If I want?

If I fucking want?

I’ve never wanted anything more.

“Iris, once we start this, I can’t go back.” I’m a fool for giving her time to reconsider, but we have enough regrets. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, but I . . .” She lowers her lashes, hides her eyes. “Things with Caleb were . . . I haven’t been with anyone since . . .”

I really don’t want to talk about him, but whatever this macho ego shit is I got going on, I need to set it aside so she feels she can talk to me about anything.

“Hey, look at me.” I tilt her chin, catch her eyes. “We said slow. That’s on everything. Physically. Emotionally. Whatever you need. You set the pace, okay?” I drop my hands to my sides.

“Okay.” Mischief lifts some of the seriousness from her eyes. “So if I say I’m ready for our next kiss, would that be alright?”

“Is that a real question?”

We laugh, and my heart thumps while I wait for her to make a move. I said she could set the pace. Now to keep my hands to myself until she lets me know how this should go.

Her hands are gentle on my face, and for a few moments, she just looks at me, and then, eyes still locked with mine, she takes my bottom lip between hers. There’s something uncertain in her gaze when she tilts her head and deepens the kiss with the first pass of her tongue over my teeth. It’s an exploration, a tentative touch that singes my lips and ripples from the point of contact to the tips of my fingers.

It may be the sweetest moment of my life.

I grip the sheets, pressing my back deeper into the pillows, fighting the urge to pull her closer, tighter. Fighting the urge to do what I’m conditioned to do. Take over. I’m the floor general. I run the team. This is foreign, putting the ball in someone else’s hands. It goes against everything in me to let someone else call the plays, but I’ll do it. God, I think for Iris I’d do anything.

She stares at me while our mouths meld, cling, open, and the intimacy swells between us the longer we watch each other. The longer we taste each other. With every second, the more I have, the more I want. She pulls away just long enough to glance at the sheet knotted in my fists. With a smile, she sifts her fingers into my hair.

“August,” she whispers, “you can touch me.”

I’ve been waiting for permission, but now I’m the one who’s tentative. It’s crazy. We’ve kissed before. Hell, in that closet, we did a lot more than that. But there’s something more fragile about her this time. I’m a big guy. I’m sometimes clumsy and not always careful. Whatever is fragile about her, I’d rather die than break.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “Touch me how you want.”

My hands glide over her waist, slipping under her T-shirt and learning the exquisite craftsmanship of her ribcage, the flare of her hip. My lips wander down her cheek and dot kisses over her chin, jaw, neck, every inch of fine-grained skin I can get to. She’s the most intoxicating champagne. I sip. I drink. I slurp. I gulp her until I can’t remember the taste of another woman—there’s only ever been her scent and her hair and her shape. She is singular, obliterating every kiss that came before her, eliminating the possibility of anyone else ever tasting this good.

She ducks her head, recapturing my lips, angling her mouth, as hungry for it as I am. Her lips are greedy. Her tongue matches mine, velvety stroke for velvety stroke. I’m panting, almost choking on need. Knowing she wants this as much as I do drives it higher. It’s wet and hot and urgent. Every kiss stokes the craving that’s been brewing between us since our first moment in that bar.

She presses closer, whimpering under my hands and crawling onto my lap, straddling me. The smallest movement of her hips rolling over me stills us both. I’m only wearing a thin hospital gown, so she has to feel how hard I am. I thrust up, and she drops her head into the cove of my neck and shoulder, her breath a heat wave on my skin. Our hips move in concert, each of us seeking traction, relief. She sits up, capturing my eyes and rocking into me, the rhythm of her body steady and deep. Her eyelids droop, and her mouth falls open on a quiet moan.

“Oh, God, August.” Her brows pinch together and she bites her lip, rolling over me, dropping her head back until her neck is elongated. I lick the stretch of satin from her jaw to her collarbone. I nudge the neck of her T-shirt aside, licking the tops of her breasts. I insert my tongue, dipping in to taste her cleavage.

A knock on the door startles us. She’s still scrambling off my lap and I’m reaching for a blanket to cover my erection when the door swings open.

Fucking Kenan.

First, he elbows my head.

Now, he blocks my cock.

With his jet-black brows lifted, Kenan tips his mouth in a knowing half-grin.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the concussion protocol,” he says. “If so, you can elbow me in the head.”

“Jackass.” I grin, still panting, and run my fingers through my hair. “You come to finish me off?”

His smile evaporates, and he steps farther into the room. They don’t call him Gladiator for nothing. At nearly six-eight, with wide shoulders and a broad chest and just about zero body fat, I’m glad we’re on the same team.

“Bruh, I’m sorry.” He crosses over to the bed, glancing speculatively at Iris.

“Kenan, this is Iris.” I grab her wrist so she doesn’t leave the bed just because he’s here. “Iris, this is the man responsible for my concussion.”

“I know,” she says smiling faintly, her cheeks still rose–gold with embarrassment. “I saw. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says, not trying to hide his curiosity. “You look so familiar.”

Iris stiffens at my side and tugs harder until her wrist is free. “Maybe I’ve just got one of those faces,” she murmurs, her smile stiff and plastic.

Her text alert sounds, and she frowns down at her phone.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s just Lo asking me to translate something Sarai is saying. Sometimes I’m the only one who understands her.”

“She’s at home?”

“No, they actually came with me. They’re in the waiting room.” She rolls her eyes. “Lo thought I was too upset to drive.”

“Were you?” I tug on one coil resting on her shoulder. She looks from me to Kenan, her smile tight at the corners.

“I’d love to see Sarai and to finally meet Lo,” I say, sparing her having to answer in front of Kenan. “Give her the room number.”

“You’ll love Lo, and she can’t wait to meet you.” She types out the text, sinking her teeth into a smile. “I’ll warn you in advance. There’s never any telling what will come out of her mouth.”

“Lo?” Kenan asks, one brow cocked.

“My cousin.” Iris stands, and I miss her already.

The door opens and Sarai darts across the room to her mother, throwing her arms around Iris’s knees as if they’ve been separated fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes. With it being just the two of them for the last year, she probably got really attached.

Sarai peeks out from behind Iris’s knees to look at me, her lips curving up to match the huge grin I’m giving her.

“Hi, Sarai,” I say, wishing she felt comfortable enough already to give me a hug, too.

“Gus,” she whispers.

Iris snorts, laughing at the nickname I told her I hate. There’s still time to retrain Sarai, but right now she could call me Attila the Hun and I wouldn’t care.

Iris’s cousin enters the room at a more measured pace.

The first thing I notice about Lotus DuPree is how much she and Iris look alike. There are marked differences. Her skin is a few shades darker but no less smooth. Her hair is coarser but still curly, cut close and died platinum blond. She’s slimmer than Iris, a little shorter, but she looks like a model. Not in her stature, but with an effortless kind of grace. Over a wife-beater, she wears a fitted multi-colored silk kimono jacket. Dark jeans mold the lean line of her legs. The tiniest hoop adorns the keen curve of her left nostril.

Beyond her obvious attractiveness, there’s something about her that highjacks your attention. Even with no expression, Lo’s face seems animated. The expressive brows and wide, mobile mouth speak on her behalf without her uttering a word. She’s as hard to look away from as Iris, but for different reasons.

Iris said they come from a long line of voodoo high priestesses. I see it in Lotus. A regalness—a mystery and an aura, like she knows your thoughts before you think them and is fully capable of changing your mind.

Kenan can’t seem to look away. His eyes follow her path from the door to the bedside.

“Nice to meet you, August,” she says, extending her hand.

Where Iris’s voice is sweet and husky, Lotus’s voice emerges low, commanding, and with an inherent sensuality that would have many men under her spell immediately.

Is that what’s happened to Kenan?

He still hasn’t said a word, and, as far as I can tell, he hasn’t looked anywhere else since Lotus walked in the room.

“Glad we finally get to meet,” I tell her, smiling. “Iris has been talking about you since the night we met.”

“Well, we’re even because your name may have come up a time or two today,” she says, smiling and ignoring the glare Iris shoots her way. “Or maybe twelve times. I stopped counting.”

A chuckle rumbles through my chest, and I grab Iris’s hand to squeeze.

“And this is Kenan, the teammate who put me here in the first place.” I gesture toward the giant beside me, who dwarfs both women considerably. Standing on opposite sides of my bed, Lotus and Kenan exchange looks, neither smiling. Lotus narrows her eyes on him as if she’s seeing beyond the sinew and muscle and bone to the parts Kenan hides from everyone, maybe even from himself.

“Nice to meet you,” Kenan says, clearing his throat and breaking the silence between them.