Page 10 of Game Day

At a red light, I turn toward him and see him watching me. He’s statue-still except for the tic in his jaw.

I shift in the seat, but when his touch strokes up the inside of my thigh, my knees fall open.

His fingers move higher, skimming across my skin to where I’m already aching.

“We don’t have time to stop,” I manage.

“Then you better keep those pretty eyes on the road.”

When he brushes between my legs where I’m throbbing, I could cry.

“So fucking soft,” he groans. “Love how you feel bare.”

He strokes me, rubbing light, insistent circles like he’d traced in my leg…

Only now they’re far more intimate.

I gasp with pleasure as he plays with my clit, lighting up every aching part of me.

His fingers press inside me. I tilt up my hips because, God help me, there's nothing I want more than the way he makes me feel.

"Tell me you haven’t been this wet all week," he murmurs.

"I have two perfectly good hands and a vibrator.” It’s my best attempt at trash talk, and he sees through it.

"They’re the bench, Pink. I’m the starting lineup."

Clay does his best work on a basketball court. His second-best work is between my thighs.

I sneak a look down to see his tattooed arm disappearing under my dress. His muscles flex in a way that’s beyond sexy.

The GPS interrupts us with instructions to turn.

We're five minutes from the mayor’s house. There’s no time for what he’s doing, but I can’t find the willpower or the words to stop him.

His finger wedges between the seat and my body, pressing up inside me. He's thick and determined.

I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview mirror. Pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

He slips past my defenses, finds my weak spots, makes me beg. The tension builds in me, overwhelming.

Clay groans. "You have no idea how hard it was on the road without you."

It’s going to get harder, I think but don’t say it.

This is what he signed up for. What I signed up for by loving him.

"We’ll be late," I whisper.

“They’ll wait. I’m not going anywhere until my future wife comes all over these fingers.”

Clay presses a second finger inside me, stretching my body even as it feels like my chest is ripping in two.

He’s not only touching me, he’s staking his claim. There’s something territorial about the way he handles me. He’s as at home with my body as he is on the court, spinning a special kind of magic that sprouts inside me and hums to the rhythm of his fingers.

My other hand is pressed against the steering wheel, my diamond ring glinting stubbornly in the near darkness.

My hips snap toward him, the leather seat smooth against my skin.

---