass up and down that field.”
Dom nodded. “No shit.” The quarterback picked up his bottle of water and narrowed his eyes at Ronin. “In other news… What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Ronin smothered a sigh and stalled answering by drinking from his water bottle. He should’ve seen this one coming. Whenever either of them was PMSing, he had zero problems calling it out. And usually, he didn’t have a problem sharing with them. Hell, Zeph and Dom had been the first two he’d told about his mom’s health. And one or both of them never left his side when Grace died.
But this was different. He couldn’t say anything about the pregnancy yet. Which meant he couldn’t go into his history and present with Kim. Not being able to confide in them—it weighed on him. But he’d made a promise. And he couldn’t break it. Especially to Kim.
So instead, he stuck a forkful of chicken wrap in his mouth and mumbled, “Nothing.”
“Is it your mom?” Dom asked, folding his arms on top of the table and leaning forward. “You know I’ve been there with my foster mom, man. There’s no shame in admitting you’re scared and it’s screwing with your head.”
Ronin clenched his jaw. And this was why he loved these two men like brothers.
He cleared his throat. “No, she’s good. The radiation treatments wear on her a little, but so far so good.” And it was a mantra he repeated to himself several times a day.
“Then this ‘nothing’ must be woman-related. C’mon, spill,” Dom waved a hand between the three of them. “This trust circle is a safe place, Ro-Ro.”
Ronin chucked a small Roma tomato at Dom, and it struck him on the forehead. “I can’t believe Tenny hasn’t poisoned you yet.”
Zeph snorted. “No deflecting. I remember a time not so long ago when you wouldn’t accept ‘nothing’ from me. I believe you told me that when my pecker is screwing with my head and, therefore, the team, then it’s definitely ‘something’ and your business. And then you called me a douche.”
“Nah, that was Dom,” Ronin corrected.
“Yeah, that was definitely me. He”—Dom waved his fork in Ronin’s direction—“told you to fuck Sophia out of your system.”
Oh, the irony.
“Right, right.” Zeph leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his neck. He studied Ronin for several seconds through narrowed eyes. “So, your all-around mood fuckery have anything to do with where you disappeared to a few times last week?”
“And by ‘where you disappeared to,’ he means that friend of Renee’s. What’s her name? Kim?” Dom glanced at Zeph, who nodded. “Renee told us that she called for your number. Renee wanted to know if we knew anything about you two. And of course, we weren’t even aware there was a ‘you two.’”
“And you accuse me of gossiping,” Ronin muttered. Setting his fork down, he sighed. “Look—”
His phone vibrated against his leg, and he removed it from his shorts pocket, relief coursing through him. Conversation averted for the moment. He didn’t want to lie to them, but if that line of discussion continued, he would end up having to, even if just by omission.
He glanced down at the screen, half expecting to find one of his sister’s names there, but it wasn’t.
Hala.
He’d entered Kim’s number under his nickname for her in case anyone got into his phone. His heart started beating a little bit quicker, and he silently cursed the reaction. She was probably contacting him with the date and time for the sonogram or something else related to the baby…
“Hey,” he answered.
“Ronin.”
He stiffened, every muscle in his body locking down tight. Her voice—oh, fuck, her voice. Thick, gritty as sandpaper. Hoarse. As if she was crying. That slight increase of his pulse sped into full-out pounding.
“Kim,” he said, managing to conceal the worry crawling inside him
from his tone. “What’s wrong?”
At his words, Dom and Zeph went on alert beside him. Their humor had disappeared, and they watched him, expressions intent, gazes laser-focused and sharp.
When she didn’t immediately respond, he tightened his grip on the phone. “Hala, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I’m bleeding,” she whispered, and then a horrible sob echoed over the line. “I’m bleeding, Ronin. Oh God. I’m so scared…” Another choked sob, and he rose from the chair. Dom and Zeph followed suit.
“Where are you?” Jesus, how did he sound so calm when terror, dark and twisted, surged within him. Threatening to swallow him.
“I’m at home,” she rasped. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning, so I left work. I started to cramp and…and…” She began weeping. “Oh God, I can’t lose another baby…”
The words eviscerated him. The grief and fear shredded him. He’d known, but hearing her say it…
“Listen to me, hala. You and the baby are going to be fine. Hang up and call 911. Tell them to take you to UW Medical Center. I’m on my way. Okay?” He was already moving across the cafeteria, headed to the parking lot. The University of Washington Medical Center was only five minutes from her and about fifteen minutes from the practice facility.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Ronin?”
“Yeah, hala.” He burst through the complex doors, the cold November air blowing over his arms and legs, bared by a T-shirt and shorts. “I’m here.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know, but everything’s going to be fine. The baby is good. Now hang up and call 911. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
He waited until the call disconnected before shoving the phone back into his pocket and reaching for his—Fuck. His keys were in his coat. Which was in his locker.
“Dom’s coming with your coat and the rest of your stuff,” Zeph said from behind him, startling him. Shit, he hadn’t even realized the other man had followed him out. Zeph clapped Ronin on the shoulder. “I’ll tell Coach you had an emergency and where you are. And as soon as we’re out, we’ll be there. You going to be okay?”
