Page 58 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
The moment I decide to just go with it and stop overthinking our situation is the moment Eden climbs on top of me. I grab a condom, shove off my pants and boxers in record time, and suit up. And then she’s sinking down onto me while I groan.
“Baby. Slow.” I clench my jaw, gripping one of her hips in my hand.
“You like it?” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I groan again. “Too much.”
Eden begins to move. She’s incredible, and I alternate between cursing and kissing any patch of bare skin I can reach—her breasts, each wrist, the pad of her thumb that she presses into the heat of my mouth.
It’s easy to lose myself in the moment—our ragged breathing, her throaty noises, the wet sound of where our bodies are joined. Sex has never been this good before.
She brings one hand between us to touch herself, and the sight of that is so erotic, so hot.
“That’s it,” I say to encourage her, teasing her nipples as she rides me—faster now.
I don’t just want to make her feel good, I need it, and I love the idea that she’s using my body to get herself off. Potent male satisfaction rips through me when Eden grips me tight and breathes out my name.
Her orgasm goes on and on, finally triggering my own release. I bury myself deep, and my cock jerks once as I lean up and press my face into her neck, whispering how perfect she is. She brings her arms around me, holding me close, and for maybe the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to be loved.
Eden doesn’t have to say the words. Maybe she’s afraid . . . hell, I am too. I’m terrified about what will happen in the light of day.
Can she be with me? Really be with me without upsetting some balance in her personal and professional lives? Does she even want to?
I don’t have answers to the many questions swirling inside my head. All I know is that this moment is perfect, and I don’t want it to end.
23
* * *
EDEN
Three little emails. That’s all that stands between me and my evening off.
Today has moved at a snail’s pace, but that’s probably only because I’ve been anticipating seeing Holt later. It’ll be at a seven-year-old’s party, but I’ll take what I can get.
Lucian’s son is celebrating his birthday today, and most of the team is going. I wish I could fast-forward to then, when I’ll be sipping wine and trying to subtly flirt with Holt in front of the players. But I can’t. I can only tackle the work I have in front of me.
I sigh, rubbing my temples where I can feel a headache forming. Okay, Eden. You can do this.
I click to open the first email, a message from the president of one of our top sponsors. He wants to set up lunch next week.
Easy. I forward it to Aspen, asking her to fit it into my calendar. That was painless.
The second email, however, is not so simple. My vision blurs as I scan through multiple paragraphs of questions about media policies for next season, then reflexively reach for my phone, opting instead to hide from work in my text thread with Holt.
We’ve been texting on and off all day, which is doing me exactly zero favors in the focus department. Still, flirting and discussing what presents are fitting for a seven-year-old is way more exciting than media policies.
I pick up where we left our discussion on G.I. Joes, and it’s not until I hear the ping of yet another email arriving in my inbox that I realize I’ve lost focus yet again.
Ugh. I’ve been chronically distracted ever since Holt and I started our . . . whatever it is that we’re doing. It’s not a relationship, but with our first official date under our belt, maybe it’s not out of line to say that he and I are a thing.
However you classify our situationship, one thing is for sure—Holt Rossi is occupying more of my brain than work is lately. It’s not such a bad thing considering how much I was eating, sleeping, and breathing all things Boston Titans up until recently. If I didn’t step back and let myself be a human being, I probably would have imploded by now.
Still, there’s a fine line between stepping back and slacking off. I still have a team to run, which sometimes means taking care of boring tasks like answering sponsor emails.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and against my better judgment, I welcome the distraction again. It’s a text, but not from Holt, unfortunately.
It’s from my mom, and it sounds slightly panicky. SOS! Can you swing by after work?
I gnaw on my lip, mentally budgeting my time. Two minutes ago, I told Holt I’d be at Lucian’s party by six, and Mom’s house is easily a thirty-minute drive out of the way. But if the situation is as urgent as her text would suggest, I might need to leave the office early. Emails can wait until tomorrow. I’m not sure if I can say the same for whatever is going on with Mom.
