Play Along (Windy City, #4)

by Liz Tomforde

“So, uh…” I clear my throat, looking to Isaiah and finding a mirrored, knowing grin. “What do you really think about Reese, Monty?” “I think she’s going to drive me fucking insane before she even officially takes over.”

“Oh, no, baby. That’s where you’re wrong. There’s nothing little about me. Maybe one day you’ll learn exactly what kind of size I’m working with.”

He steps into me, his voice low, close to my ear. “I’m surprised you didn’t get that one, Kenny. You know a thing or two about denial, don’t you? Like how you’re telling yourself you’ve been avoiding me because you’re too busy and not because you can’t stop dreaming about our kiss and thinking about how you want more. I thought the answer might be ‘Kennedy’ but seven letters is too long.”

“Hmm. You’re right. It is ‘Denial.’ Six letters. The act of asserting that something alleged is not true. I kept trying to use ‘Isaiah’ and it wasn’t working. ‘Rhodes’ too. Because you’re wrong. I haven’t thought about that kiss one single time since it happened, and I sure as hell haven’t thought about more.”

The little birthmark by his right eye disappears behind his smile line. “The most beautiful liar I’ve ever met.”

He tugs, ensuring I’m looking up and making eye contact with him. “Make sure you keep your eyes on me tonight, wifey. I have a feeling I’m going to have a good night at bat, and I want you to watch.”

“Because you’re obsessed with me.” He chuckles close to my ear. “I think that’s the perfect word to describe how I feel about you, Doc.” Isaiah nips my earlobe before soothing it with a soft kiss on my neck.

Then he finds me over his shoulder, sandwiched between two of the players, attempting to watch him through the fence. He smirks, this mischievous and knowing grin lighting up his face when he should be focusing on the game.

Mariah Carey’s “Obsessed” is blaring from all angles around me. Kai barks a laugh from the bench, but other than him, no one questions his brother’s song choice. Instead, the entire stadium is bursting, singing along with the lyrics while Isaiah’s teammates are joining right in with their own karaoke renditions.

Our wedding song is on full blast as Isaiah makes his way to the plate, but before he gets there, he turns back in my direction. With the entire stadium singing the song I walked down the aisle to, Isaiah extends his bat, points at me, and winks. He fucking winks. It’s the moment reality hits me… Miller was right. I think I might have a crush on my husband.

Kennedy’s hair is tucked under a baseball cap. She’s still wearing her wedding shoes with a pair of leggings and a long tee, covered with that oversized denim jacket I bought her in Vegas. She looks so fucking cute, and it’s only amplified from those dusted freckles shadowed by the brim of her hat, but best of all, she’s looking like that while standing at my door.

I find the top of the doorway, hooking my hands around the frame, my knowing smile impossible to suppress. She didn’t come over here because of my fucking hat that I intentionally left at the stadium. She came over because she wanted to.

Kidnap my wife and never let her leave.

“I’m never having a bad hair day, baby.”

A retort sticks in her throat, her brown eyes begging for me to make this easy for her. To ask her inside and not question her motives. But I can’t. I want her to work for it. I need her to taste just a sample of the years of torture I’ve endured, wanting a woman I couldn’t have. The difference is she can have me. She can have fucking all of me. She only needs to ask.

I huff a laugh. “How someone could be so beautiful and so full of shit at the same time is astounding to me.” Her smile blooms. I motion towards my open door. “C’mon, Doc.”

I’ve got my handle on snarky Kennedy, shy Kennedy, and even drunk Kennedy, but sweet and honest Kennedy? I’m a goner already.

Kennedy’s bare foot grazes mine, a smile on those lips I want to kiss again. “Okay.” “Okay.”

“How lucky is she to have two boys who love her as much as you and your brother do. And how lucky are you,” Kennedy continues, her knee nudging mine, “to have a mom you love so much you still miss her all these years later.”

:(

“Grief seems like a privilege, in a way,” she says. “To have loved someone so much that you can’t imagine life without them. I’ve never felt that.”

“Maybe one day, even I’ll be missed.” My heart sinks at her hopefulness. Who the fuck has to hope that one day someone will care about them enough that their presence will be missed? My wife, I guess.

Kennedy’s set on leaving Chicago, and I know that when she goes, there won’t be a day I won’t be missing her. There won’t be a day I won’t think about her dimples that hide when she scowls at me or her crossword puzzles or the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s concentrating at work. But it’s not her fault she doesn’t understand this yet. She was raised by fucked-up people who didn’t teach their daughter how important she is. How special and loved she is.

She wants me to teach her things? Well, that’s one lesson I’ll be sure to drill into ...

“Why didn’t you come in for post-game treatment?” I huff an exasperated laugh. “And have you rub out my groin in public? Wasn’t exactly trying to let the boys see just how hard I get for my wife.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I need to examine you. Go lay on the couch.” “I don’t fit on the couch.” “Well then…” Her eyes roam my apartment. “Your bed.” My brows shoot up. “Are you sure about that, Doc?”

She rolls her eyes. “Live, laugh, love, Isaiah. Get your ass on the bed so I can check your injury.”

“I’m magical? That may as well say ‘I’m good at sex,’ hanging over your bed like that.” I shrug. “You said it, not me.”

Lmaooooo

Gently, she takes my knee in one hand, other fingers still pressed into my groin, literal inches from my dick. “Tell me when it hurts.” Oh, it hurts all right. It fucking aches.

This is torture. Fucking torture. It’s like her hands are where I want them, but they’re not doing what I need them to do. Similar to the way I’m married to her, but not in the way I wish I could be.

“Isaiah.” “You’ve diagnosed me. I’ve got a sprain in my hip flexor. Work is officially over. You were professional and all that shit I don’t care about.” Gently pulling her by the wrist, I bring her palm to my lower abdomen. “But you don’t have to be professional now, if you don’t want to be.” I cover her hand with mine. “I don’t want you to be.”

My eyes have adjusted enough to watch him stalk towards me, closing the final steps between us. With my back flush to the door, he presses his palms to it, caging me in on either side.

“I want this,” I say once fully hidden by both the darkness and the sheets. Then I pull my T-shirt up and over my head, tossing it to the floor. “Jesus,” Isaiah exhales from across the room, running a palm over his disbelieving face. “I’ve always imagined what you might look like right there.”

“Here’s the thing, Ken.” Reaching out, he cradles the back of my head, thumb dusting over my jaw. “You’re going to have to set the pace because I have craved you here, in my bed, since the day we met, and that need has only gotten worse now that I know you. Regardless of whatever bullshit I said while under the spell that was Chili’s, the truth is, I’d fuck you right now if you asked me to. I’d go slow if that’s what you wanted. Or I’d make it rough. But I also can’t read your mind, so again, I’m going to need you to use your words and set the pace.”

Ahhhhhhhhh

Looking up, I find his eyes locked on my face, watching me and not letting his attention dip below the sheets just yet. “Please look at me,” I beg. I want, no—I need to know the way it’d feel for Isaiah to look at me.

I’ve never, not once, been looked at the way my husband looks at me. Wanted. Important. Devastating to his life plans.

His thumb dusts over the freckles of my sternum. “I love these,” he whispers, before shifting to skim the lace of my bralette. “And this…this looks so fucking good on you, Ken. What color is it? White?” I swallow down the nerves. “Yellow.” A grin hitches on his lips as his eyes come back up to find mine, that birthmark I’m obsessed with hidden behind a smile line. “My favorite color.”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“Don’t be embarrassed with me, Kenny. You know I’m over here losing my shit that you wore that for me.”

“Turn it off,” he whispers. “Turn off your brain and do what feels good. It’s all just a game, right? You and me, it’s all a game, so play along.”

“It’s hard.” “Fucking tell me about it.” His tone is dry. “Hard as a motherfucking rock.”

“I know. I see you, Kenny, even if you haven’t been looking at me.”

My hearttttt

“I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against my lips. “About kissing you. About touching you. I don’t want it to stop.” So I don’t let it.

I have this aching need to touch him everywhere, this beautiful boy who used to drive me insane.

Pushing my hips, I roll my body into him and watch his Adam’s apple protrude with his deep swallow. I lean over and press my lips to it. “Jesus, Kenny, do that again and I’m going to come in my fucking sweatpants like some kind of pent-up teenager.” I smile against his skin.

“Touch it,” he commands. “Fucking hell, Kennedy, please just touch it.” Wow, this arrogant man sounds fantastic when he begs.

Isaiah grits through his teeth, every muscle in his body firing as his fingers dig into my thigh that’s draped around him. “Please,” he begs. “Please wrap your hand around it.” “You’re very polite when you want something.” His chuckle is dark. “Oh baby, I told you already. I’m a good boy, especially when I want something.”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“Your hand,” he grits out. “Goddamn, I’ve been dreaming of it, Kenny. Of your mouth. Of your fucking pussy. I bet it’s as perfect as the rest of you, isn’t it?”

Isaiah thrusts into my hand, looking for friction, and it’s when he runs his entire length through my fist that I feel exactly what kind of size he’s working with. Jesus.

“You could grip a little tighter if you want.” I do exactly that. “What else?” “I like it when you give the head a little attention.” I circle my thumb again, spreading the moisture over the tip before coating my fist in it and running it down his shaft. “Mmm,” he moans. “That’s it, baby.”

Reading my mind, he throws his hand over mine to stop me. “I’m going to come too fast, and I really need to make you feel as good as you’re making me.” His lips softly meet mine. “Can I make you feel good, Kenny?”

He cups my ass, pulling me flush to him. His fingers toy with the seam of my leggings, achingly close to the spot I need them most, as his lips trail down my throat, my collarbone, my chest, tongue darting out to lick over the fabric of my bralette. “Oh,” I exhale when his tongue flicks over the lace, creating this delicious friction on my stiff nipple. “Okay, I like that.” His silent chuckle rumbles against me as he does it again, this time closing his mouth over the peak.