“Baby, please come. I need to fuck you,” he rumbles.

Be mine, I think he says, but I’m not sure, and that can’t be right, because I know what this is. It’s just sex. It’s just two people who want the same thing, and damn, why haven’t we been doing this nonstop since the moment we met?

Because he is who he is, and you are who you are— “Elena, stay with me. Me and you, right now.”

He’s shoving his gym shorts down, his thick length popping out, long and hard and veiny, the mushroom head flushed and tight, a bead of wetness there. He grips my hips and slides me against him, a long guttural growl coming from him as our flesh meets. I grind against him.

“Come.” His fingers play with me, circling, the silky feel of his velvety skin skimming my folds. He’s almost inside me, if I move just a little, and I’m past all reason, my mind full of him, and his touch has my body climbing and searching, yearning, until I’m right there so fast that it takes me by surprise. The pleasure barrels into me like a train, and I tremble as it takes over and washes over me, covering me with vibrating sensation. The universe moves, and I’m powerless in its wake and ripples. I swivel on him, shuddering, making him slick, riding it out.

Jack pulls my face to his and kisses me hard. “Elena, Elena, Elena . . . you’re so—”

The doorbell rings.

Chapter 17

JACK

Elena climbs out of my lap, jerking her skirt down. Her panicky fingers work on the buttons of her shirt she picked up from the floor.

“It’s our food,” I say, enjoying watching her. Goddess. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t even know it.

“You missed one,” I murmur. “Middle button. Also can you throw me a blanket?”

“You’re cold?”

“Steel pipe in my pants.”

She blushes and dashes over to the armchair and grabs one of the fur blankets and tosses it back at me.

She darts over to the mirror above the desk and pats down her hair, trying to straighten out the mess.

“Oh my God. I look insane.”

“Yep.”

She throws a glare at me.

“What? You do.” I grin.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

“Our pasta’s going to be cold if you don’t get that,” I say, laughing because she’s now trying to put her hair back in some kind of bun, but it’s clear she doesn’t have the tools. “Man, that bread is going to be good, and all you want to do is fix yourself.”

I move to stand, and she points a finger at me.

“You. This is your fault. Don’t move. I’ll get this.”

Blowing out a breath, she gives up on her hair and marches to the door. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her skirt is on backward, the slit that was in the back now obviously in the front. And her shirt is crooked, one side tucked in, the other hanging out.

Damn, I love getting her ruffled. Contentedness washes over me. Something about her grabbed me from the moment she sat down with me at Milano’s, and it’s so new and refreshing, and she doesn’t care who I am . . .

Unease trickles in.

But what the hell am I doing? I was ready to fuck her right here on the couch without even thinking about protection.

I don’t have a view of who’s at the door, but the voice is instantly recognizable. Lawrence. I wince. He’s been sending me texts all day wanting to know how the breakfast with Timmy and Laura went and if I took any pics he could post on social media. I hadn’t. It never crossed my mind. I know I need to be spinning this and making the story into Football player spends time with young fan, but . . .

They’re murmuring, but I can’t hear them. I frown. Lawrence can be a bulldog when it comes to protecting me—that’s what I pay him for—but he isn’t the smoothest when it comes to women.

I’ve eased myself up to standing as they walk back into the den. Wearing a suit and his slicked-back Wall Street hairstyle, he walks ahead of Elena, whose face is blank, when normally she’s so expressive. It’s one of the little things I dig about her, the way I can read her. Milano’s: nervous as a poodle. VIP party: pissed. Church: shocked. Our kiss: hot as hell.

Then I see the papers she’s carrying in her hand.

Fuck. My eyes shut briefly. I was getting around to approaching the NDA topic, but Lawrence beat me to the punch with probably the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

“You aren’t answering your phone, asshole. And you know that makes me nervous,” is what he says as he walks in. He takes in my lack of shirt and pops an eyebrow. “I called Quinn when I couldn’t get you, and he said you had a spasm today—and that you had company. I brought new papers for her. You okay?”

“Good.” It still twinges. I’ve had worse injuries than this one on the field, yet this is the one that nags me whenever it wants to pop up. But it’s never hurt quite this bad. I don’t tell him that.

“Nice. You have training camp soon. You want to be on top.”

“I will be.”

“Right.”

“Anything else?” I ask, getting more tense as I watch Elena slap the papers down on my desk, then walk down the hallway to one of the bathrooms.

Lawrence watches her leave. “Good. Privacy.” He takes a few steps closer, keeping his voice low. “Talked to the principal at Timmy’s school. He’s down with you meeting some young fans, signing some footballs. I told him low key, no school-assembly-type thing. Good?”

“Make it casual. No media.”

“What the fuck is the point if no one takes a photo, Jack?”

I inhale, knowing he’s right. “You can take one photo for Instagram or whatever. I don’t want this to become a circus. I don’t want reporters outside Timmy’s school or his apartment. Laura wouldn’t like that.” She said as much at breakfast, and I want to make sure their lives aren’t upturned.

“Fine.” He breathes out a heavy sigh. “Timmy wants you to do this play thing. How are you going to manage that?”

I heave out a groan. I do not want to be on a stage. I picture me up there, weaving on my feet, my face bloodred, trying to get the words out. Hell no. My heart races at the mere thought.

He reads me. “Do you have any clue how hard it is to manage you when you aren’t helping? Just go, and see what happens. Maybe you can be an assistant to the director or some shit.”

I nod, not liking the anxiousness in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder. “She still hasn’t signed the NDA. Told me so at the door. What the fuck? And she’s here now? One word to the press about an injury and—”

“She knows about the shoulder. She was there when it happened.”

Lawrence lets out a string of curses.

“She won’t tell, Lawrence.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve known this girl for three fucking days.” He shakes his head. “Be glad Sophia never knew that injury keeps popping up.”

True. Sophia knew about the scar because everyone in my hometown knew the details of that story, and it has circulated around me for years. Plus, Harvey’s sister wrote her article. I never got around to telling Sophia about my occasional pain, mostly because it happened rarely. I hesitated when it came to her, which should have been a clue that she was wrong for me.

Yet I told Elena. I could have brushed it off as a minor football thing, but I didn’t. I told her the story from start to finish, and I can’t recall doing that since Devon.

Lawrence is giving me details about Timmy’s school in Daisy, quieting when Elena walks back in the room. She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her clothes have been straightened, and her hair is smooth, the long strands gleaming, as if she’s brushed it. Fresh red lipstick is on her lips. She snatches the papers from the table and sits down at the desk a few feet away from us, her head bent as she thumbs through them, pointedly ignoring us.

Great. I run my hands through my hair.

“Is that all, Lawrence? We’re waiting for lunch to arrive.” I give him a pointed look. Get the fuck out.

He nods and pivots. “Don’t see me out. I know you’re hurting. I’ll let you know what day and time for the school thing plus the other we discussed.” He gives a nod at Elena. “Nice to meet you, Elena.”

She never looks up. “Of course.”

I grimace. Her voice is quiet, polite, exceedingly so. But she didn’t say Nice to meet you too.

Lawrence is oblivious and glances at me and gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.

I walk over to her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders. “Elena . . .”

She holds a hand up. “Nope. Let me finish reading this fascinating document—which is backdated to Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

I cringe, knowing exactly what else is in those papers: a firm statement about consent and age; explicit description of sexual acts she’d do, from foreplay to anal, things she puts a check next to or doesn’t; an agreement of complete confidentiality for the entirety of her life, right down to the details of personal information including my cell number, the Wi-Fi password at the penthouse, the location of my apartment, even Lucy’s address in Brentwood. Lawrence and my lawyer came up with the language.