“Adaline,” I started, but my voice cut out on all the things crowding my throat.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. Her fingers traced the edges of my lips, and I gripped her hand, pressing a fervent kiss against her palm.
“Last night was…” My voice trailed off, and I shook my head.
“Perfect,” Adaline finished. Her smile was sweet. She braced on her elbow, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. She rubbed her nose against mine. “It was perfect.”
I slid my hand against her face, winding my fingers into her hair. “It feels strange to leave like this. I hate it.”
It was the only truth I’d admit, the tip of the fucking iceberg.
It didn’t just feel strange. It was so very, very wrong.
Her eyes were sad. “I know,” she admitted. “But you have a job to do, and that’s okay.”
But I didn’t want to leave for my job. Telling her that now, though, she’d think I was being rash. That I didn’t really know what I wanted.
I did know what I wanted; I wanted her.
I could wait, though. If that’s what she needed from me.
But if I’d known how long I would go without hearing her voice, I might not have gotten on the plane.
Adaline
It was strange to be sitting on my parents’ couch, my muscles still sore and aching from a marathon sex fest with Emmett Ward two nights earlier, when his face appeared on the TV screen in front of me.
My heart clenched immediately, an unconscious response that I’d probably never be able to rid myself of. Not now.
I knew too much.
I’d felt too much.
And I’d been banged within an inch of my life by that man. Like the kind of sex you don’t actually think is real until you have it, and once you do, there is no unknowing its existence.
Poppy was studying in Tim’s chair, and she snatched the remote, turning up the volume on SportsCenter when she noticed Emmett’s face too.
In the shot, he was standing next to Ned, the Ft. Lauderdale owner. But his frame was stiff and uncomfortable, his eyes flinching when someone snapped a photo.
The ESPN reporter smiled at the camera when the footage from the meeting showed Ned laying his arm around Emmett’s shoulders.
“A united front in Florida today,” she said. “The front offices in Ft. Lauderdale gave us some unexpected backstage access to a planning meeting between star quarterback Emmett Ward and new team leader Ned Benson—who took over the reins from his father last month in a surprising transfer of ownership. My sources tell me this is the first face-to-face meeting between Ward and Benson, who’s been traveling much of the off-season.”
The screen switched from her face back to Ned’s lushly decorated office. He was sprawled in a tufted leather chair, smiling at the cameras and gesturing to Emmett, who sat stoically on a matching couch to the side of Ned’s massive desk.
He looked tired. And I was the only person who knew why.
I wanted to climb in his lap. Smell the skin at the base of his throat. And I couldn’t.
“Emmett’s been the key to our success here in Ft. Lauderdale,” Ned said. “It’s been inspiring to watch him cement his legacy here in Ft. Lauderdale as his own man. Like me, he comes from football royalty, and I can’t wait to work with Emmett for the next couple of years—and hopefully longer if I have anything to say about it.” His grin turned smug. “Together, we’ll create a whole new dynasty that this league has never seen.”
My stomach turned over.
Greer settled on the couch next to me. “What do we think of this guy?”