Page 38 of Trapped and Tackled

I take my time, feeling the smoothness of her curves, letting my mouth linger over hers, lengthening our connection and our kiss until we’re both breathless.

When Leni pulls back, she giggles nervously and even that sound—sweet, so fucking sweet—sends a rush through my bloodstream.

Her chest heaves and I have to avert my gaze before I pull her shirt clear over her head.

“Leni.” I drop my forehead to hers. With each breath, reality seeps back in and the realization of what I just did—of what I just took—glares back at me.

I kissed my coach’s daughter.

Fuck.

“Leni,” I repeat, with more urgency this time.

She looks up sharply at what she hears in my tone.

Already, the hope in her eyes is stamped out with understanding and I feel like an asshole for what I’m about to say.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” I whisper. Fuck, but I wanted to.

She rears back like I pushed her and I shuffle back several steps, adding distance. I grip the back of my neck again, this time squeezing tight enough to press some fucking common sense in.

Leni wipes her fingers against her swollen lips, as if wiping away my kiss, and I wince.

She’s so beautiful. So fucking lovely.

There’s that word again.

“Len—”

“Why not?” she asks, a challenge brightening her eyes.

“Because,” I say, almost pleading with her.

You’re out of my league.

I don’t know how to do this.

I’ve never had a real relationship.

Your father is like a father figure to me.

“Because of football,” she whispers, understanding dawning in her expression. “No distractions, right?” This time, her tone is harder.

And I swear. Partly because it’s the truth and partly because I didn’t even fucking think about it. About football and the team.

When I kissed Leni, all I thought about was her and how I’d never be enough. Never measure up.

And then, I thought about disappointing Coach. Not as my coach but as a man.

Not that Leni would understand. If I told her that, she’d think I’m feeding her bullshit lines.

I clear my throat. “Right.” I force the word out. Watch it pierce the air.

Witness Leni’s expression fall.

Welcome the kick that lands in my gut.

“I’m sorry, Talon,” Leni says, hurt evident in her tone. Her eyebrows furrow and confusion crosses her face. “I don’t know why I…” She trails off and I desperately wish she would complete her sentence. Finish her thought. She doesn’t. Instead, she squares her shoulders and looks at me again. “I’m sorry.”

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