Page 63 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

I suddenly have an idea. The spot where they’re stuck is not far from my apartment, so I text Vaughn to come in with me.

I can get you out of the traffic. Meet me at my place.

I hear the door creak open, and in moments, Vaughn, Collins, and their teammate step in. Vaughn’s look of relief is almost comical; I can’t help but smirk.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he says, his voice tinged with gratitude, but there’s an edge of something else—tension, maybe?

“Just doing my part,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. I glance at Collins, who is already settling in my living room, knowing Vaughn’s eyes are boring into me, assessing, judging.

When the door closes, the atmosphere changes. The other teammate leans against the wall, chatting about the upcoming game, while Collins lounges on my couch, casually flipping through the channels. Vaughn stands a little at a distance, though his posture is stiff, and he tries to project an air of indifference that he probably can’t maintain.

“Nice place you got here,” Collins says, glancing around, and I can sense the flirtation in his tone. “You should have us over more often.”

I try to smile, but it comes out forced.

Vaughn slightly shifts and tightens his jaw as he watches the interaction. His face flickers with a touch of jealousy, but it disappears just quickly, and before I can fully process it, the mask he wears comes back.

“It’s cozy,” I say, trying to keep the mood light. Inside, I’m seething. Why is Vaughn doing that? He’s pretending nothing happened on the island, that there’s no way we could have connected in that way.

I feel invisible in my own apartment as the conversation continues. Vaughn’s interaction with Collins and then with that other guy while he avoids eye contact with me is maddening to watch. I want to scream at him—make him see what it was we shared—but I boil down to simmering resentment.

Eventually, the laughter dries up, and the room goes dead quiet. I look at Vaughn; our eyes meet for a moment. He quickly looks away, but there’s a flicker of something there—something of the tension that hangs between us.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Vaughn finally says, his tone slightly clipped. “Where is it?”

I point to the back of the apartment where the bathroom is located, and as I turn to enter my bedroom, he follows me in.

I am flooded with frustration and longing. I can’t let this go on. I can’t allow him to treat me like just another colleague, just another obligation.

“You can’t just pretend nothing happened, Vaughn. I mean it,” I tell him. “You can’t act like I’m just another colleague.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, his voice low, almost frustrated. “It was a moment, Rachel. We’re back in the real world now.”

“Is that all it was to you?” I challenge, closing the gap, my heart beating faster. “A moment? It was more to me.”

The space between us is now charged with electricity, and he takes a step toward me. “You know it was more than a moment. But that’s changed.”

He closes the distance between us, and his eyes search mine before I can respond. It’s just the two of us, and the world outside fades away. It’s just us caught in the storm of our emotions.

“Stop pretending,” he demands, his voice barely above a whisper.

It’s gone, and the tension snaps. We are in each other’s arms. The kiss ignites a flame that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It’s desperate and passionate, everything we’ve been holding back, a collision.

Vaughn runs his eyes over my body lasciviously and licks his lips. His antics are silly, and I burst out laughing.

He places his hand on the back of my sweater, anchoring himself before jumping out of his skin. The taste of my mouth, hot and ripe, overwhelms him, even as my tight, sexy body presses and pumps against him.

He yanks the sweater over my head and throws it to the side. His hands are on my breasts before the shirt even hit the floor.

Gasping, I work my hands between our fevered bodies, fighting to keep my mouth on his as I hurry to loosen his shirt. God, I want to feel him against my skin. To feel his body inside mine. My skin feels alive again, the blood running hot under it, my heart pounding in a primal rhythm, so hard and thrilling.

Desperate for more, I push his hand down and hold it firmly between my legs. Overcome with pleasure, I tilt my head back, exposing the line of my throat to his lips, his teeth, my hips moving as I press his hand to my crotch and the heat beneath it.

It is like holding raw nerves. Nerves with edges of jagged glass. They scrape at his own, all but tearing him open.

He pulls the button on my trousers and drags the pants down. Even as I struggle to step clear, he plunges his fingers into the heat of my thighs. He watches the shocked pleasure rush over my face as I pour into his hand.

I’m as wet as a waterfall when Vaughn finally slips his finger out of me, spins me around, and straddles me from behind while I lean against the bedroom wall. He is rough and sweet at the same time, and I love it.

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