Page 47 of Wrong Score

“Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” I offer, giving her an option out, but she only licks her lips in response giving me my answer.

I’m not thinking anymore, just feeling. The heat of her, the way her body trembles as I press my lips to her cotton panties still in place but dampening quickly before me. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt as though she’s trying to ground herself.

I hook my thumbs into the side of her thong, pulling them down over her hips with practiced precision, sliding it down her legs with agonizing slowness. I look up, her eyes catching with mine. She doesn’t tell me to stop, instead her eyes are hooded, the same need in her eyes mirroring mine, her chest rapidly rising and falling, matching my rhythm.

I dive back in, my tongue flicks against the perfect cleft at the apex of her thighs, causing her entire body to jolt. The sound she makes—a soft, breathless whimper—is enough to undo me completely. My hands grip her hips, holding her steady as I work her with my tongue, exploring every inch of her, drawing out sounds I never thought she’d make for me.

Her legs tremble, and I shift, hooking one of them over my shoulder to give myself better access. She’s lost now, her head tipped back against the wall, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps, as I press deeper, my tongue lapping up every drop, swirling through her clit. Her fingers slide through my hair, pulling me closer as she moans, pulling me closer, begging for more.

She tugs my hair closer as she moans my name. “Bex… oh god…”

I feel her start to unravel, her body tightening, trembling, as she teeters on the edge. And then, with one final flick of my tongue, she falls apart. Her cry of release echoes through the room, her body shuddering, her legs giving out but I hold her up as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her.

I stay with her, drawing out every last bit of her climax, until she finally goes still, her body slumping against the wall. Slowly, I lower her leg off of my shoulder and rise to my feet, keeping a hold on her as my own need for release throbs painfully in my trousers. But this wasn't about me. This was about her, about protecting my team, about keeping whatever secret she has about Reeve safe from the prying eyes of the media. Or… at least that’s what I tell myself, because her conversation outside of my office confirms that even if I was capable of putting someone before hockey, Rowan has her sights on making a splash to make her slimy boss happy.

I made my point, and hopefully, she’ll see reason.

Rowan lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine. There's a vulnerability in her gaze that wasn't there before, a connection that goes beyond the physical. But I can't let myself get caught up in it. I can't let myself care for her the way I know I want to. I've been down that road before and it never ends well.

"Bex," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "We still need to talk about this, the gala, the limo, and what you think I know about Reeve."

I shake my head. "My tongue said a lot just now. Mostly, that I was right not to trust you. I knew this whole time you had a big story. We both got something out of what just happened," I say, adjusting the painful erection that I'll have to sort out later in the private shower of my office. “I think we can both agree that this will be the last time.”

She steps forward, reaching out to touch me but pulls her hand back as if realizing that there’s no point. "You're not listening. The story isn’t about Reeve. It’s about Sam and he already approved it.”

I’m not sure how to process what she just said. “Sam knows there’s a story about him coming out?” I ask.

She nods but there’s no light in her eyes for me anymore. I should have listened—I should have heard her out.

“Row—” I say, reaching out for her but she takes a step out of my reach.

Then a loud knock pounds against the door.

"Bex, are you available?"

We both freeze, the reality of what we've just done inside the Hawkeyes stadium crashes down around us. I quickly adjust my clothes, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism, while Rowan scrambles, searching for her panties.

Rowan's eyes are wide with panic, but she manages to find her underwear and quickly steps into them.

"Just a moment, Sam," I call out, my voice steady.

I turn to Rowan, finding her pulling her panties into place and quickly smoothing out her dress with trembling hands.

I fight the urge to pull her against me to stop her from shaking and to reassure her that we’ll talk about this later. That I made a rash judgment that I’ll rectify if she just lets me me.

Suddenly, I see her standing before me so differently than when she first walked in. She never dresses like she’s dressed right now for game day or media. Where a steely gray pant suit should be, is a floral spring dress. Where I should find a slicked back ponytail or bun, I find her hair down with soft blonde curves round her face. She didn’t come here on a work errand, this was personal. She wanted to talk about the gala–about us. This no longer feels like a back-alley trade deal I made with a cunning journalist who has in her possession a hard-hitting story.

Her lips tighten, her eyes staying fixed on the door as she walks toward the exit of my office. The look in her eyes – a mix of hurt, and something else I can't quite name – hits me like a physical blow.

I thought I was protecting my team—protecting Reeve. And yet, something tells me I’m going to regret the way I handled this.

“Rowan,” I say again softly to stop her, but she takes the last steps, reaches for the door, and twists the handle, pulling the door open.

"Oh. I didn't realize you were in a meeting," Sam says, his eyes on Rowan first as she walks past him.

“It’s officially over and I was just leaving, he’s all yours,” she tells him with a forced smile and then slips past him, her words echoing in my head with double meaning.

I watch as she retreats down the hall, unsure of what the hell I just did or how I’m going to fix it.

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