Page 78 of The Final Faceoff
The Moment the Game Changed
This morning didn’t go as I expected.
It went a lot better. So much fucking better.
The taste of her is still on my tongue, the addictive, sweet-slick heat of her cunt, the way she fucking melted against my mouth like she was made for it. I can still feel the tight, desperate clutch of her pussy around my fingers, how greedy she was for more, how she begged so pretty, how she came apart the way I wanted—shaking, breathless, wrecked.
And then, the bath.
That was torture.
Sitting behind her in that oversized tub, warm water lapping against us, her body pressed against mine—soft, supple, perfect. My cock was hard as fucking granite, throbbing against the small of her back, but I behaved. Even when she wiggled her ass, shifting against me like she knew exactly what she was doing, I didn’t take her the way I wanted. I didn’t pin her to the edge of that tub, didn’t shove her forward and fuck her until she screamed my name, until she was gripping the porcelain with shaking hands, unable to do anything but take it.
I wanted to.
Fuck, I wanted to.
But she needed care first. Needed me to show her before I took more. Needed me to show her that I can love her unconditionally without demanding anything.
So I washed her instead, took my time running my hands over her, massaging soap into her skin, rubbing gentle circles into her shoulders until she melted into me. I kissed her temple, whispered things I’m not sure she was ready to hear. And when I carried her out of that bathroom, dried her off, and tucked her into my bed, I knew one thing for certain:
Next time, I wouldn’t stop myself.
Now, she’s sitting at the kitchen island, stealing strawberries from the fruit platter George meticulously arranged. She’s not even trying to be subtle about it. Every few seconds, she plucks another from the perfectly symmetrical display and pops it into her mouth like she belongs here.
Like she’s mine.
I rub my jaw, watching her, still fighting the last remnants of frustration from that bath. I should be thinking about something else—literally anything else—but the way she’s sitting there, my shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, her bare legs tucked up on the stool, her hair damp and soft from where I ran my hands through it . . .
Yeah, I’m in trouble.
And she doesn’t even realize.
I take a slow sip of coffee, trying to not focus on the fact that I still want her. Not just physically—though, yeah, that’s there too—but in the way that unsettles me. I’ve always wanted her, waited for her. And now?
Now I have some reassurance that she’s letting me have her. That I’ll get all of her.
George moves around the kitchen, setting down plates stacked with eggs, crispy bacon, toast, and what I assume is some obnoxiously expensive jam. He doesn’t say a word about Hailey completely ignoring all of it in favor of pilfered fruit. Doesn’t even blink when she sneaks another strawberry like she’s getting away with something.
“I saw that,” I murmur, watching as she lifts the berry to her lips, biting into it slowly, intentionally.
Her gaze flicks to mine, mischievous. “You can’t prove anything.”
I smirk, setting my mug down, leaning forward. “I don’t need proof, Hail. I know you.”
She chews, her lips curving like she’s enjoying this little game. “Maybe I just like stealing things that aren’t mine.”
My grip tightens around my mug.
Not hers?
Is she saying I’m not hers but she’ll take me? Fuck, this woman has no idea what she does to me. The way she tosses out words like they don’t mean something. Like she doesn’t realize they dig under my skin and make a fucking home there.
I know I matter to her.
She wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
I shift in my seat, rolling my shoulders back, forcing myself to ease up. She lets me have her in pieces, little bits at a time, and I can’t rush her.
