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  “That’s fucking awesome.” He forged into me, stilled at the hilt then dropped forward and claimed my mouth with his.

  But I knew it was more. He hadn’t just claimed my mouth, he’d claimed me mind, body and soul.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I woke up on the day of the US Open men’s final with a stonking hard-on. It was a nod to the resilience of that part of the male anatomy, given Marie and I had fucked at every opportunity we could since we’d been in New York. Since we’d been together, really. And yet my cock was still ready and raring to go. It seemed I was insatiable.

  I thought about the way we’d gone for it yesterday in the playroom at Catfish. Damn, it had probably been a bit excessive the day before a Grand Slam final but hell, it had been worth it, and I was sure the extra shots of adrenaline a good, hard fucking session gave me was one of the things that would help me win.

  Marie was curled up facing my back and had her arm around me. I turned over and started pressing gentle kisses on her face until she woke up. Then I made love to my beautiful woman, who also happened to be my good luck charm. Today was going to be a brilliant day. The best.

  *

  I exited the changing room and headed out onto the court. I’d just left Marie—who had worked her magic to help me get into the headspace I needed before a game, where I blocked everything out—and as I stepped into the sunshine, the crowd began to roar. They were so loud that they permeated my mental barrier, but only a little. I managed to dull it down so it was nothing more than background noise. I was up against Mathew Hyde, world’s number three seed. He was good, younger than me, and had an excellent support team. But I wasn’t worried. I had experience and the best team a man could ask for.

  After a few minutes of warm-up I took my seat by the side of the umpire’s chair and buried my face in a towel. I went through the routine Marie and I had worked on. I was at optimum fitness, the best of the best. The core strength was building in my abdomen, surging into my chest and then racing down my arms and legs. I held the power right there. It was mine, all mine. I’d worked hard for it, no one could take it away, no one was a match for it. I was unbeatable.

  Over and over I ran the thoughts through my head, again and again, until the umpire called for quiet from the crowd. The dull roar disappeared to nothing. I pulled myself out of the zone enough to shake the umpire’s hand and then Hyde’s, then took my place on my side of the net. I swung my racquet from side to side, bouncing my weight from one foot to the other. It was the final ritual that plummeted me so far into myself that I wouldn’t be aware of anything else, absolutely nothing except for my opponent and the ball. This was it. The US Open men’s final—my chance to prove to the world that I’d walked away from that car wreck still totally worthy of my title as the world’s number one.

  The umpire spoke into his microphone. “Quiet please.”

  The match began. Hyde slammed a serve over the net that had me running to get to it. I sent it back, but only just. Scolded myself for being complacent and resolved not to underestimate my opponent. Arrogance would get me nowhere.

  Almost immediately, the ball zoomed back over the net. It was nearer this time and I had the opportunity to make it more difficult for Hyde to get it. So I did just that, aiming to hit the ball as far away from him as possible without getting it out of the box.

  The kid was faster than I expected and he returned it, though not without stumbling a little on the asphalt. He was good but not perfect.

  One backhand later and he was running again. This time, much to my delight, he missed.

  “Love, fifteen,” the umpire called.

  I resisted the temptation to punch the air. There was no way I was going to celebrate until this match was in the bag.

  I took advantage of the short break to shove my sweatband a little higher up my forehead and swiped some of the dampness from my face with my wristband. I hadn’t yet broken into a full sweat but I would before long. Tennis was as much about holding nerves as it was physical exertion. I wanted to win this, needed to win this. Losing was not an option.

  With another ball in hand, Hyde was ready to start. He served and I reached it without too much trouble and sent it back. Back it came again—a little more difficult this time. I volleyed it.

  The repetition lulled me into a kind of trance. Hit, back, hit, back, hit, back. God, this kid really was good. But he wouldn’t beat me, he wouldn’t.I pulled out all my reserves, everything I had to ensure my victory.

  “Fifteen, all.”

  Fuck! Hyde had smashed the ball back over the net so fast I hadn’t quite gotten there and it had bounced out. Shit, shit, shit! I forced myself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to fluff now, just because we had an equal score. There were still many more points, more games to go before the set was finished. I had ages to beat my opponent into the ground. I was invincible. I was Travis Connolly, and the US Open was mine.

  After a few more volleys, I noticed a weakness in my opponent. He didn’t pace himself. He leapt after every single ball, whether he needed to or not, and as a result, he’d tire more quickly. A triumphant feeling burst through my body. I had him. I bloody well had him.

  “Fifteen, thirty,” the umpire said as Hyde missed and the ball boys scurried about.

  As he got ready to serve again, I shifted back into position, weight bobbing from foot to foot, rolling my shoulders, keeping my arms loose, ready to send the ball sailing back over the net.

  The unrivaled thwack Hyde’s racquet made as it hit the ball shoved me out of my stance and into its path as it reached my side of the court and bounced. I fired it back with no trouble at all, well-angled and with a spin to make it harder for Hyde to reach, to make him run. It turned out it was impossible for him to get.

  “Fifteen, forty.”

  “Yes!”

  The yells and screams from the crowd filtered into my consciousness, but only a little. I couldn’t afford to get distracted now, not for anything. The only thing that would turn my head would be Marie streaking across the asphalt, and I knew there was no way that would happen.

  Marie. I shoved the thought out of my head quickly. Come on, Travis, the game, the game. Do what you do best, play tennis. Win, and then you can think about whatever you damn well want. But right now the only thing you should be thinking about is Hyde and what he’s doing.

  My temporary distraction very nearly cost me a point. I returned the ball, but only just. It was then I really told myself off and firmly forced myself back into the zone. I wouldn’t make anyone—or myself, for that matter—proud if I lost.

  Several hits later I lost a point. But I tried not to berate myself—it had been a bloody good shot.

  “Thirty, forty.”

  I pulled in a deep breath through my nostrils as I waited for Hyde to serve again. Relaxed and forgot how much was riding on this set. I soon lost the luxury of calmness as the ball was smacked to my side of the net, but it didn’t seem to matter. I returned it quickly, easily, starting a torrent of hits between the two of that seemed to go on forever. At some point, one of us would have to fuck up, in the meantime I was flying.

  Fortunately it was Hyde who lost the point. I tipped it over the net when he was on the back line and he didn’t stand any chance of reaching it. Even trying was a no-brainer.

  The umpire spoke the sweetest of words. “Game, Connolly.”

  I couldn’t help myself, I whooped my delight, resulting in a bunch of whoops in reply from the crowd, mixed in with cheers, screams and more.

  Okay, calm down now. You haven’t won just yet, Travis. You’ve just gotta thrash the kid in the next few games, win this set, then two more, then beautiful victory is yours.

  I recalled my chants, my exercises, and started running them through my head again as Hyde and I took our break before the next game. As much as I wanted to look, to see how happy Marie was for me, I didn’t so much as glance in her direction. I couldn’t, wouldn’t. It could cost me the set. I could stare
at her as much as I wanted when this was over, but I’d just have to wait.

  *

  My racquet flew out of my hand as I jumped, fists clenching and punching the air in celebration. I’d fucking done it! I’d recovered from injury, clawed my way back to top form and won the US Open. Next stop the Australian Open. I wouldn’t stop until I’d got myself a Grand Slam next year—all four majors in one calendar year. That was my aim. Well, that and ensuring Marie was by my side throughout it all, both as my psychologist and my girlfriend.

  My wife.

  Christ, where the hell had that sentiment come from? But I knew, really, as soon as it entered my head. It wasn’t the adulation talking, it was love, pure and simple. I wanted Marie Sherratt by my side next year and the year after that and every year for the rest of our lives.

  I shook off my mental shield and allowed the roar of the crowd to fill my ears, my head, my very being. I wanted it now. I wanted to hear the cheers now I’d earned them, now I was joining in with them.

  I’d won!

  I decided to go and cheer with the people who knew me, my team that had helped me get to this moment. I jogged over to the edge of the court, where I could see Austin, Peter, Marie and the others waving their arms around crazily, smiling, laughing, hugging. Vaulting over the barrier, I shoved upward into the group and received hugs, claps on the back and kisses. I realized with a huge sigh of relief that the kisses had come from Marie.

  She was standing right in front of me, the prettiest smile on her face and her cheeks flushed with excitement. I picked her up, high, higher and spun her ’round again and again, barely hearing the catcalls and wolf whistles of everyone watching us.

  She gripped my shoulders, laughing, her hair tumbling around her face. There was such happiness in her eyes that I thought my heart would burst.

  The TV cameras were on us, capturing our joy and love, but I really couldn’t give a shit. Someone could have thrown a rotten tomato or an egg at my head in that moment and it wouldn’t have bothered me. All I could think about now was ensuring that Marie was sitting in the sidelines for every single tennis match I played for the rest of my career.

  Finally I stopped spinning and put her down. I cupped her face and kissed her hard, possessively.

  The yells of the crowd were deafening. I was giving my fans a treat by showing them a little of the man I was off the court. And why shouldn’t I? Marie was part of me now, she’d become ingrained in my soul, in my life. I was happy to share my fortune in finding her.

  She was returning my kiss with equal ardor. After not nearly long enough, I had to stop, because although I was used to crowds and cameras staring at me, tennis shorts did absolutely nothing to hold an erection in check and I didn’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure or something. That would dampen the mood somewhat.

  Pulling away, I murmured, “We did it, Marie. Thank you.”

  “No, you did it. You already had the tools, Peter and I just reminded you how to use them to full efficiency.”

  “Oh don’t give me all that psychobabble now, woman. I’m celebrating, remember?”

  She laughed and it was in that moment, as the flashbulbs reflected off her dark eyes and her beautiful face lit up with unadulterated joy that I decided. I was going to do it now. Fuck thinking about it, planning it. I wouldn’t run the risk of nerves getting the better of me. Right now was perfect, in front of thousands of people—millions if you included those watching us on the television—declaring my love the best way I knew how. In a place that really meant something to our relationship, that had brought us together even.

  I took Marie’s hand and dropped to one knee before I chickened out. Not of asking her—that was definitely going to happen—but of doing it now. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. My team stepped back, giving us space. Cameras were clicking like popping corn all around us. I heard a few whispers of, “Oh, my God…”, “Is he going to…”

  Yes, I was.

  “Marie Sherratt.” I cleared my throat, spoke louder. At this stage I wanted everyone to hear me, wanted everyone to know. “Marie Sherratt, I know we didn’t have the most auspicious of starts, what with me not being into psychobabble and all, but now, months down the line, I don’t care about that. All I care about is that the most giving, intelligent, beautiful and sexy woman on the planet loves me and I love her. And I want to make it official, more than anything. So I have a question to ask.” I carried on, not wanting to give anyone the chance to interrupt. “Marie, will you marry me?” Oh fuck, please let her say yes.

  The screams, whistles and cheers of the crowd—they’d obviously seen everything on the big screen—drowned out Marie’s words, but luckily for me, her huge smile, the tears in her eyes and her enthusiastic nodding told me the answer.

  I lifted her up and swung her around once more, suddenly very glad I’d proposed while in New York. I was about to spend a lump of my winnings in the iconic Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue and I couldn’t think of anything better to spend it on than my beautiful fiancée and an engagement ring of her choosing.

  Except maybe a house for us to live in together. Anywhere she wanted. I’d go anywhere, live anywhere, as long as I was with her. And given the words she was murmuring into my ear, I was pretty certain she felt exactly the same.

  About the Authors

  Lily Harlem is a multi-published, award winning author of contemporary erotic romance. She lives in the UK with her husband and a bunch of animals, all rescued, and loves to spend her days immersed in imagination.

  Her books are a mixture of full length novels and short stories, some are one offs, some are sequels or part of a series (all can be enjoyed as stand-alone reads). What they each have in common are colourful characters travelling on everyone’s favourite journey — falling in love. If the story isn’t deliciously romantic and down and dirty sexy, it won’t be written, at least not by Lily. So with the bedroom door left well and truly open you are warned to hang on for a steamy, sensual ride - or rides as the case might be!

  Lucy Felthouse is a graduate of the University of Derby, where she studied Creative Writing. During her first year, she was dared to write an erotic story—so she did. It went down a storm and she’s never looked back. Lucy is multi-published across many subgenres of erotica and erotic romance and continues to try new subgenres and lengths of work in order to get all the ideas in her head onto paper, and eventually out into the world.

  Lily and Lucy welcome comments from readers. You can find their websites and email addresses on their author bio pages at www.ellorascave.com.

  Tell Us What You Think

  We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email the authors directly or you can email us at [email protected] (when contacting Customer Service, be sure to state the book title and author).

  Also by Lily Harlem

  Cold Nights, Hot Bodies

  Dangerous to Know

  Dessert

  Hot Ice 1: Hired

  Hot Ice 2: Cross-Checked

  Hot Ice 3: Slap Shot

  Hot Ice 4: Teamwork

  Hot Ice 5: High-Sticked

  Mattress Music

  Ménage à Music

  Mirror Music

  Shared

  Shared Too

  Stockholm Seduction

  Stockholm Surrender

  Print Books by Lily Harlem

  Hot Ice 1: Hired

  Hot Ice 2: Cross-Checked

  Hot Ice 3: Slap Shot

  Shared

  Shared Too

  Also by Lucy Felthouse

  A Taste of London

  A Taste of Paris

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Grand Slam

  ISBN 9781419946707

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Grand Slam Copyright © 2013 Lily Harlem & Lucy Felthouse

  Edited by Jillian Bell

  Cover design and photography by Syneca

  Additional cover
photography by imging/shutterstock.com

  Models: Georgio & Darbie

  Electronic book publication August 2013

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