"I'm not just going to fuck you, babe. I'm going to have you moaning my name. And then I'm going to take you slow because I never want it to stop. Until you can't take it anymore and beg me to let you come."
I shivered as he scooted down my legs, taking my underwear with him. He paused at the sight of my hard cock, leaking a string down to my stomach and licked his lips. "You're fucking dripping for me."
I bit my lip hard as he ripped his boxers down his legs and then crawled back over me. Dipping down, Rook's soft lips pressed to my neck before his breath tickled my ear. "I love you, Noah."
Sucking in a sharp breath, I wondered if those words would ever hold less power over me than they did in that moment. "I love you back. Always have. Always will."
"I'm marking that down in the rulebook next."
My chest vibrated with laughter.
He pulled away and cocked a brow. "No veto?"
Why the fuck would I say no to that? "That's one rule I can swear to never break."
His grin was soft, but his gaze grew hungry as it dropped to my lips. "Good. You're stuck with me. Forever."
"Still a creepy ass rule."
He chuckled. "Shut up and kiss me."
With lightning speed, I brought my hands to the back of his head and pulled him down, stopping just short of pressing his lips to mine. "Forever."
"Damn right," he growled before he slanted his mouth over mine.
Rule number twenty-three, I added silently. Be grateful for stupid ideas that lead to perfect forevers.
Epilogue
Noah/One Year Later
I'm nervous as hell as I watch the quickly dwindling minutes left in the final quarter of the game. My knee bounces wildly as my gaze tracks Rook's every move down the polished court in the massive arena.
Twenty thousand fans pack the stands around us where I sit with Rook’s mom and dad a few rows behind the bench. All three of us are wearing Rook’s purple and white jersey. Scantily-clad cheerleaders stand perfectly poised on both sides of the court, and cameras and commentators take up different angles of the court, competing for the best shot and view while more press sits nearby. The scents of hot dogs, pizza, beer, colognes, perfumes and sweat permeate the air. Everything is so familiar, yet new.
This isn’t college anymore. It’s not even Texas. I’m battling an impending onset of anxiety because this is Rook’s first game as a pro baller with the Knoxville Dragons in east Tennessee where we both moved several months back when Rook was drafted.
The arena is charged with anticipation crackling in the air because the game is too close to call. I wonder if everyone else can sense it too. That sizzling spark is the reason I choose to sit in the stands. The chaotic sounds that get your blood pumping and heighten your senses when you have a lot riding on a game. Tonight’s important. I want this for Rook. He’s fucking earned it with as much work as he puts in. At this level, it’s much more physically taxing and he sucks it up every damn day.
"Noah." Mrs. Oliveira reaches over and squeezes my clammy hand in her dainty one. "Relax and take a deep breath."
I glance at Rook's mom who sits next to me with Mr. Oliveira at her other side. Her eyes are focused back on the game, but her thin red lips twitch, deepening the laugh lines on her pale face.
She releases me, and I wipe my palms over my jeans. "I might be just a little nervous."
Her light golden-brown eyes meet mine, twinkling with amusement as she raises a shaped brow. "I never would have guessed."
I'm just about to make a smart remark that will likely cause her to withhold my favorite meal when we visit for Christmas next week, when I catch the retort behind locked lips. Her laugh that follows is light as she sweeps dark brown hair behind her ear.
“Noah.” Rook’s dad has a voice much like Rook’s, but rather than a rasp, his sounds like gravel has been fed down his throat. He waits until I look at him. Sharp green eyes, made brighter by the warm brown shade of his skin, peer back at me. “That boy was born for this. You know him better than anyone. Settle down and enjoy it.”
“Yes sir,” I reply, but it does nothing to soothe the nervous energy zipping around my body. I focus back on the game, my gaze shifting through the sea of white and purple mixed with black and red, tracking down my favorite player.
It isn't hard. His dark hair and bronzed skin have always drawn my eyes like magnets. My heart swells with pride and love when I look at him. And if I’m totally honest, a dash of disbelief still exists. Rook is mine. He chose me.
You might think I'd be used to it after the circus that was March Madness shortly after Rook and I had become a couple. Those crazy weeks of college games were overwhelming as teams were eliminated one by one, watching their hopeful dreams of making it to the final four crash and burn. The media coverage was thicker than ever, and they couldn't seem to get enough of our relationship. So it was impossible for me to forget for even a second that what we had was real.
But the NBA is on a totally different level. The crowds are larger and wilder. The stakes higher. The media far more invasive. I can only imagine it’ll get worse. But Rook is worth way more than any pains that come with the package of dating a pro athlete.
My gaze sweeps across the court as shoes squeak across the polished floors, the basketball thudding unheard over the sound of the crowd. A giant player, who makes Rook seem average height, attempts to steal the ball from Garibay, Rook’s teammate. The ball gets loose and the resulting crash of big bodies hitting the floor as they try to recover it is followed by a shrill whistle. Garibay emerges from the group holding his ribs, and I wince at the thought of taking a shot from one of these guys.
“Nasty elbow,” someone gripes from behind me. “But of course, they don’t call a foul. And this is likely our last possession.”
There's a sudden frenzy of movement and everyone around us jumps to their feet. I'm alert immediately and on my feet with the rest.
A battle for the ball is getting heated, and I realize it's because the ball is in Rook's hand. He’s the new guy. Easy pickings, right? They don’t know Rook. He lives and breathes this damn sport, and he never meets a challenge he doesn’t accept. My boyfriend breaks away and charges down the court.
He pivots, avoiding the last defender, stops on a dime, and it feels like the whole arena holds their breaths as he shoots. The game hangs on this shot, and I want this win for him so much my chest aches.
Nothing but net. The home crowd erupts. And I clap louder and harder than I ever have before. I'm proud as fuck of him.
His teammates are on him in seconds as the buzzer echoes in the massive arena. And I wait for it. The moment I know his eyes will meet mine. They always do.
His whiskey gaze homes in on mine, and it's like the air is sucked straight out of my lungs. I'm grinning like a lunatic. He winks and mouths I love you.
Mrs. Oliveira shakes my shoulder. "Look, dear, you're on the jumbotron."
I don't want to look away, but I do and immediately wish I hadn’t. There's my face, gaping like an idiot. Some clever cameraman saw the exchange. My face heats, but I smile through the embarrassment. I like my new intern job, working with an indie film producer behind the scenes and would rather keep my face off of the screen, thank you very much.