Page 64 of Playing Her Game

He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes. Then he moves lower.

He spreads my thighs with his hands and settles between them, pressing a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other, working up with maddening patience until his mouth finally finds me. The first slow drag of his tongue pulls a sound from me I don't try to hold back. He works me open carefully, reading every sound I make, every tightening of my thighs against his shoulders, adjusting until he finds exactly the rhythm that winds me tightest. Two fingers press inside me, curling forward, and my hips lift off the mattress. He holds them down with one firm forearm across my hip and keeps going, unhurried, until I'm shaking.

"Please," I manage.

He lifts his head, chin slick, watching my face as he works his fingers once more, deep and deliberate. "Please what?"

"You know what."

He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. "Say it."

"I want you inside me." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Now."

He holds my gaze for a moment, something moving through his expression, and then he shifts up my body.

I reach for him, and he shifts, leaning over to grab something from the floor, his pants.

"Wait," I say, blinking at the condom in his hand. "When did you⁠—"

He tears one open, matter-of-fact. "After practice."

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching him. "You didn't have to do that."

He pauses, looking at me directly. "I know I didn't have to."

"Then why?"

He exhales, rolling the condom on without breaking eye contact. "Because I can't stop thinking about what you told me." He pauses, jaw working. "I can't stand the thought of you going through that again."

The words settle into me, unexpected and heavy.

"Rez—"

"I'm not trying to solve anything or act like I know better. But if there's even a chance, I'd rather take responsibility for it, make sure you are never in that pain again."

I reach for him, pulling him down to me, and kiss him until the tightness in my chest eases. "Thank you," I whisper against his mouth.

He doesn't answer with words. He settles between my thighs, one hand braced beside my head, and reaches down to guide himself to my entrance. He holds there for a moment, the blunt head of him pressing just barely inside, watching my face. Then he pushes forward in one slow, continuous roll of his hips, filling me until I feel the press of him fully seated, the slight ache of the stretch that makes me exhale through my teeth.

"Okay?" he asks, low.

"Yes." I wrap my legs around him. "Fuck me slow."

He does. Long, deep strokes, his hips drawing back and pressing forward with a patience that feels deliberate; he’s showing me he sees me, he has every time.

I can feel every inch of him on each pass, the drag and press of it, and I tighten around him on instinct and feel him falter slightly, a rough exhale against my temple.

"Do that again," he says, voice frayed at the edges.

I do, squeezing deliberately as he pulls back, and his rhythm stutters and then deepens, his hips rolling harder. I pull my knees higher and he sinks deeper and I make a sound against his shoulder that I feel no need to apologize for.

We find the pace together, slow and grinding, his body flush against mine so that every thrust presses him against my clit and the pressure builds in long, climbing waves. I can feel the tension gathering low and deep, my fingers pressing hard into his back, his breathing going ragged against my ear.

"I've got you," he says, barely above a whisper.

Spent, we lie here wrapped in each other’s arms, his cock softening inside me, kissing, so much kissing, I never realized how much I love it.

"Thank you," I whisper against his mouth.