me, her eyes intense, wide. It was like she saw me for the first time, that stolen glance across the combine when my heart had stopped and I tripped over my own feet to fly head-first into a blocking sled.
Finally, she could see all of me. Every part. The player. The friend. The lover. The man.
And the parts of me I hadn’t shown her yet.
But she’d have to know. She deserved to know.
Would she still want me after learning about my past?
She tried so hard to speak, but the words were lost in panted breaths. It didn’t matter. Her eyes pinched shut just as the shocking, shooting pleasure burst within me. It started as a delirious tingle before erupting into the white-hot searing agony that teetered between pleasure and pain.
Her pussy squeezed me. Milked me.
Every fucking drop.
Every damned jet.
I filled her with my desire, my energy, my last goddamned ounce of willpower.
And the quiver of her endless orgasm rewarded me in a moment of silent intimacy.
She jerked, breathing quick and hard and biting her lip as though she’d cry out, even without a voice.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Elle sighed as I pulled from her. She took my hand, pulling me close, staring at me with such intensity and honesty and…
Fear?
Well, I felt it too. That amazement and uncertainty and raw passion.
I loved it.
But it wasn’t time for her to admit it. I’d made her a promise. I’d get those three words exactly when I’d swore she’d say them—not a moment before.
Even if she would prove me right.
I pressed my finger against her lips.
“Don’t say it.” I kissed her, savoring her surrendered shrug. “We still have one date to go.”
15
Elle
“So, Mrs. Reed…”
Freddie dropped his recording equipment in a heap on our office floor. He grinned at me, knowing full-well I didn’t have a voice to chastise him.
“You do realize there’s fifty-two other men on the team?”
I tilted my head.
He scooted behind me, pointing to my laptop. He scrolled through the hundreds of photos I had taken for the day.
“There’s one of Lachlan,” he said. “And there’s one of Lachlan. And another of Lachlan. And a fourth, fifth, sixth...” He stole my mouse. “And whadda know? Another of Lachlan. Lachlan. Lachlan…”
I pointed to the picture of the quarterbacks, centering on the play-maker in his red jersey.
“Oh, sure. That’s Jack. And right there behind him…” Freddie tapped the screen. “Lachlan.”
Damn it.
My groan was silent. That was getting annoying.
Day three of muteness, and the laryngitis had no intention of fading. But I wasn’t sick. I’d lost my voice after a very unfortunate hiccup that was not a hiccup. I’d learned a wise lesson that day. Never trust a bodily function while pregnant. My stomach was a swirl of nitroglycerin, and any little bump, quiver, shake, smell, taste, or internet video of the birthing process was like swallowing a lit fuse.
One unfortunately timed heave had occurred at the same time as a cough, and I’d accidentally doused my larynx with a healthy portion of everything unhealthy from my stomach.
The doctor said it was a recipe for a persistently sore throat and a complete loss of my voice.
Freddie laughed as I shut the lid to the laptop and packed my equipment with a huff.
“I’m just saying, Elle. You’re allowed to have a crush on your husband.”
I tried to speak, but I could only wag a finger. Fortunately, it was my index instead of one far more expressive. I stormed from the room.
A crush on my husband?
That was the most ridiculous, idiotic, absolutely absurd accusation in the world.
I did not have a crush on Lachlan Reed.
…I was in love with him.
And that realization sent me sprawling for the closest bathroom before my stomach, mind, heart, and every other part of me detonated.
I loved him.
And it had been obvious to everyone except me.
He had somehow become a permanent fixture in my life and photography. So many of my pictures included his virtue-stealing dimples. It was like I’d deliberately captured scenes with his eyes, just to marvel at how they were greener than even a hundred yards of grass.
Why didn’t I realize it—especially after our night at the charity gala? None of my worldly travels or once-in-a-lifetime pictures had thrilled me as much as our night spent entwined, hidden beneath the stars.
I fell for him so hard I probably left a crater on the fifty-yard line.
Lachlan was right. I did love him before the sunset of our third date.
Worse, I loved him ahead of schedule.
Oh, this was bad.
…Or maybe something good?
But it wasn’t