Page 43 of Knot Giving Up 2

I laugh and the movement has my knot tugging at Meggie’s opening, causing us both to moan. I almost feel ready to go again, but my knees are scraped up from the rooftop and there’s no way McQuinn’s comfortable. A fact he confirms when he complains about a piece of the armrest digging into his spine.

We do the best we can to roll to our sides. McQuinn could get up if he wanted, but he stays pressed against Meggie’s back as we all wait for my knot to go down.

It’s not comfortable, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. They tell me about their day and making wishes in the center of Paris, and even though I wish I could have been with them, I’m glad they got that time together.

When my knot finally goes down, I slide out of Meggie, feeling a gush of my release and McQuinn’s roll down her thigh. A primal urge has me reaching between us, scooping it up, and shoving it back inside her. The soft scent of warm apples blows away on the breeze, and I help her to her feet. She wobbles a little and smiles as I steady her. “You okay?”

“Better than okay.” She kisses me, then McQuinn, and my heart nearly swells to bursting. He pulls her bra and shirt back over her breasts while I go look for her shorts.

Meggie’s laugh jerks my attention back to them in time to see McQuinn tucking a piece of the fractured back of the chair into the pocket of his gym shorts.

“What?” He grins. “For my scrapbook.”

23

Dante

Ibarge into the physical therapy room high on adrenaline and pain after almost losing a game that shouldn’t have even been close.

“I need something stronger,” I say to Dr. Atkinson.

Her brows wrinkle over her eyes. She takes my forearm in her hand and starts manipulating my arm, checking my range of motion. I glance over my shoulder and catch Ellis watching us through the window that leads to the gym. Giving him a smile and a quick wave, I reach for the blinds and pull them shut.

I wince as Dr. Atkinson tries to take my arm over my head and frowns. “I don’t know if you should play on it anymore.”

Shit. I know she’s a good doctor and I should be listening to her, but I can’t let my team down. “Not an option. I’m playing.”

She rubs along my scapula, massaging into the tight muscles around my shoulder. “I won’t pull you—I could—but I won’t. Not yet. I know how important the Olympics are, but I need you to know this isn’t smart. You could do permanent damage.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need something for the pain.”

“I already—”

“Something stronger,” I grit out.

In the wake of the alpha aggression rolling of me, she drops her head, and I let out a long frustrated sigh. I don’t mean to snap at her. That’s not me. I can be rough on my teammates, assertive, demanding, but I’m not usually temperamental or mean.

But pain turns people into monsters.

“I can give you—”

“Do it.”

“—cortisone injections, but we’ll have to submit a Therapeutic Use Exemption.”

Fuck! If we submit a TUE, my teammates will know. If Ellis or Harrison find out, they’ll pull out of the game. Neither of them will want to risk further injury. Even if it means we all have to forfeit. I won’t do that to my team.

Grinding my teeth, I carefully roll my shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

After what feels like a hellish eternity of physical therapy, Dr. Atkinson lets me go, reminding me to ice it right away. As if I could forget. The pain is nearly constant lately. I’ve managed to make it through games, but each game it gets worse. It’s getting harder and harder to mute the bond and keep Ellis from feeling my tumultuous emotions. But I have to keep it up a little longer.

To distract myself, I work on another poem while walking back to our rooms alone. I told Ellis to go on ahead without me while I met with the doc. I don’t write poetry often, but sometimes the mood strikes, and I just feel inspired. All my current sexual and physical frustration is apparently coming out as inspiration because I haven’t written poems like this since the last Olympics, when I was separated from Ellis and missed him like he was a drug and I was an addict.

Hmm… I like that. I am an addict, addicted to your taste… No, I used taste in the last poem I left Meggie. Addicted to your… cunt? Too harsh. Pussy? Too soft. I am an addict, addicted to your lips… your breasts… your skin… I am an addict addicted to the soft glide of your skin against mine. I like that.

Choosing not to take the stairs so I don’t jostle my shoulder more than necessary, I wait for the elevator. Maybe there’s some kind of elevator metaphor I could use.

The doors open and my jaw drops at what I’m seeing. The guy who searched our room yesterday is in the elevator, holding his dog’s leash in one hand while his other hand is squeezing the ass of a woman he’s kissing the living daylights out of.

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