Page 74 of Goalie's Obsession

I'm never letting go.

Chapter Sixteen

Lucy

Ipaidfiftygrandfor this night.

Fifty grand for a date with my brother’s best friend, the man I’ve wanted for longer than I care to admit. The man who’s spent the last week looking at me like I’m already his, touching me like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin, teasing me like heknowsexactly how I’ll fall apart.

Now I’m sprawled across a bed scattered with rose petals, candlelight dancing across the walls, the faint hum of jazz from earlier still lingering in the air like a spell. My dress is pushed up to my hips, heels already tossed aside, and Connor Walsh is kneeling between my legs with fire in his eyes.

This isn’t just a hookup.

This is the moment we stop pretending.

He drags his hands up my calves, slow and reverent and so fucking sexy. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Lucy?”

I want to tell him everything.

That I’ve dreamed of this since Vegas. That every smile, every look, every time he called meLucy Louand I pretended to hate it… it all made me fall a little harder. That the second he kissed me back at the gala, I knew there’d be no turning back.

That tonight, he didn’t just take me to dinner—hegaveme something I didn’t even know I was craving: to be seen, spoiled, and wanted.

Instead, I whisper, “I just…wantyou.”

His hands still. Just for a second. Then he smirks, bends low, and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. He breathes in the scent of my skin, his eyes darkening with a look that makes my heart race even faster.

“You’ve got me, Lucy Lou,” he says, voice wrecked. “Every fucking inch.”

He trails kisses higher, and my breath hitches when his thumbs hook into my panties.

Bright pink lace. Barely there. I bought them months ago and kept them tucked away, too pretty for regular use, too bold for most days. But tonight, when I slipped them on... maybe a small part of me had hoped. Dared.

I never thought I’d wear them forhim.

Not after Vegas. Not after all the ways I thought this would never happen. Not after I told myself I was fine watching him from a distance.

“Off,” he orders, and I lift my hips instinctively.

He peels them down slowly, eyes locked on mine the entire time. When they’re off, he kisses my thigh, then smirks and shoves the panties into his back pocket.

“These are mine now.”

A breathless laugh slips from me, tinged with nerves and electricity, but it catches in my throat when he pulls back to look at me.

Connor doesn't move. Just stares.

His warm palms are firm on my thighs, spreading them wider, angling me open as if he’s admiring something sacred. Then he sits silently still at the end of the bed, his breath brushing warm against my inner thigh.

The hunger in his eyes is molten. Possessive. Like he’s seeing every inch of me for the first time and already committing it to memory.

His hungry gaze slides over my slick, swollen folds like he's already touching me. Heat pulses low in my belly as his jaw tics, as if just the sight of me like this—wet and waiting—is undoing him.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "You’re already shaking and I haven’t even touched you yet."

I try to respond, but my brain has turned to static. I can’t look away. Can’t breathe. Can’tmoveunder the weight of his stare.

Then, slowly, Connor leans in.

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