“Unbutton me,” I pant.

I want him.

I want him to touch me and kiss me and take me home and sneak into my bed and…

He loses it. Grabbing my waist, he brings his mouth down on mine, backing me into the wall and hikes up my skirt. He nestles himself between my legs, holding my knee at his waist.

His other hand works the buttons at my back.

“Five minutes, Clay,” he says, jerking the buttons free until I feel the bodice loosen and slide down my torso. “How much damage can I do in five minutes?”

He covers my lips again and grinds into me, the twenty-four-hour scruff on his chin poking my face and lips. I scale my hands up his chest, his muscles tight and thick under his shirt, and I dive into his mouth deeper, waiting for the pulse between my thighs to need what he’s doing. To like it. I’m tired of not fucking around like everyone else. I want my own guy.

I want someone touching me.

I want to search him out for more and not be able to control myself when we’re together.

He forces my head back and kisses my neck, sucking and biting as he grips my ass and rolls his hips against my panties over and over again.

And I feel it. I freeze for a moment, the pulse on my clit starting to pump as the lace of Liv’s panties rubs so good against my nub.

Heat spreads as I grow wet, and slowly, I close my eyes and let my arms fall away from his body. They hang at my side, images flashing like lightning behind my lids. So quick. So hot.

Skin. Wet skin. And her face is on fire, glowing and golden and covered with my mouth.

I moan, slipping my hand down her panties that I wear, rubbing my smooth skin and dipping my fingers inside and wanting her to watch me. To make her want me and make her happy.

“Goddamn, Clay,” Callum growls, and he’s stopped kissing me. I think he’s watching.

But after a moment, lips land on me again, and I kiss so slow and gentle. With my tongue taunting and savoring her. Not him.

“Come home with me,” he whispers in my ear. “Neither one of us can stop this.”

My orgasm crests, and tears fill my eyes, grateful and gutted. I can come with him. Now I know how.

But God… What the hell is going on in my head?

I hear something and open my eyes, seeing Liv through the crack in the curtain. It lays open six inches, and she stands there, a stack of shoe boxes next to her on the table as she stares at us.

Her gaze falls, and I know she sees her underwear. She sees Callum Ames with his hands all over them, and I can’t help the pleasure I feel in my stomach as I watch her watch me rub up on him a little more.

I linger on her chest, the faintest points of her nipples poking through her black T-shirt, the tan skin of her stomach peeking out the bottom. She’s not wearing a bra, and my fingers hum, another moan escaping as I feel myself slide my hands up her shirt.

“Clay,” he says again against my neck.

But I don’t blink as I look at her. “The ball,” I tell him. “After the ball. All night.”

He can have me all night. I’ll like it. I know I’ll like it.

Liv’s eyes narrow, the muscle in her jaw flexing, and I know she didn’t hear me, she’s probably just mad her plan to piss me off with the dress didn’t work.

I matter, you brat. You don’t. You can’t just run from me. You’ll leave here, but you’ll do it knowing you never survived me. Not really.

We still have months, Jaeger. The fun is just beginning.

I RACE DOWN the field, sweat dripping down my back as the lights shine overhead. The crowd in the stands cheers or yells unintelligible orders like they’d be doing any better if they were out here.

Skidding to a halt, I whip around, find Clay, and pound my stick on the grass twice. “Here!” I shout.

She meets my eyes, both of us panting, and tosses the ball over to Ruby Ingram instead. I squeeze my fist around the stick, grit my teeth, and watch for all of two seconds before fucking Ruby loses the ball, and the other team speeds back down the field toward our goal with their prize.

Goddammit, Clay.

I dart off after the ball, shooting a glare at her before running past. What the hell is her problem? She wants to win, doesn’t she? Does she think this makes me look bad? No. It’s on her.

The attacker passes the ball, but I race up, scoop it up, and whip around, shooting it over to Amy. She runs, everyone changes directions, and I barrel after her, digging in my heels and on guard as I watch the ball go to Krisjen, who hesitates too long.

“Krisjen!” I bark. Her nervous eyes jerk to me and she flips her stick, only too happy to be rid of the damn thing. I catch it, run and swerve, and shoot. The ball hits the net, the goalie unable to react fast enough.

“Yeahhhhhhhh!” I hear my brothers roar from the stands in between whistles.

But I’m not happy. I walk up to Clay, slamming my shoulder into hers as others run around us. “Stop fucking up,” I growl as I pass.

“What?” she taunts. “I just love watching you haul ass, is all.”

Yeah, right. Her ponytail bounces as she runs ahead, and I almost wish Coomer would bench me. It’s amazing how fast Clay can deplete my motivation.

Krisjen passes the ball to her, and she catches it, running toward me. I back up, holding my stick, ready to catch, but she shoots it over my head. Mercedes Peron goes for it, but an Eagle player knocks her into the ground. The ball rolls away.

I shoot daggers at Clay. I’m going to kill her. She’s sabotaging this on purpose. Trying to prove no one needs me.

But just then, Clay pulls off her eyewear, wipes the sweat off her forehead, and looks anything but pleased with herself.

“Collins!” Coach shouts, but Clay refuses to make eye contact.

Mercedes holds out her hands, questioning Clay. “I thought you were passing it to Jaeger.”

“Just shut up,” Clay bites out.

The midfielders engage and Amy takes the ball, looking for Clay, but I rush over just as she shoots it, grabbing it with my stick and knocking Clay to the ground. I don’t even look down to see her reaction, and I don’t care if I get in trouble. I’m not letting her screw this up.

Racing down the field, I pass it to Amy who passes it to Lena Marcus who shoots and scores. I smile, backing up and ready for the ball to come back into play.

But when I look back, Clay is on the sidelines, Coomer giving her a good tongue-lashing. Clay stands there, her defiant little chin stern as always, and Megan stands near them, looking at me and biting back her smile.

I’m not smiling anymore, though. Clay isn’t looking at the coach. She’s looking at me, her breathing calm and even like she doesn’t give a shit.

Why is she doing this? What does she want?

I don’t have time to ponder too long, because plays start up again and it’s pedal to the metal for the last twenty minutes of the game. Clay re-enters, avoiding me again and ignoring the coach, running the ball to the goal herself and securing our win at eleven over five.

I don’t feel like celebrating, though. I just want to get out of here and away. Grabbing my shit, I walk for the parking lot, not staying for the coach’s little talk after the game and see Trace jogging up to me right before he lifts me into his arms. “O-liv-i-a!” he screams. “Ma bitch! Four goals!”