Page 135 of Playing Mr. Perfect

Chapter Thirty-Four

Pepper

I wake before the sun, in the same favorite position in which I’d fallen asleep. Being spooned by Clay. His arm is heavy around me, his big hand palming my breast. His erection rests against my butt, and his thick thighs cradle the backs of mine. I lie still, reveling in the gentle puffs of his warm breath on my shoulder and neck, the way his chest and stomach press against me with every inhalation. I want to melt into him and stay in his arms forever. But time is moving quickly, and before long he’ll be reporting to his team. I’m still trying to work out what that will mean for us. I’ve never considered myself needy, but I’ve gotten used to spending so much time with him, I hate the idea of us being apart. And his family? I’m falling just as hard for them as I have for Clay. They’re warm, loving, and kind, and they value the things I treasure most. Family and helping others.

Last night when we headed downstairs to watch Heart Stories, a truly incredible documentary about our fragmented world, I expected to find a posh media room. Because who has a media room in their home? But it was just a big room with a projection TV and several worn leather love seats, with butt indentations from years of use, blankets draped over the backs, and throw pillows with kids’ names scrawled in permanent marker on them. The walls were covered with dozens of photos of Clay and his family throughout the years, but none of them as adults. There were pictures of him as a little boy sitting high up in a tree he’d climbed and arm in arm with his siblings, all of them covered in mud. There were pictures of Clay huddled in the grass with dark-skinned kids, holding a football, and of his family around bonfires and dinner tables with dozens of people of varying nationalities. I realized there were no pictures anywhere in the house of Clay playing professional ball or of his siblings in their careers, and I asked his parents why. His mother said, Because at home we’re not a producer, a football champ, or a woman who runs an entertainment empire. We’re a family, and we leave all the noise behind.

Talk about a wall of love. This house is built from them.

Clay stirs behind me, hugging me tight. “Your heart is beating fast.”

“You’re naked against me. Of course it is.”

He kisses my shoulder, sliding his hand down my belly and between my legs. I inhale shakily, his touch alighting flames within my core. “Are you sure my girl isn’t overthinking?”

He knows me so well now. It’s a blessing and a curse. But I don’t want to get lost in logistics when we’re having such a beautiful weekend. “Only about how much I want you inside me.”

He presses a kiss to my neck. “Think you can be quiet?”

“I can try.”

He nips at my shoulder, and I shift higher as he guides his cock to my entrance and thrusts into me. I moan. “Shh, baby.” He thrusts again, sending sparks shooting through me, and I swallow a moan, my inner muscles clenching around his shaft. A husky growl rumbles from his lips. “So tight and greedy for me.”

He moves his hand from between my legs, guiding my hand there. “Touch yourself while I fuck you.” He knows his dirty demands get me even hotter, and pushes two fingers into my mouth. “Suck them like they’re my cock.” My entire body ignites, and I alternate between sucking and swirling my tongue along his fingers as he pumps them in and out of my mouth. His hips thrust harder and faster, and I work myself to the same pace. He seals his mouth over the crook of my neck, licking and kissing and sucking. Scintillating sensations come at me from everywhere, riddling me with desire. It pulses inside me, burning beneath my skin, until my body aches and throbs with the need to come. I whimper around his fingers. He reads me perfectly, thrusting faster as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder, sending me spiraling into ecstasy. With the next thrust, he follows me over, pumping and grinding, his muffled groans coalescing with my stifled cries.

After we float down from the high, he turns me in his arms and whispers, “My love,” and then he kisses me, holding me like I’m too precious to ever let go.

A long while later, we clean up and dress in our #teamplay sweatshirts to watch the sunrise. I put on leggings and he puts on sweats.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I whisper as we gather blankets.

“Absolutely.”

We sneak quietly downstairs and out the French doors in the great room to the deck. We’re met with the cold breeze from the sea and the scent of a bonfire, and find his grandparents cuddled beneath blankets on the circular sofa surrounding the fire pit.

His grandmother lifts her head from his grandfather’s shoulder and says, “We wondered if you lovebirds would get up this early.”

“Mind if we join you?” Clay asks.

“Not at all,” his grandfather says in that endearing sandpaper voice. “Get comfy and keep your sweet gal warm. We’ve got about half an hour before the sun graces us with her beauty.”

We settle in on the couch, bundling up beneath the blankets, with the fire warming us. As Clay puts his arm around me, drawing me tight against his side, his parents come out the French doors. They’re wearing thick sweaters over turtlenecks and jeans and carrying their own blankets. It makes me happy to have more time with them.

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones with a good idea,” his father says. “Morning, everyone.”

We all greet him at once.

Clay’s mother kisses the top of his head. “Morning, honey.”

“Morning, Mom,” Clay says.

She puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Good morning,” I say as they come around the couch.

They sit between his grandparents and us, and his father tucks a blanket around their backs and another over their laps. Then he puts his arm around Clay’s mother, drawing her tight against him, and kisses her temple, just like Clay did with me. I catch a loving look between his grandparents. It’s no wonder Clay is so affectionate.

“What a nice way to greet the day,” his mother says.