Page 92 of The Right Move

Grinding, I moan into his mouth.

Yes, I’m going to come because if I wasn’t close already, now I’m teetering on the edge, ready to fall. I’d love to think I could disconnect sex from emotion, but I can’t, and knowing Ryan was thinking of me tonight, has me coming undone.

I pull his shirt up, needing to feel the warmth of his stomach, my fingers whispering against the hard planes of his muscles until they tighten and coil under my touch.

He hisses an inhale through his teeth. “Keep touching me.”

His words are just as desperate as mine, silently begging me to want him.

My palms slide around his back, under his shirt, holding him to me as close as possible. He’s warm and hard and so perfect it hurts.

In reply, Ryan presses his thigh firmly against my clit, rubbing, and my body’s response is immediate and electrifying.

His name rolls off my lips like a desperate prayer as the beginning waves of my orgasm rip through me. Needy fingers turn into white knuckles grasping at his shirt, hoping it has the strength to keep me upright. Euphoria sparks in the back of my eyes, stringing me along as wave after wave flutters through me.

I can barely focus on Ryan’s admiring gaze watching me work through my release, but it’s there, nonetheless, watching me unravel for him.

Catching my breath, my head falls, finding the wet spot I left on his pants but unable to care in the slightest.

After almost eight months, all it took was Ryan’s fucking leg to make me come.

Grasping my chin once again, he kisses me more tenderly than before. Reverently. Passionately.

“Next time you decide you need help with your…situation,” he murmurs against my lips with an aching rasp. “Ask me.”

With that, he leaves me dazed and satisfied, slumped against the entryway wall before he closes his bedroom door behind him.

20

RYAN

As of the last four years, basketball has been my entire existence and I have the privilege to play in the NBA. I’m grateful for my opportunities, yes, but I’ve never disliked my job more than I do right now.

My profession took me away from home and put me on an airplane just twelve hours after my Indy came all over my leg. Twelve hours after I told her the next time she needs to come, I want her to ask for my help.

It’s been three days and we haven’t spoken since.

I’m not sure if I freaked her out or got her thinking, but we’ve been flirting in our own way for weeks. She’s blatantly told me she’s attracted to me multiple times, so I’m not going to lie, I was half expecting her to knock on my door and ask for another orgasm right then.

I’ve been celibate for more than two years, but I’ve imagined how her legs would mold around my waist or how it’d feel to slide against her sweat-soaked skin since the day she walked into my apartment, so there’s no way in hell I was going to let someone else get the job without throwing my hat in the ring.

Making sure she gets hers doesn’t have to change that for me. I can take care of her in that department without compromising on the rules I’ve set in place for myself. In fact, we could add her orgasms to our fake dating arrangement if she wants. I’ll make sure she comes so many times she won’t be able to see straight as long as I’m the only one with the privilege.

Because trust me, after the night I pinned her to the wall and made her come, there’s no way in hell another man is going near her without me losing my goddamn mind.

Or going to prison.

She thinks she’s broken. Broken. As if her ex-boyfriend wasn’t already the first name on my shit list, the fact that he made this woman think she’s anything less than perfection personified has me close to seeking him out and destroying his life by any means possible.

An afternoon game in San Antonio got us to Dallas early enough for the boys to take it easy and have the evening off. I, however, have been in my hotel room watching game film since we landed, and I’ll stay right here until our morning practice tomorrow, inevitably checking my phone every thirty minutes for a text from my roommate.

A page full of notes and a quarter and a half into some Dallas film, my hotel phone rings. The sound is obnoxiously loud, and there’s no way to really silence the thing without answering. Unfortunately, even as secure as these hotels are, at least once a road trip, someone from the front desk will call, needing absolutely nothing other than wanting to hear me speak on the other end.

Exasperated and wanting to get this over with, I answer the phone. “Yeah?”

“What a greeting.”

“Ethan? Why are you calling me on the hotel line?”

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