Aleera arrives at my doorstep late that night. On purpose. That much is clear. She might be bending her own rules, but she’s making it known—loud and clear—that she’s at my home on her own terms. And Jesus Christ, the bratty look she gives me when she steps out of her little pink sports car makes my c**k hard.
The goddamn thing has been stiff as a pike since I signed the contract this afternoon and she breathed a sigh of relief. Surprise, too. That I put my signature on the dotted line without forcing her into marriage.
She doesn’t need to know I signed the wrong name.
Coach Stephens was so glad to have it done that he didn’t check, either, shoving the documents back into the file and crowing about future championships to the gathered press. Maybe no one will ever need to know about the
