Page 65 of Worth the Shot

She tilts her head, studying me. “How?”

I swallow. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m enough, even on the nights I’m not.”

Her throat bobbles as she swallows and something flickers in her expression like fear, hope and want all tangled together. She shifts, swinging one leg over me until she’s straddling my lap. My hands slide instinctively to her waist, her skin soft and warm beneath my palms. It’s not sexual, just intimate and patient. She cups my jaw, her thumbs brushing my cheeks. Her voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m always proud of you, no matter how you play.”

The words hit harder than any slapshot ever could.

I swallow, hands tightening on her hips. “Stay,” I say before I can stop myself. “Tonight. Don’t go home.”

Her eyes lift to mine, wide and full of the same longing I’m drowning in.

“I wasn’t planning to,” she murmurs.

My pulse stutters. Neither of us moves for a second and the air suddenly feels heavier, charged with something we haven’t fully stepped into but both know is coming. She leans forward, forehead pressing to mine.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this,” she confesses.

Every bone in my body feels like it lights up. “Then don’t pretend,” I whisper.

She kisses me, taking her time, stretching the moment out because it deserves to be savored. Everything inside me falls into place like it’s been waiting for this exact instant to align. She pulls back only far enough to breathe against my lips.

“Okay,” she says. “I won’t.”

We barely manage to pry ourselves apart when Delaney disappears into my bathroom to shower while I clean up from dinner.

When she comes out, I swear the air leaves my lungs like she just sucked it out of me. She’s wearing a pair of old joggers and one of my T-shirts, stretched in all the places I’ve worn it down, hanging loose on her in a way that’s entirely unfair.

The soft peak of her nipples show through, just barely, telling me she’s not wearing a bra. Her damp, chestnut waves spill over her shoulders, messy and down her back, catching the light as she walks toward my bed.

My bed.

Jesus Christ.

She crawls onto it like she owns it—like she owns me—and collapses backward with a soft groan, star-fishing across the mattress. The sight of her spreads something molten and dangerous through my bloodstream. I swear to God, I feel like some animal that’s been locked in a cage for years and someone finally forgot the latch.

“God, your bed is so comfy,” she murmurs, yawning.

My cock twitches so hard it’s embarrassing.

I walk fully into the room now and sit beside her. She pushes herself up to face me, bracing on her arms as her eyes flick from my body to my mouth like she can’t decide which part of me she’s craving more. I reach for her wrist gently, guiding her arm around my neck. She lets me move her like she’s made for it, like it’s natural, like she trusts me with every inch of her.

Her face inches closer, so close there’s barely a breath between us. I move her hair, slowly, tucking it behind her ear. I leave my hand there, gliding my thumb across her jaw and her breath stutters, her chest rising fast. Her lips part, just barely, and fuck, I’m a dead man.

She pulls back slightly, like she’s collecting the last of her self-control, but her breathing is uneven and I can feel her pulse thrumming against the soft underside of her jaw.

My entire body aches with wanting her.

We hover there, suspended in a moment that feels like a held breath. Two people terrified and brave in the same heartbeat. Two people standing at the edge of something they know they’ll never come back from.

So fuck it, I stop wanting. No more waiting. I go for it.

I cup the back of her head and pull her into me, kissing her with a hunger that hits like a tidal wave. It’s desperate. Hot. Messy. Months of tension breaking open all at once. She climbs into my lap without hesitation, thighs squeezing my hips, her whole body molded to mine like she’s been waiting to fit there all her life. My hands slip under her shirt and they’re everywhere. Her waist, her ribcage, her back. Her fingers tangle in my hair and tug, hard enough to make me let out a low groan in her mouth.

Fuck, I’m gone.

Before she can slide her hand lower, I grip her hips and pull her under me, careful but firm, her hair fanning out across my pillow like a halo made to ruin men. My hand slides to her throat, not squeezing but guiding, tilting her chin up for me. The whimper she lets out nearly finishes me.