Page 44 of Faking the Rules

He begins slowly, establishing a rhythm that quickly has me clinging to his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. Each thrust feels deeper than the last, touching places inside me I never knew existed. His lips find my neck, my jaw, returning always to my mouth as if he can't bear to be disconnected from me even for moments.

"Ellie," he groans against my lips, the sound of my name transformed into something sacred. "Your pussy feels incredible. Like you were made for me."

His words, the reverence in his voice, push me closer to a second release I didn't believe possible. One of his hands slides between our bodies, finding the exact spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

"That's it," he encourages, watching my face with fierce concentration. "Let me see you come again. Let me feel you."

The dual sensations—his cock inside mine, his fingers working magic against my clit—catapult me over the edge faster than I thought possible. This climax is different from the first—deeper, more all-encompassing, as if originating from my very soul rather than merely my body.

I cry out his name, inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. The sensation triggers his own release—his rhythm falters, his body tensing above me, inside me, a growl of completion tearing from his throat as he follows me into ecstasy.

For long moments afterward, we lie tangled together, hearts racing in tandem, breath gradually slowing. The weight of him should be crushing but instead feels like anchor in tumultuous seas—grounding, necessary, right.

"I love you too," I whisper against his skin.

He goes very still beneath me, then shifts to look into my face, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Say it again," he murmurs, a plea and a command both.

"I love you." The words come easier this time, the truth of them settling into my bones like certainty after longest doubt.

His answering smile is like sunrise after the longest night, transforming his features with joy so pure it makes my chest ache. "I love you, Ellie Gardner," he says, the declaration simple and profound in its certainty. "Have since you called me an entitled jock and refused to be impressed by anything except the content of my character."

We stay like that for hours, talking softly about everything and nothing—childhood memories, future dreams, favorite books, worst fears, the conversation punctuated with gentle touches and occasional kisses that range from tender to heated.

Eventually, reluctantly, reality intrudes. Declan has a team dinner, a last gathering before tomorrow's championship that he can't miss despite his obvious preference to remain exactly where he is.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says as we stand at my door, his hands framing my face with gentle possession. "You'll be in the family section? I'll leave your ticket at will-call."

"I'll be there," I promise. "With my team scarf and everything."

He laughs, pressing one last kiss to my lips before reluctantly pulling away.

I watch him walk down the hallway, his athletic grace evident even in this mundane movement.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, that possibility of joy seems worth any price.

Chapter 9

Game day dawns bright and crisp, the kind of perfect early spring morning that feels like a good omen. I wake early despite having slept little, nerves and anticipation creating a restless energy I can't contain.

Declan texted late last night after the team dinner:Can't sleep. Thinking of you. Wish you were here.

The vulnerability in those simple sentences had made my chest ache.Close your eyes,I replied.Imagine me there, telling you how amazing you are, how proud I am, how much I love you. Now sleep, superstar. Tomorrow needs your best.

His response came quickly:You are my best. My reason. My center. I love you, Ellie. See you tomorrow.

Now, as I dress in carefully selected layers—Westford colors, of course, with Declan's number discreetly embroidered on the navy scarf wrapped around my neck—those words echo in my mind, a talisman against the anxiety that tightens my chest when I think about what today means for his future.

The campus buzzes with pre-game excitement, students and faculty alike sporting team colors, classes half-empty as many have already headed to the arena to pre-game. I make my way through this carnival atmosphere with singular focus, headedfor the will-call window to collect my ticket for the family section.

"Gardner!"

I turn to find Brady jogging toward me, already dressed in his pregame suit, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Hey," I greet him, concern immediately prickling. "Everything okay? Is Declan—"

"He's fine," Brady assures me quickly. "Well, as fine as any of us are before the biggest game of our lives. But he asked me to make sure you got this." He holds out a small envelope. "Said it was important."

I take it with a murmured thanks, curiosity warring with concern as Brady hurries away toward the arena. The envelope contains a folded note in Declan's distinctive handwriting:

Ellie,

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