Serve Her Right — Bonus Chapter
Match Point — Private Session
by Aurora North
⚠️ This bonus chapter contains MAJOR SPOILERS for Serve Her Right and EXTREMELY EXPLICIT sexual content. Read the novel first!
The locker room was empty except for us, and the door was locked, and Naomi Grant was looking at me with the expression I’d learned meant trouble — the dark, focused, deliberately controlled look that usually preceded her doing something spectacularly undisciplined.
We’d been together for nine months. I’d seen her in every possible state — composed, furious, desperate, tender, laughing, crying, coming undone beneath my hands. I’d learned the vocabulary of her body the way she’d learned the vocabulary of a tennis court: through relentless study, creative experimentation, and the refusal to accept anything less than mastery.
But this look — the post-match look, the one she got when the adrenaline was still spiking and her competitive instincts hadn’t finished translating from tennis to everything else — this look still made my knees go weak.
“You used my gesture,” she said.
“I did.” I pulled the elastic from my hair and shook my curls free. Sweaty, tangled, wild. I didn’t care. “And you loved it.”
“I found it adequate.”
“You found it so hot you’re standing in a locked locker room staring at my mouth instead of doing the cool-down stretches your physio prescribed.”
“My physio would understand.”
“Priya would absolutely not understand. Priya would lecture you for forty-five minutes about post-surgical joint maintenance.”
“Priya isn’t here.” She took a step closer. “You are.”
She crossed the room in three strides. Her hands found my waist and she lifted me — lifted, like I weighed nothing, which was flattering and also deeply unfair given that she was thirty-nine years old, recovering from knee surgery, and apparently powered by competitive arousal and sheer stubbornness — and set me on the counter beside the sinks.
The marble was cold against the backs of my thighs. I was still in my match skirt and polo. She was still in hers. We were sweaty and flushed and probably should have showered first, and I didn’t care about any of it because Naomi Grant was standing between my knees with her hands on my thighs and her mouth approximately four inches from mine.
“Your knee,” I said, because someone had to.
“Is fine.”
“You just played a full set.”
“Sofia.” Her hands tightened on my thighs. Her voice dropped to the register she used when she was done being patient. “If my knee can handle a lateral sprint to save match point, it can handle what I’m about to do to you. Stop worrying and start paying attention.”
“Can it handle what I’m about to do to you?”
Her jaw tightened. The almost-smile. The micro-expression I’d been collecting since our first corridor encounter, the one that meant I’d landed a shot she hadn’t seen coming and she was simultaneously irritated and aroused, which with Naomi were approximately the same emotion.
“Big talk from a woman sitting on a sink.”
I grabbed the front of her match shirt, twisted the fabric in my fist, and pulled her forward until her hips were pressed against the edge of the counter and her face was an inch from mine.
“Kiss me and find out.”
She kissed me. Not gently. She kissed me the way she’d played the exhibition — with competitive fire and controlled aggression. Her mouth was hard and certain and tasted like sport drink and adrenaline, and her hands slid up my thighs, pushing my match skirt higher, gripping the bare skin above my knees with strong, possessive fingers.
“You kissed me in front of two thousand people,” she said against my mouth.
“I did.” I bit her lower lip. Pulled. Released. “In front of cameras. You’re welcome.”
“Without asking.”
“Did you want me to ask?”
“I wanted you to do exactly what you did.” Her mouth moved to the side of my neck. Her teeth found the tendon where my shoulder met my throat and scraped. “I also want to make you pay for it.”
She pulled my polo over my head in one motion. Sports bra underneath — she unclasped it single-handed, a move she’d mastered within the first week of our relationship and now deployed with casual arrogance. The bra fell. Her palms covered my breasts before the air could cool my skin.
My nipples were already hard — from the match, the adrenaline, the moment on court when she’d hit that backhand winner and looked at me with an expression that said I want to fuck you into next week and also I respect your net game tremendously, which was possibly the most Naomi thing anyone had ever communicated through facial expression alone.
She rolled both nipples between her thumbs and forefingers — gentle at first, then firmer, calibrating, watching my face with tactical focus. I arched into her hands and moaned and she increased the pressure exactly the amount my body language told her I wanted.
“You’re still sweaty,” she observed, lowering her mouth to my collarbone.
“I like it.” She licked a line from my collarbone to the curve of my breast. “You taste like salt and winning.”
“That is the cheesiest thing you’ve ever — oh fuck.”
Her mouth closed over my nipple. Tongue first — a slow, wet circle — then the seal of her lips, then suction, and the pull traveled from my breast to my clit in a direct line that bypassed every rational thought I’d ever had. She sucked harder. Used her teeth. My hands flew to her head, fingers gripping her braided hair, holding her there.
“The other one,” I gasped. “Please.”
She switched. Same sequence — tongue, lips, suction, teeth — and her free hand slid down my stomach, over the bunched fabric of my skirt, and between my thighs. She pressed her palm flat against my underwear and the heat of her hand against the soaked cotton made me whimper.
“Soaked,” she murmured against my breast. “Since when?”
“Since the third game when you hit that backhand and looked at me like you were planning to eat me alive.”
“I was.”
She pushed my underwear aside. Her fingers found me directly — bare, slick, swollen — and the first stroke along my slit was slow and thorough, her middle and ring fingers parting my folds, dragging through the wetness from entrance to clit and back again. My head dropped back against the mirror. My thighs opened wider, my body making space for her the way it always did — automatically, hungrily.
“Tell me what you want,” she said. Low. Steady. The coaching voice.
“Your fingers. Inside me. Now.”
She slid two fingers into me and I cried out — loud enough that the sound bounced off the tile walls and came back doubled. The angle from the counter was deep, her fingers pressing forward against the spot that made my thighs shake, and her thumb settled against my clit with steady, circular pressure.
“Look at me,” she said.
I opened my eyes. She was watching me with the focused, undivided intensity she gave to nothing else in the world except championship points. Her dark eyes tracked every shift in my expression and she adjusted her rhythm based on what she read.
“Harder,” I managed.
She went harder. Her fingers drove deeper, curling on each thrust, her thumb pressing my clit with firm, consistent strokes. Her free hand braced against the mirror behind my head and she leaned in and kissed me — open-mouthed, swallowing my moans as they came faster and louder.
“I’m going to — Naomi, I’m —”
“I know.” She added a third finger. The stretch was sudden and perfect and I gasped and my nails dug into her shoulders. “Let me feel it.”
I came. The orgasm ripped through me with a force that arched my spine away from the mirror and made me cry out her name in a voice that didn’t sound like mine — raw, broken, ecstatic. Her fingers kept moving — slower, gentler, riding the waves of contractions that pulsed around her. Her mouth found my throat and she pressed open-mouthed kisses against my pulse point while I shuddered and trembled and gripped her like she was the only solid thing in a room that had temporarily lost its structural integrity.
“Good?” she murmured against my throat.
“I think you broke me.”
“You seem functional.”
“I am the opposite of functional. I am currently a decorative object propped against a bathroom mirror.”
She laughed. Against my skin, low and warm, and I felt it everywhere.
“Shower,” I said, when my cardiovascular system resumed normal operations.
“Together.”
“Obviously. I’m not done with you.”
I hopped off the counter on legs that felt like they’d been through a third-set tiebreak and pulled her toward the shower bank. Six stalls. We used one, because space was not a priority. Proximity was a priority. Her skin against my skin was a priority.
I undressed her under the spray. Slowly — peeling the match shirt over her head, unclasping the sports bra, pushing the skirt and compression shorts down her long legs. The hot water streamed over her body and I watched it trace the lines of her — the broad shoulders, the lean muscle, the small breasts I’d spent a year kissing, the flat stomach, the surgical scar on her right knee that she no longer hid.
She was the most stunning woman I’d ever seen. Not despite the scar, not despite the thirty-nine years. Because of all of it.
I dropped to my knees on the wet tile.
She looked down at me. Water streaking over her shoulders, running between her breasts, dripping from her chin. Her dark eyes widened.
“My turn.” I pressed my mouth to her hip bone. Then the other. I kissed the scar on her knee — gently, reverently. “Lean against the wall. Let me take care of you.”
She leaned. Pressed her back against the wet tile, spread her feet slightly, and looked down at me with an expression that still contained a flicker of wonder — as though someone wanting to give her pleasure without conditions remained faintly astonishing.
I parted her thighs. Pressed my mouth against her center and tasted her — warm, clean, the faint salt of sweat, the sharper tang of arousal. She’d been wet since the match. I’d known it by the way she’d shifted on the changeover bench, the way her eyes had tracked my body during the warm-up.
I licked her with the full flat of my tongue. One long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit, and her whole body shuddered and her hand came down and cupped the back of my skull.
I settled in. Used my tongue the way I used my forehand — with creative variation, unpredictable changes of pace, and the occasional devastating precision she never saw coming. I circled her clit with light strokes, then pressed flat and firm, then switched to the pointed tip of my tongue flicking rapidly. Each technique drew a different response: the circles made her breathe harder; the flat pressure made her hips roll; the flicking made her gasp and grip my hair.
I slid two fingers inside her while my tongue maintained steady pressure on her clit. She was tight, hot, clenching around me, and the moan she produced was low and open and entirely unlike the controlled sounds she’d made during our early encounters. Naomi Grant had learned to be loud in bed, and the learning had been one of the most gratifying projects of my life.
“Right there,” she breathed. “Don’t stop. Right — there.”
I didn’t stop. I curled my fingers forward and stroked the spot that made her thighs tremble, and I sealed my lips around her clit and sucked with the steady, focused intensity of a woman who had every intention of making the number one tennis player in the world scream her name in an empty shower room.
Her hips rolled against my face. The hand on my head tightened. Her breathing fractured into sharp, staccato gasps and I could feel the orgasm building in her — the progressive tension in her thighs, the increasing grip around my fingers, the way her moans climbed in pitch and lost coherence.
“Sofia — I’m going to — don’t — please don’t stop —”
I pressed harder. Sucked firmer. Curled my fingers with deliberate, insistent pressure. And Naomi came with her back arched against the wet tile and her hand fisted in my soaking curls and my name on her lips — Sofia, fuck, Sofia — the words bouncing off every hard surface in the shower room, echoing, multiplying, filling the space with the sound of a woman who had once been afraid to say my name and was now shouting it without shame.
I stayed with her through it. Gentled my mouth. Slowed my fingers. Felt the aftershocks pulse and fade while the hot water ran over us and the steam rose around us.
When she was done — trembling, gasping, sagging against the tile — I stood. Kissed her. She tasted herself on my mouth and groaned and pulled me against her body, skin to skin, wet and warm and laughing.
The laughter. God, the laughter. It was the thing I loved most about us — that we could go from desperate, filthy, wall-shaking sex to laughing in each other’s arms in thirty seconds. That the intensity and the joy weren’t opposites but partners, the way we were.
“That,” she said against my mouth, “was excessive.”
“That was adequate.”
She pulled back and looked at me. Water in her eyelashes. Smile lines I’d watched deepen over the past year. The scar above her eyebrow catching the fluorescent light. Beautiful. Mine. Home.
“Come home,” she said.
“I’m already here.”
And I was. Wherever she was — a locker room shower, a clay court in Rome, a hotel room in a city I’d forget the name of by next season — I was home. Not because she completed me or fixed me. Because she challenged me. Because she saw me. Because she held me accountable and held me close and never once asked me to become smaller so she could feel safe.
I turned off the water. Handed her a towel. Took one for myself.
“Your backhand was slow today,” she said, toweling her hair.
“You are literally critiquing my technique while standing naked in a locker room where I just made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”
“I didn’t forget my name. I forgot my ranking. Briefly.”
“You are the most impossible woman on the planet.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
I kissed her. Softly this time. The kind of kiss that said: I chose you. I choose you. I will keep choosing you, in every city, on every court, through every argument about backhands and every night spent tangled together in hotel sheets.
She kissed me back the same way.
Always.
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