Page 41 of Watching You
His tongue flicks against my clit, and I cry out, my back arching off the concrete wall. He’s not just tasting me. He’s devouring me. My hands fly to his hair, my fingers tangling in the soft strands as I pull him closer.
“Kane,” I gasp. “Oh, God, Kane.”
He doesn’t stop. He’s relentless. He’s determined. He’s going to wring every last drop of pleasure frommy body until there’s nothing left but him. Until there’s nothing left but us.
My hips buck against his face as the pressure builds, a tidal wave of sensation threatening to pull me under. He’s playing me like an instrument, his tongue and teeth and lips working in perfect harmony to bring me to the brink of oblivion.
And then I’m there. Falling. Flying. Drowning in a sea of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. My scream echoes through the tunnel, a raw, primal sound of release. It’s not just an orgasm. It’s a surrender. A complete and total capitulation to the man who’s claiming me, body and soul.
He continues to lick me through the aftershocks, his glove tracing lazy circles on my inner thigh, collecting the evidence of my pleasure. When I finally come back down to earth, he pulls back, his face glistening with my arousal. He slowly, deliberately, brings his gloved hand to his mouth, and his tongue darts out to taste me.
A low growl rumbles in his chest. “Mine.”
He pushes himself up, his body hovering over mine, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals my breath. He brings the glove to his nose and inhales deeply, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.
“Now you’ll be with me when I play,” he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “Every tackle. Every throw. Every fucking breath I take on that field, I’ll taste you. I’ll feel you. I’ll know you’re watching.”
He leans in, his lips brushing against mine, a ghost of a kiss that promises so much more. “And whenI win… I’m coming for you. And you’re going to wear nothing but my jersey while I show you what victory tastes like.” He stands, adjusting himself with a grimace of discomfort, and then he looks down at me, a predator admiring his prey.
“Don’t forget, sunflower. You’re mine now. In every way that matters.” He winks, a sudden flash of charm that is completely at odds with the darkness I just experienced. He pulls my pants up, meticulously making sure they are perfect from all directions. We hear the whistle blow and Kane checks his watch. “I’ve got to go get dressed. Can’t wait to see you shining in the stands.”
And then he’s gone. Leaving me breathless, trembling, and more lost than I’ve ever been. The scent of him, of us, hangs heavy in the air, a heady, intoxicating perfume that fills my lungs and clouds my mind. My body hums with a residual pleasure, a deep, aching satisfaction that is both terrifying and exhilarating.
I take some deep breaths and follow the tunnel to the stands. On shaky legs, I climb the stairs until I get to Kinsley. She’s wearing school colors but not a jersey.
Kinsley spots me before I reach her, her eyes flicking to the jersey, then to my face. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just scoots over on the bleacher and pats the space beside her.
I sit, legs still trembling, heart still somewhere between the tunnel and his mouth.
“You okay?” she asks, voice low.
I nod, but it’s shaky. “I think so.”
She studies me for a second, then leans in. “You look like you just walked through a storm.”
“I did,” I whisper. “And I don’t know if I survived it or became part of it.”
Kinsley doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease. Just reaches into her bag and hands me a water bottle. “Drink. Breathe. You’re here. That’s enough.”
I take it, fingers brushing hers. “You’re not wearing a jersey.”
She shrugs. “Didn’t feel right. I’m here for the team, but I’m not claiming anyone.”
I glance down at mine. Kane’s number. His scent. His words are still echoing in my head.
“Don’t forget, sunflower. You’re mine now.”
I press the bottle to my lips, the cold grounding me. The crowd is swelling, the energy rising, but I stay still. Stay quiet. Stayhis.
Kinsley nudges me gently. “You’re glowing, by the way. Like… post-apocalyptic goddess meets football fever dream.”
I laugh, startled. “That’s horrifying.”
She grins. “It’s a compliment.”
And for the first time since I stepped out of that tunnel, I let myself smile.
Fifteen
