Page 126 of The Way We Touch

As we kiss and touch and slowly shed our clothes, I’m lost in the sensations of his body against mine. I’m flooded with all the memories of our first days, fearfully sharing our dreams and fears.

He kisses his way down my chest to my stomach, and as desire floods my veins, I moan and sigh and think of the first time he covered my pussy with his mouth. My entire body came alive.

“Oh, God!” I cry out as my body tightens with orgasm and my thighs start to shake.

“That’s right, baby, come for me.” He gently bites the side of my stomach, and I yelp. “I love this body.”

He kisses his way up to my breasts, cupping them in his hands and kissing, sucking, circling my hardened nipples with his tongue. Rising all the way, he covers my mouth with his, curling his tongue with mine.

My knees rise, and we both groan with relief as he thrusts deep into my slippery core. His hips rock fast, and I’m moving with him. It’s cold outside, but it’s hot as Pepper X in this bed.

Orgasm surges again and again like the waves on the sea, and I cry out as he goes deeper, hitting that sweet spot in my body.

He’s thrusting fast. Our bodies are slippery with sweat, and I bite his shoulder when the pleasure grows too intense. Salt is on my tongue and he groans, stiffening and shuddering as he finishes between my thighs.

His body trembles, and my legs wrap around him as he holds me firmly, filling me, making us one.

I tried to build a wall against him before I ever knew who he was, but he broke through my guard rails. He helped me face my fears and showed me how not to be afraid. He taught me to be strong, and when I couldn’t, when the hits were too much, he stood up and fought for me.

He’s my dream come true, my strong defender, and the way we touch fits all the puzzle pieces into place.

EPILOGUE

Logan

Two months later…

Neon lights shine through the theater in the Manhattan Center in Midtown. A crowd of celebrities has turned out for the annual league honors, and I cover Dylan’s small hand with mine as we sit together in the balcony.

She’s beautiful in a red strapless dress that hugs her curves and hangs in a flowing skirt to her muscular calves. I’m so glad she finally agreed to come with me, even if it was pretty last minute.

Garrett called and insisted we attend, even though I’m completely out of the running. He guaranteed me I wouldn’t have to watch Ricky win the MVP trophy, and he threw in a carrot for Dylan—their brother Hendrix is also here.

Once she agreed to come, I gave in and said yes. The carrot for me was being able to stay in my apartment with all the privacy features I installed after our last encounter with the gossip sites.

Now we’re in our seats watching highlight reels and listening as award after award is announced.

Lifetime achievement winners are assigned along with the Man of the Year award, whatever that means.

I slide my palm down the front of my charcoal-gray Armani suit. The ring Dylan gave me at Christmas never leaves my finger, and her sparkling engagement ring is on hers.

The second TMI article put an end to all the bad-mouthing and dragging her reputation. Once the list of everything she’s overcome and achieved became public, followed by how faithfully she stood by me during my recovery, anyone who dares to dunk on her comes off looking like the biggest asshole in the business.

Word of how we handled Krall in the parking lot also trickled through the media. It was all speculation, of course, since nothing could be verified on tape or video.

We have never addressed the rumors, but after the guy who cut my record-setting run short with an illegal tackle was found with his clock cleaned in the parking lot of the Bradford family restaurant, they put two and two together.

“How much longer?” I shift in my seat, clapping when a friend from another team wins the Comeback Player of the Year award.

“Too long,” Hendrix quips from where he sits on Dylan’s other side.

His date is an actress from LA, but Dylan is so excited to see her brother. She holds his hand and leans her head on his shoulder, and it’s one of the few saving graces of the night.

Hendrix is a cocky little shit, but he still has that Bradford heart—even if he tries to hide it behind a mask of celebrity. He’s wearing a sharkskin suit, and he has his championship ring on his finger. I’m surprised he didn’t roll up in his tricked-out Range Rover, but he used a car service like the rest of us.

Then the stage explodes with neon lights, and a new video begins. Shifting in my seat, a surge of nerves hits me when I realize they’re playing my highlight reel from the past season.

“He set record after record until he was unfairly taken down at the pinnacle of his success,” the narrator says, and they show that fucking replay of the hip-drop tackle.

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