If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 25

Easton

“Can’t you call him or something? Tell him who I am and that I want to see him?”

“Ma’am, no one is allowed back to the players’ rooms without prior authorization.”

I thought I recognized that voice when I got off the elevator, but I can hardly believe my eyes when I see Shayleigh Jackson arguing with security in my hotel.

“Please? We’re friends. He’ll want to see me.”

“If you’re friends, you should call him.”

“She’s with me, Troy.” I rush forward before Shay can do something reckless like try to push by him. I can’t see her face, but I can hear the desperation in her voice, and I wouldn’t put it past her.

Shay spins around and barrels into me, throwing her arms around my waist. I wrap her up against me and close my eyes as I memorize the feeling. It’s been so long and . . . God, when did she get so small? She feels tiny in my arms.

Troy arches a brow in question, and I nod, reassuring him that she’s welcome here.

I smooth back her hair and tilt her face up to meet mine. The tears rolling down her cheeks slice into me and hurt nearly as much as the news Carter delivered yesterday. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk in private.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t fall apart on my family. I couldn’t do that to them.”

I kiss the top of her head. “You can fall apart on me. Come on.” I thread my fingers through hers and lead her to my room.

“You know? About Dad starting hospice?”

The door shuts behind me with an ominous thunk. Shay turns, folding her arms and searching my face as I nod. I haven’t been home in years, but tomorrow, when the Demons head back to L.A. on the team plane, I’m going to rent a car and drive up to Jackson Harbor. I have to see Frank one last time. “Carter called. He’s pretty torn up.”

“Me too.”

“Come here.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t drop her arms or rush toward me and bury her face in my chest like she did in the hall.

It’s as if now that we’re here, now that we’re alone, she’s second-guessing her choice to come to me, and I can’t have that. I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms. Her arms are still folded against her chest, but I stroke her hair, her back. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s not fair.”

And I am. So sorry. Frank Jackson’s the closest thing I ever had to a father—which is a sad state of affairs, considering the man who provided half my DNA is still alive.

I feel the moment Shay surrenders to the need to be close to me. She drops her arms and wraps them around me. She stops reinforcing that dam inside her and lets it break. Her tears rack her small frame and she trembles in my arms, shakes and clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping this grief from pulling her under.

I don’t know how long we stand there—just inside my hotel room, my arms wrapped around her, her tears soaking my shirt—but when she pulls away, it’s with a deep breath and a lift of her chin that tells me she’s determined to be strong.

I search her face—those deep chocolate eyes I’ve dreamed of so many nights and the sweet pink lips that are pouty without trying. She searches mine in return, and I wonder if she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her.

“I should probably go. Your wife . . .”

I cock my head to the side, waiting for her to finish that sentence. When she doesn’t, I say, “Scarlett might not like you being here, but since she’s currently living with Grant Holland, she doesn’t have much room to talk.”

Shay grimaces and looks away.

“You already knew.”

She shrugs. “I try not to pay attention to celebrity gossip. I don’t believe most of what they say.”

And rightly so. I’ve had some un-fucking-believable shit written about me since entering the league. But the recent round of media attention regarding Scarlett is at least partially true. Partially because there’s all sorts of speculation about our recent separation, and most of it involves me being cold, unfaithful, an ass, or all of the above. Nobody’s come close to the truth—that I married her because she was pregnant with my daughter and we were never really in love. Or that it gets lonely being married to someone who doesn’t love you—a feeling I’m as familiar with as Scarlett is.

“We’re separated.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. As if I didn’t spend years sacrificing everything to try to give my daughter the family I wanted for her, only to see it fall apart anyway.

“I’m sorry, Easton.” She swallows. “How’s your daughter? Abigail, right?”

I nod. “She’s amazing. Talks up a storm, sings all the time. But she’s going through this fussy phase where she never wants to eat, and I think she’s losing weight.” I shake my head. Abi has a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. “I’m sure everything’s okay. She’s stubborn, and when she doesn’t want to eat, she doesn’t want to eat, but the protective father in me needs a doctor to tell me that.”

“That makes sense.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “I bet you’re an amazing dad.”

“I try. Most of it I’ve just had to figure out as I go.”

“As a girl who was raised by an amazing dad, I have to say it’s everything.” More tears spill down her cheeks, and I’m being torn apart.

I don’t know when I cupped her face in my hand, but I watch my thumb clear away a streak of tears. She came to me. “I’m glad you’re here.” My chest feels too tight. Fuck, I’ve missed her so much. “I’m so sorry about how I handled the pregnancy. I was trying to help Scarlett stay sober and generally freaking out about becoming a father. And—”

She presses a thumb to my lips. “Not tonight, okay? I don’t want to talk about that tonight.”

Right. She has enough to process.

I nod, but she doesn’t move her thumb. Instead, she presses down until the tip is in my mouth, almost between my teeth. I touch it with my tongue, and her eyes darken. I want more than this tiny taste, more than I can have. I don’t know how long we stand like that—her thumb between my teeth, her face in my hands, our bodies so close that I can smell her lemon-and-lavender soap.

I’m not sure I take a single breath until she steps back and my hands drop helplessly to my sides. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth and holds my gaze as she unbuttons her shirt and lets it drop from her shoulders, and my situation with the oxygen shortage doesn’t improve a bit.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of her smooth ivory skin, her breasts cupped in the simple white cotton of her bra. I follow her hands, watching as they unbutton her jeans and push them down her hips.

I’ve fucked up so many times where Shay is concerned, and tonight she came to me upset, grieving. Maybe the right thing to do is to tell her to keep her clothes on. Maybe letting her strip makes my sins cross over into unforgiveable. But I’m willing to accept every label, every hit to my character and blow to my ego if it means I get to touch her.

She steps out of her jeans, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I love that her bra is simple, nearly virginal, love that her panties aren’t a match but a bright pink. They’re cut to sit high on her hips and barely cover her ass. I love how easy it is—how uncalculated. She didn’t put on her sexiest panty set and come here to seduce me. She’s just wearing whatever she’s wearing. But who am I kidding? She could be wearing fucking pantaloons and a chastity belt under her clothes, and I’m sure I’d still be hard as a rock watching her strip for me.

I can’t help but notice the changes, though. I memorized her with eyes, hands, and mouth in Paris, and I know every inch of her. She’s lost weight. Too much. I want to ask if she’s okay, if she’s been sick—Carter hasn’t said anything, but damn, she’s so frail—but I don’t. She’s always been so self-conscious about her appearance, and I don’t want her thinking she’s not beautiful when she takes my breath at any size.

“Say something,” she whispers, and I realize I’ve just been staring, trying to catalogue every change while her hands shake at her sides.

“You’re beautiful.” Is there really anything else to say? But the more honest part of my brain whispers that there’s so much more. I want you. I need you. I’ve fucking missed you.

She looks down and swallows. “Better, huh?”

My stomach knots. I hate that she never saw herself the way I saw her. “You’ve always been beautiful. I’ve told you that before.”

Her lips part as she blows out a breath. “I’ll never look like your Scarlett Lashenta.”

The words are a kick in the nuts. They’re a reminder that my decisions shackled this girl—this woman—with insecurities. “I’m glad for that.” My wife’s name floats in the room, a reminder that I’m entangled in a different world than Shay, a more vicious one, a reminder that we can’t be seen together without that world taking a swing at her. “Shay . . .”

She gives a small, sad smile and turns her back to me, striding toward the bed.

I close my eyes and count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. I know why she’s here now—I understand exactly what she wants from me. And I want it too—holy shit, do I want it. I want to give her what she came here for tonight, provide the comfort I know she needs. More than that, I want her. But my life is a fucking mess, and I can’t drag her into that. Scarlett may have moved out, but our lives are still entwined. I have to work out my shit so I can give Shay more than another night of pleasure.

When I finally lock on to my resolve, I follow her into the room and find her crouched in front of the minibar, digging through it. The sight of Shay in her underwear, frowning at a bottle of tequila, makes me grin.

She holds it up. “Not much here, but do you mind?”

“Help yourself.”

She unscrews the lid and takes a sip, grimacing. “Shit.”

When she offers it to me, I shake my head. I don’t drink much during the season, but even if I did, I don’t trust myself to drink tonight. I already only have a tenuous hold on my self-control, and even a drop of alcohol might obliterate that.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She takes another sip as she scans the room. “I really expected you to be in a fancy suite or something. This is . . . almost a normal-person hotel room.”

I chuckle and sink into a chair on the opposite side of the minibar, crossing my feet at the ankles as I sit back. “When I was a rookie, I had to have a roommate. I definitely prefer this.”

She lifts the mini bottle. “Here’s to being a big shot and having your own room.” She drains the rest of the tequila and wanders to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peer out at the view. I can’t stop looking at her—at her perfect nipples peaked against the thin white cotton of her bra, her bare legs, her toenails painted a dark purple. I wouldn’t have imagined she could be more beautiful. If she’d asked, I would’ve told her not to lose the weight, that she was perfect as she was. But now? She stands taller, her chin higher. She wanders around my room nearly nude with a self-confidence that was perhaps the only thing she was missing before. It’s the confidence that makes her shine, gives her thinner, stronger self an edge on the old Shay. I wonder if she knows that. Or if she thinks that when she walks through a room and men stare at her from every direction, it’s because her stomach’s flatter and her hips are narrower.

Slowly, she saunters toward me, her eyes locked with mine. Every step closer steals oxygen from my lungs. I can hardly catch my breath, and I know the only relief will be in touching her. She stops in front of me and swings a foot over my extended legs until she’s straddling my thighs. It would be so easy to bend and press my mouth against her stomach, cup my hand over those pink panties. I could grip her hips and hold her in place while I slide off the chair to the floor between her legs and bury my face in her pussy. I’m dying to taste her again. I want to fill my head with the sounds she makes and the smell of her. Fuck, I want to make her come and claim her as mine in the most primitive way.

“I keep waiting for you to kick me out,” she whispers. Swallowing, she props a knee on either side of my hips and lowers herself onto my lap. The little bottle of tequila is still in one hand, and she wraps the other behind my neck.

“You can stay as long as you want.” When she shifts her hips forward, she presses against the hard length of my cock through my jeans, and my breath rushes out of me.

“You’re killing my newfound ego. You know that, right?”

I arch a brow, curling my fingers into the arms of the chair. “How so?”

“I’m here thinking I’m all cute now, thinking that if I strip, you’ll want to touch me again. You don’t seem to mind that I’m almost naked, and yet . . .” She tosses the empty bottle onto the bed before cocking her head to the side and studying me. “I’m on your lap like this, and you’re not putting even a finger on me.” Something like regret flashes in her eyes. “Do you want me to leave?” The question is asked in a whisper so quiet it’s almost like she wants to hide from the possibility that I might.

I release the arms of the chair and place my hands gently on her waist. “Not unless you want to.” She presses into my erection, and my eyes float closed. Fuck. “But Shay, we shouldn’t have sex tonight.”

She stills. “Shouldn’t? Or you don’t want to?”

I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out like a grunt. “Trust me, there’s not much I want more right now.” I tighten my grip on her waist. “But I’ve fucked up with you before, and I don’t want to do it again. Jesus, you haven’t even talked to me in years, and now you’re on my lap.”

She bites her lip. “I’ve always been an all-or-nothing girl. You know that.”

“I do.” I trace the soft lace waistband of her panties with my thumb, my brain warring with my baser instincts. “Let me get through this mess with Scarlett. Let me . . . fix my life. Then I can give you what you deserve.”

She threads her fingers through my hair and tugs lightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you after Paris.” She looks away. “I am sorry about that.”

“Hey.” I take her chin in my hand and turn her face back to mine. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You don’t owe me an apology.”

She reaches for the hem of my shirt and tugs until it’s off. She traces invisible paths down my chest with her fingertips, circling the cluster of bruises over my ribs. “What’s this from?”

“Nasty hit.”

“Don’t you wear pads?”

I laugh. “Yeah, but even pads can’t save you when a two-hundred-sixty-pound lineman pummels you.”

She scoots off my lap and bends, placing the smallest, gentlest kiss to the nasty purple-and-red skin. Pleasure bolts down my spine like her mouth’s on my cock and not my ribcage.

When she looks up at me, her eyes are full of lust and desperation. And maybe grief. “I’m so scared and lonely,” she whispers. “All I want is to lie with you and lose myself for a few hours. The rest can come later.”

I slide a hand into her hair and lead her mouth to mine. My muscles tense then relax at the contact. She tastes like tequila and smells like lemon and lavender, and I’ve missed her so much. “You’re an all-or-nothing girl, and you deserve the all.”

She draws in a breath right against my mouth. “I don’t want another night of nothing.”

I wrap my arms around her, stand, and carry her to the bed. I don’t know when I’ll be able to give her everything she deserves, but tonight, I can give her this.