I bend so I’m at her ear and don’t have to yell. “You want to go up to the room now so I can take care of you?”

I back up enough so I can see her face. Her expression is a mixture of relief and desperation, so intense that for a second I think she’s going to burst into tears, which is very unlike Charlene. The only times I’ve seen her cry were when Alex had his accident last year and Violet was a mess, and when my teammates found her surrounded by sex toys.

Her lips move, forming the word please, but it’s not accompanied by sound, and I’m uncertain if it’s because she hasn’t made any or because it’s too loud to hear.

I straighten and pull her chair out, giving her space to stand up.

“You’re going?” Violet frowns. “Come on! Just stay a little longer.”

“I apologize, Violet, but I need her.” Which is true. I very much need to get lost in her for a while, and I have a feeling Charlene needs the same.

Violet jumps up and rushes around the table so she can hug Charlene. I don’t understand why women feel the need to hug each other all the time. It’s not as if they won’t see each other again soon, like in the morning.

When all the hugging is over, I link our fingers, marveling at how much softer and smaller her hand is than mine and how much I crave this innocuous contact. I keep her close as we weave through the bar. Alex holds up a hand when he sees us leaving. I nod but don’t stop to talk. This whole thing with Violet tonight has taken his mind off of the game, but soon he’ll want to sit down and figure out how to manage the next series.

We’re not alone on the elevator ride up to the penthouse floor, so I simply keep our hands joined, sliding my thumb back and forth over her knuckles. Charlene’s free hand is at her throat, fingering her pearls.

She exhales a shuddery breath when the last couple exits the elevator at the twentieth floor. When the doors close, I lift our twined hands and bring them to my lips. “Are you okay?”

She nods, but her bottom lip trembles, and her breath comes sharp and fast.

“You don’t seem okay,” I observe.

She opens her mouth to speak, but the doors slide open. A couple of women wearing Chicago jerseys fall into the elevator, giggling, clearly drunk. One of them pushes the button for the lobby while the other leans against the rails opposite us.

I’m annoyed at the interruption.

“Oh my God!” one of them shrieks. “You’re Darren Westinghouse! You were incredible tonight!”

The high-pitched, exclamation-point-laden yelling makes me want to pull out a roll of duct tape, but instead I smile and tuck Charlene in tighter to my side. This is part of the reason I’ve never tried to be better than I am. Because it draws unwanted attention. Stay solidly average and out of the limelight, and people don’t recognize you on the street. Play better than most, and people start to notice.

I’ve been content to be Alex’s wingman for the past six years. He loves the accolades and thrives on it. He manages it better than I can. I don’t want this overwhelming level of notice. I don’t want these drunk screaming girls, looking for autographs. I don’t want to be nice and open and friendly. I want privacy and Charlene. I want some semblance of normal in a life that’s never been that way.

One of the girls roots around in her purse for a pen so I can sign something for her. Neither of them acknowledge Charlene. It’s as if she doesn’t even exist. So when one of them finally manages to find a pen and her game ticket, I tip Charlene’s chin up and press an unexpected kiss to her lips.

“This will just take a moment,” I murmur, lips still touching hers.

“Okay.” It’s more breath than word.

I just want to be alone with her. I want these fans and my worries to disappear. I want to drown in her taste and her scent and her soft, sweet moans.

But first I need to sign some shit.

The women gawk unapologetically as I tuck a loose tendril of Charlene’s hair behind her ear. It’s unnecessary. Her hair is perfectly fine the way it is without me messing with it. I just want a reason to touch her, to indicate on some base level that she’s mine, and I’m hers.

I sign their tickets, then sign the back of their jerseys, even though one has Ballistic and the other has Waters, which makes sense since they’re the star players on the team. Thankfully the elevator chimes. I reach for Charlene’s hand, tugging her along as I hit the close door button and slip out into the hall. I don’t want them following us. When the door stays closed, I exhale a sigh of relief and walk quickly toward our room, rooting in my pocket for the key card, but Charlene is already prepared. She swipes it across the sensor, and I throw it open, ushering her inside.

The door barely has a chance to lock before Charlene launches herself at me. She forces me back against the wall—which is no easy feat considering I have a good six to eight inches on her and I outweigh her by a hundred pounds. I’m attributing it partly to her catching me off guard.

Her fingernails cut into my shoulders as her mouth connects with mine, and she tries to hoist herself up. I spin so she’s against the wall and lift her by her ass, positioning her so my erection is finally where it’s supposed to be, albeit covered by clothes. I plan to remedy that soon.

She rolls her hips and moans, head hitting the wall as she arches. Her nails bite my scalp, and her teeth sink into my bottom lip. Charlene is a lot of things in the bedroom—uncertain, curious, semi-adventurous, adorably sort-of commanding when she’s decked out in leather—but she’s rarely, if ever, aggressive like she is now, which tells me I’ve either pushed her too far, or something is wrong.

Possibly both.

I also think her prolonged anxious state means she needs to come, badly.

Pinning her against the wall with my hips, I press a palm to her chest and splay my fingers out to frame the pearl necklace.

“Darren, please.” The words draw out on a plea.

This is about so much more than delayed gratification. She’s not just wanting, she’s desperate and sad and panicked, and I need to understand why. But first I need to take care of her, for both our sakes.

I run my free hand down her side and under the waistband of her leggings. “After I make you come, you’re going to tell me why you’re so upset.”

“Whatever you want.”

I slip my fingers into her panties, which are practically soaked through. All day I left her in this state—too many hours and too much uncertainty. It’s my fault she’s out of control, and I’m right there with her.

She jerks as soon as I find her clit. Her legs go lax, along with the rest of her, as if she’s been dosed with Valium. I ease her down the wall, wishing I’d made it to the bed, but aware that stopping now would be an even worse kind of torment. So I push two fingers inside and curl forward, fluttering fast and hard.

Charlene is lost in all the sensations, chasing down bliss. My name is a guttural groan as she comes in waves, and I keep pushing her, dragging it out because I can, and she needs it.

She sags against me, hot breath fanning across my skin, and I kiss her temple. “Do you need me to keep going?”

She makes a noise, but I can’t tell if it’s a yes or a no. I skim her clit, and she sucks in a gasping breath, fingers tightening in my hair again. So I keep circling, light and slow, pulling her to the edge and pushing her over gently. This orgasm is much less violent, but no less intense.

I ease my hand out of her panties, grab her thighs and hoist her up, keeping her wrapped around me as I carry her to the bed. A stream of light from the bathroom cuts across the floor, illuminating the way.

“I won’t do that to you again,” I promise as I lay her out on the bed, kissing along her temple and down her cheek. “I won’t leave you needing that long ever again.”

She’s shaky and clumsy as she tries to unbutton my shirt. I cover her hand. “Let me get it.”

I kneel between her legs and shrug out of the suit jacket, unfasten the first three buttons and pull my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Charlene’s already managed to get her jersey over her head and her leggings off.

“Leave the rest for me, please.” I unclasp my belt, pop the button on my pants and get my zipper halfway down before Charlene pushes them over my hips, taking my boxers with them.

My erection springs free, and Charlene wraps her soft, warm hand around the length. Her eyes flash up to mine, glassy and desperate as she leans forward and parts those gorgeous lips, engulfing the head.

I groan out a low fuck and close my eyes for a second, because seeing her like this is almost too much.

The head bumps the back of her throat as I shove my fingers into her hair. But I don’t try to control her. I don’t need to. She knows me well enough to anticipate what I want. She pulls back, sucks the head, and then draws me in, over and over, again and again, eyes locked on mine.