Page 45 of Love is a Game

My wrists held firmly against the headboard, Tuck’s other hand pushing my legs apart.

Finally. Finally. Finally. His cock. His big, hard cock against my entrance.

“Please, please!” I begged.

“Shh, Baby,” he said soothingly, kissing the edges of my mouth.

Then, my explosive, raw scream as he thrust into me—hurriedly muffled as he pressed his hand to cover my mouth.

“Shh, Pen,” he rasped. “The window’s open.”

Like I care who heard us.

Like I could care about anything except him being inside me, driving into my core, filling me. Releasing me from the pain ofnothaving him on top of me, deep and thick inside me.

I clung to him with every limb, every muscle, every tendon. Urging him deeper and deeper, harder and faster until I was rolling and spinning through the churning waves, splitting into particles, no longer one entity but an entire universe of pulsating matter.

And now, with morning light filling the room, I cling to him again. But this time, it’s gentler, slower, calmer.Sweeter.

He kisses my lips, my eyelids, my temples. And we lift together, ever upward, expanding into each other again…our molecules colliding, merging, dissolving into something weightless and infinite.

Until I’m spent. Blissfully spent.

I melt into the sheets, boneless, my breath still uneven. And Tuck, propped on his elbow, watches me with that lazy, satisfied grin.

“What?”

“You’re so beautiful, Pen.”

“Oh, god.” I groan, reaching for a pillow and pulling it over my face.

He tugs it free.

I grimace. “Ugh—don’t remind me what I must look like. I just want to wallow in my pleasure zones a little longer.”

“What are you talking about?” He traces my cheek with a slow, reverent touch. “You’re adorable. Bedhead, sleepy eyes—”

My heart swells, but I roll my eyes. “Unshowered pits, smudged makeup…potential zit.”

He grins and, before I can react, buries his face against my armpit.

I squeal, laughing, then slap a hand over my mouth.

“Oops—too loud.” My gaze flicks toward the window as the memory floods in of Tuck, last night, his hand over my mouth, urging me to be quiet.

“It’s late,” he murmurs, lips grazing my ribs. “Mom and Dad are already at work.”

And just like that, reality seeps in.

We understand each other.

As much as I want to stay here, tangled in the sheets, basking in this rare, stolen morning, I know what this is. What it has to be.

A secret. A fleeting indulgence. Something that can’t survive outside the hush of this room.

What we have is silk—luxurious, intoxicating, but fragile. It decays under UV light. Its fibers, though deceptively strong, are vulnerable to carelessness. One snag, one exposed thread, and it unravels.

Our friends…his family…they’d pull at the seams, snaring us with their well-meaning concern or quiet disapproval. This just isn’t meant for the real world, for daylight, for our careers, for the way we clash outside of this bed.

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