Page 96 of Shot Taker

I’m here, in Clay’s room at the all-star game, wearing only a jersey that’s doing nothing to clothe me except for maybe my shoulders. My own personal pro-athlete fantasy is driving me wild with his touch and the ice from the bucket.

But when he hears my answer, he looks… humble.

He loves me. It’s plain on every inch of his face, the reverence of his hands.

Clay lifts me, wrapping my legs around his hips and walking me over to the glass doors. The jersey slips down over my breasts, but he doesn’t complain.

“You want everyone to see us?” I tease.

“If it means they know I’m the luckiest man in the world because I get to do this to you, with you, then yeah.”

My heart skips.

He’s huge and hard between us as he positions himself between my thighs.

Clay never gets easier to take, but I get used to him.

I start to ask if he wants me to take the jersey off but think better of it. I like wearing his number like this. I like being his.

When he presses against me where I’m already wet, sinking inside an inch at a time, my head falls back to hit the glass.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

He moves deeper inside me, holding my hips to keep the depth from being too intense.

It’s intense anyway.

“Fuck, you feel so good. Too good. Every inch of you hot and wet, squeezing me.”

His fingers dig into my ass, and I sigh, an exhale that has me sliding all the way down his cock.

“Clay!”

His grin is apologetic, and I couldn’t love him any more.

“Want to be on top?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He turns ravenous in a heartbeat.

One hand grabs both of mine, pinning them over my head while he holds me up with his other arm.

Clay starts to pump in and out of me, long, slow strokes that leave me aching and breathless.

When he strokes in, I’m so tight, too tight. But the second he’s gone, all I want is for him to fill me again.

Is that what love is? Not comfort and predictability, but throbbing on the edge of freefall?

My hips start to rise to meet his.

He crushes his mouth to mine, lifting me higher so our faces line up.

“You close?” he asks.

“Yes,” I pant against his lips.

“Want to hear you scream.”

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