“You barely know how to get around the city. And you don’t even speak German! You’d really go off with some guy you don’t know?”

“You didn’t seem to mind when that guy was you,” I retort. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time. And I can talk to whoever I want to, okay?”

“Okay,” Beck responds, clenching his jaw as soon as the word is out, as if to restrain more from exiting.

“Okay,” I confirm. But it doesn’t feel like we’ve actually agreed about anything.

He doesn’t say anything else; he kisses me, and I let him. Because I’m here to play soccer, but a few more orgasms won’t hurt. Because he smells amazing and feels even better. Because I know exactly how incredible it will be.

Beck doesn’t disappoint, exploring the wet heat of my mouth with both skill and urgency. There’s barely any space remaining between our bodies, but he grabs my hips and fuses our bodies together. I can feel he’s already hard. I moan against his tongue as he slips one hand underneath the hem of my short dress.

I pull back, panting. “Beck. We can’t do this here.” I don’t look away from him, but I can feel eyes on us.

He nods once. “Do you want to do it somewhere else?”

This is when I should put some space between us, both figurative and physical. Find some guy in here who doesn’t follow football, has never heard of Adler Beck, and leave with him.

Instead, I say yes without hesitating.

He pulls away, and I see that we’ve captured the attention of the entire side of the club, including all my teammates. Olivia is glaring, but the others look mostly awed. At least I don’t have to worry about letting them know I’m leaving, since Beck grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door in front of everyone.

The valet pulls up his car immediately, and we climb inside. Charged silence fills the vehicle as we drive along, tension hanging heavy in the air. It feels like the first time we’re doing this, but my body is also desperate, craving the release it’s come to expect from him.

“Do you know how many times we’ve had sex?” I ask Beck as we reach his street.

“What? No. Why, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” I reply. I feel his questioning gaze on me. “I normally keep track. Guys get clingy sometimes,” I elaborate. “I usually get bored, too,” I add.

“Are you giving me some sort of notice?” Beck asks. “Because you said in the club—”

“No, I’m not,” I interrupt. “I haven’t—don’t—feel that way. About you.” Shit, that was too honest.