Page 137 of Blindside Sinner

I can’t help but laugh. “It’s called low post defense, moron.”

“Last I checked, low post defense didn’t involve one hand on her ass and another hand up her shirt.”

It’s my turn to shrug, though I turn away to conceal my smile. He’s not, strictly speaking,wrong—I did spend about ninety percent of the game pawing all over Sloan or finding a way to turn the ball over to her so she could try backing that little ass up into me. As far as I’m concerned, my performance was flawless.

True to her word, so was Cassie’s. She was automatic from the three-point line and an annoying-enough defender to make Colin start sweating in his Ferragamo. Now, Monroe has a new watch, and Colin is gonna have to find a new way to blackmail Cassie into going out with him.

We’re all circled around the backyard fire pit, thick blankets on our laps and cold beers in hand, Sloan tucked against my side, as Adrian tells a story about getting caught pulling pranks in college that has everybody laughing until tears run down our faces.

It’s probably the most normal I’ve ever felt.

Life with my old man was anything but backyard bonfires and snuggle blankets. It was more bar fights and Marlboro Lights. There was none of this feeling ofbelonging.Of being in the place I was always meant to be.

For as long as I can remember, I wantedout.I wantedaway.I wanted anything but what I had.

But tonight, I know one thing for sure: I wouldn’t trade what I have now for the whole fucking world.

68

SLOAN

Game day is a good day. I’ve been riding a high since the basketball game with the boys and the bonfire that followed. And since Beck and I agreed to keep things calm when we’re at the arena, our pregame ritual now takes place at the house, which means we can get a little crazier with our experimenting.

He’s in the bedroom, packing his game stuff into his bag, when I step into the doorway wearing nothing but his jersey.

I look at him, lean against the doorframe, and pop a hip out just enough that the jersey rides up a bit and he gets a sneak peek of the side of my ass.

“Hey, shooter,” I say in my sultriest Mae West impression. “You busy?”

Beck looks up at me with a roll of medical tape in hand. When he fully processes what I’m wearing—or, more accurately, what I’mnotwearing—both the tape and his jaw hit the ground at the same time.

“You…” he rasps in that choked, husky voice of his that makes my insides squirm deliciously. “That fucking jersey…” He shakes his head. “So fucking hot on you.”

I wink. “It’s for a player I’m trying to get to notice me. Is it working?”

One corner of Beck’s mouth twitches up in a sly smirk. “Come here and let’s find out.”

He doesn’t give me the chance to follow orders, though. He crosses the room in two swift strides, snags me by the waist, and tosses me onto his bed effortlessly. I squeal in shock and delight, but I barely have time to get the sound out before he smothers me with his body and his kiss at once.

I drink him in. He’s wearing the cologne of his I love, dark and swirling and delicious. His body is hot and firm wherever I touch. I feel tiny and delicate beneath his mass. This feeling of coming together, of melting into one… I can’t imagine it ever getting old.

Beck pulls away and presses his forehead against mine to stare down into my eyes. His fingertips graze slow, tender circles against my bare hip.

“You waited so long,” he scolds. “Now, all we have time for is a quickie.” I’m about to strip the shirt off to move things along and save some time when he shakes his head. “No, baby. Leave it on.” He grins. “Only thing that would be hotter is if you tattoo my number on you.”

“Hm. Interesting thought. Ihavebeen meaning to get a tattoo.”

He grins and nibbles on my lower lip. He’s in that teasing kind of mood, I can tell, the kind where he rudely insists on making mecome three or four times before I can even get my hands on the best part of him.

But I’m not putting up with that today. I want him.Now.

So I shove his shorts down his hips, pull his hard dick out, line it up with my bare, aching pussy, and then hook my heels behind his waist until he’s buried inside of me.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he growls into my panting mouth. “Someone woke up on the horny side of the bed.”

In response, I grin and push him to make him flop onto his back. He lets me, of course—I’m not exactly in a position to move two hundred and fifty pounds of pro hockey player without a little assistance—but I’ll take the pity victory, because all I care about is riding him until I implode.

I plant my hands on his chest as I settle on top of his length. I grind my hips slow, swirling, taking him as deep as I can before I move up and slide back down. His eyelids fall to only half-open and his fingertips dig into my skin, but instead of punishing, it feels decadent.

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