Текст книги "The Game Plan"
Автор книги: Kristen Callihan
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The Game Plan A Game On Novel
Kristen Callihan
Contents
Copyright
The Game On Series
The Game Plan
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Thank You!
The Hook Up, Book 1 of the Game On series excerpt
The Friend Zone, Book 2 Game On series excerpt
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Kristen Callihan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Digital Edition 1.0
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
Those who upload this work up on any site without the author’s express permission are pirates and have stolen from the author. As such, those persons will likely end up in the level of hell where little devils shove stolen books into said persons’ unmentionable places for all eternity. Ye’ve been warned.
The Game On Series
The Hook Up
The Friend Zone
The Game Plan
The Game Plan
A beard-related dare and one hot-as-hell kiss changes everything.
NFL center Ethan Dexter’s focus has always been on playing football and little else. Except when it comes to one particular woman. The lovely Fiona Mackenzie might not care about his fame, but she’s also never looked at him as anything more than one of her brother-in-law’s best friends. That ends now.
Fi doesn’t know what to make of Dex. The bearded, tattooed, mountain of man-muscle looks more like a biker than a football player. Rumor has it he’s a virgin, but she finds that hard to believe. Because from the moment he decides to turn his quiet intensity on her she’s left weak at the knees and aching to see his famous control fully unleashed.
Fi ought to guard her heart and walk away; they live vastly different lives in separate cities. And Dex is looking for a forever girl. But Dex has upped his game and is using all his considerable charm to convince Fi he's her forever man.
Game On
To the readers who demanded “The Wise One’s” story. I thank you, Dex thanks you, and I know Fi certainly thanks you.
Prologue
“And when do you think it will all become clear?” —Lily Allen
Dex
Sweat trickles down my spine. My bones ache, and my legs are wobbly jelly as I slowly walk over the bright green turf, now marred by long gashes and deep divots.
Around me other guys amble, their uniforms streaked with sweat, blood, and chalk. Thousands of cheering spectators create a dull rumble that I feel in the pit of my belly.
Welcome to Monday Night Football. Prime time sports at its finest. And my team has just won. I’ve done my job, and now that the adrenaline is wearing off, my high is crashing down. I want a shower, a hot meal, and devote a few hours to painting in the small studio I’ve made in my townhouse. But I have a dinner date and houseguest to meet.
Teammates slap my pads, tell me “good game” as I make my way across the field. A few of the guys from the other team seek me out, shaking my hand. But I’m looking for one guy in particular.
I see him, his head above most others. He catches my eye and grins. But his face is wan, deep circles marring his eyes. I know it’s not because his team lost. We weave through the crowd to come together.
“Dex!” Gray Grayson, my former college teammate and one of my best friends on Earth, catches me up in a bear hug. It’s awkward with both of us in pads, helmets in hand. “Good game, man. But we’re totally gonna kick your ass next time.”
“Better tell your D to get their heads out of their asses, then,” I say, giving his head a light tap. “Good to see you, Gray-Gray.”
God, I miss playing with him. He’s the best tight end I’ve seen in years. And our college team had been a well-oiled machine.
The NFL isn’t the same as college. Ego, money, high stakes, all of it is just more. It’s a job now. I love it, but the carefree joy is gone.
We walk toward the sideline together.
“How’s Ivy and the baby?” I ask. They had a baby about a month ago and named him Leo, after Leonhard Euler, one of Gray’s favorite mathematicians.
“Man,” Gray says with a slow shake of his head as he grins wide. “I must have done something really right in another life.”
“That good, huh?” I’m happy for him. Even if his exuberant happiness reminds me I have no one.
“Best family a man could ask for.” Gray runs a hand over the back of his neck and squeezes. Despite his declaration, he sounds worn out.
“Not that I don’t believe you, Gray, but you kind of look like shit. What’s going on?”
His smile is tight. “Only you would notice that.”
We’re almost at the sideline, and he’ll be going to the guest locker rooms. So we slow down.
“Leo hasn’t learned to sleep through the night. Ivy and I are feeling it.” He grimaces. “Mostly Ivy, unfortunately, because I’m on the road a lot.”
If Gray is admitting he’s losing sleep, it must be bad.
I brace his shoulder with my hand. “You got a bye week after this, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Mind me coming over for a visit?”
Gray lives in San Francisco, and though I’ve been meaning to go out there, I haven’t yet done it. While I’m happy to actually visit Gray, I also know I can help him out. Not that I can tell him as much or he’d insist he has everything covered.
Gray’s smile is wide. “I’d love to have you. I know Ivy would too.”
“You sure about that? Ivy might not want visitors when she has a new baby.” It has to be said, because Gray also tends to react before he thinks.
“Naw, she’s been kind of lonely.” His brows gather. “Neither of us likes solitude very much.”
Tell me something I don’t know. I give his shoulder another squeeze. “Great. Let’s get something to eat.”
Gray gives a long groan. “Oh, man, I’ve been looking forward to this. We’re hitting up Cochon, right?” His eyes gleam at the prospect of eating at one of New Orleans’ best restaurants. And, frankly, my stomach growls too.
“Yep. I told them we’re coming, and they’re planning something good for us. I believe I heard mention of the whole hog.”
Gray groans again. “I might cry.”
He often gets weepy over food, so I don’t blink an eye. “Meet me outside the locker rooms in thirty?”
Gray is staying at my place tonight before he heads back home with his team.
He gives a nod and starts to trot off, but then turns back. “Oh, hey, Fi’s also gonna be staying the week with us. That cool with you?”
Everything inside of me stops—my heart, my breath. Then it all kicks up again, hard and insistent.
Fiona Mackenzie. Ivy’s little sister. And I do mean little. Five foot three if she’s an inch, her frame is petite but curvy. She caught my attention and kept it from the first time I laid eyes on her two years ago.
Bright green eyes, wild blond hair, smiling full lips, and a lilting laugh that, whenever I hear it, makes my dick hard. This is how I picture Fi—when I allow myself to picture her in the lonely hours of the night.
I haven’t allowed myself in quite some time. Dreaming of Fi is a special type of torture. Sure, she’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s one of the most direct people I’ve ever met.
As someone whose career depends on analyzing false plays and misdirection, being around her is like stepping out of the stifling darkness and into a fresh, sunny day. Every time I’m in her presence I can breathe easier, see clearer. And I crave that more than I’d like to admit.
I’d say she was the girl who got away, but we were never that close. Fi has failed to notice me past the casual friendliness of an acquaintance.
Fiona Mackenzie. In the same house. For a week.
Gray is waiting for me to respond. I give him a nod. “Looking forward to it.”
And suddenly I am. More than I’ve ever anticipated anything in my life.
Chapter One
Fiona
Truth? I like men. Scratch that. I love men. I love their strength, their deeper voices, the simple way they come at a problem. I love their loyalty. I love the way their wrist bones are wide and solid, and that their hips are straight and narrow. Hell, I even love watching their Adam’s apple bob when they swallow.
And, yeah, I’m talking in generalities. Because I’ve met my share of shitty men. But, on the whole, I am a big fan of the male gender.
Which is why I’m slightly bummed to be man-free at the moment. I had a great boyfriend during college. Jake. He was hot and easygoing. Maybe too easy. He basically loved everyone. Sure, I was his girlfriend, but if I wasn’t around? No problem. Plenty of other people to hang with.
He didn’t cheat. He just didn’t really care enough. And after seeing what my sister, Ivy, has with her guy? That kind of all-encompassing, I-have-to-be-with-you devotion? I want more than casual dating. I want to be someone’s necessity, and for them to be mine.
Of course, I’m not going to find that at this tiny little club on a Tuesday night. But I’m not here for the men—most of whom are clearly on the prowl for a quick hookup. I’m here for the music. The band has a funky trip-hop sound that I love, and the atmosphere is mellow.
Since busting my ass to finish college and starting a job now plagued by a sneaky, idea-stealing co-worker, who I want to kill, I need mellow.
I slouch down in the bench seat—nestled at a far corner table, drink my Manhattan, and enjoy the moment.
I’ve decided I also love San Francisco, which is where I am now, using my vacation time to visit my sister and her husband. Unfortunately, Ivy and Gray had no desire to come out with me tonight because they have a new baby who wakes up every two hours. Yeah, not going to say I love the sleeping habits of babies, no matter how cute and awesome said baby is.
I suppress a shudder. My life might be frustrating at the moment, and I might be a tinge lonely, but at least I’m not walking around sleep-deprived. Instead I’m listening to a singer crooning about stars, her voice smooth as poured syrup. The cocktail is smoky-sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins. I’m so relaxed at this point that I almost miss the man sitting to my right.
I really don’t know what prompts me to turn and look his way. Maybe it’s because the set ends and my attention diverts from the stage. Or maybe I feel his gaze, because it’s on me, steady and unblinking.
Not one to shy away, I stare back and take him in.
He’s not my type.
First off, he’s huge, as in built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide I’m fairly certain I could perch on one of them and have room to spare. He’s slouched in his chair, so I don’t know how tall he is, but I’m thinking he’s at least six foot four or more, which would make him over a foot taller than me. I hate feeling tiny; I get that enough already without standing next to a super-tall man.
And he has a beard. Not a wild, bushy one, but thick and full, framing the square edge of his jaw. It’s kind of hot. Even so, I am not into beards. I like smooth skin, dimples—a boyish look.
Nothing is boyish about this dude. He’s a strange mix of lumbersexual and pure, broody male. His hair is pulled into a knot at the back of his head, samurai style, which highlights the sharp crests of his cheeks and the blade of his nose.
He might not be my type, but his eyes are gorgeous. I have no idea what color they are, but they’re deep-set beneath strong, dark brows. And even from here, his thick lashes are visible, almost feminine in their length. God, those eyes are beautiful. And powerful. I feel his stare between my legs like a slow, hot stroke.
He stares at me like he knows me. Like I should know him too. Weirdly, he is familiar. But my mind is muzzy with one too many cocktails to figure out why.
Apparently, he gets this because the corner of his wide, lush mouth twitches as if I amuse him. Or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here staring back at him.
He’s a cheeky one, isn’t he? Just as blatant in his appraisal.
So I decide to glare, raising one brow in the same way my dad does when he’s displeased. Having been on the receiving end of that look, I know it’s effective. On most people. This guy? His amusement grows. Though he really only smiles with his eyes and lifts a brow as if to mock me.
And then it hits me: That quietly amused, slightly contemplative expression, I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen him before. I do know him. He’s Gray’s friend and old college teammate.
As if he reads my thoughts, he gives me a slow nod of hello.
I find myself laughing. At myself. He wasn’t checking me out at all. He was waiting for me to recognize him. My fuzzy brain searches for a name.
Dex. He’s Dex.
I give him a nod, inclining my chin. And he rises. Up. Up. Up.
Yep. Tall as a tree.
I remember that he now plays center in the NFL. And though a lot of centers sport a big barrel belly, Dex doesn’t. No, he’s just pure, hard muscle. All of it visible beneath the black tee and faded jeans he’s wearing. All of it moving with the natural grace of a professional athlete as he strides toward me.
“Fiona Mackenzie.” His voice is low, steady, and kind.
I don’t know why I think kind but it sticks in my head and relaxes me in a way I ordinarily wouldn’t if some guy I barely knew approached me when I was on my own in a club.
“Hi, Dex. Sorry it took me a minute. I’m usually quicker than that.” I nod at the chair in front of me. “Care to join me?”
He glances at my nearly empty glass. “Want another drink first?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” If only to have something to do with my hands. Because, while he doesn’t threaten me, he has a presence that’s potent.
My stomach tightens when he leans close as if he might embrace me, his massive frame shadowing the small table. But he merely sticks his nose to my glass and takes a sniff. With a nod, he straightens and turns toward the bar.
I do not admire his ass as he walks away. Okay, maybe a little. Because damn.
He returns soon enough, another Manhattan in one hand, a bottled water in the other. A memory hits me—of how he usually drinks water, almost never any liquor.
Before he can sit, a girl comes up to our table, her eyes pleading.
“Are you using this chair?” She puts a hand on the only chair at the table. The other side is pulled up against the bench seat I’m using that runs along the wall. Technically, Dex could sit next to me.
We all are clearly aware of this. The girl looks between us as if to drive this point home. It would be petulant for me to say no. So I nod. And she whisks it away before I can change my mind.
That amused look doesn’t leave Dex as he settles next to me, his thigh close enough to mine that I feel his body heat. Not that I think he’s doing this on purpose—he’s just that big, and the space is just that small.
Smiling a bit, I take a sip of my drink. “You knew I was drinking a Manhattan based on smell alone?”
Dex sets his water on the table, calling attention to the tattoo sleeves he has on both arms. “My uncle owns a bar. I’ve helped out over the years.” He glances at my glass. “That and the cherry gave it away.”
And it’s like my brain turns off, because I pull that cherry out of my drink and put it between my lips to suck it. Like some damn porn star. His gaze snaps to my mouth, and his eyes narrow.
Damn, but I feel it again. That slow, hot stroke between my legs. This guy makes me wet with just one look.
Flushed, and cursing myself an idiot for putting on a display, I yank the stem from the cherry and eat the fruit with brisk efficiency before taking a hasty sip of my cocktail. “So, Dex,” I say quickly—as if I didn’t just try to call attention to my mouth. “It’s been a while.”
He blinks, his gaze dragging from my lips to my eyes. “Ethan.”
“What?”
“My name,” he says. “It’s Ethan.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Ethan Dexter.”
“Ah.” I take another sip. “So I’m not allowed to call you Dex? That only apply to friends or something?”
He doesn’t laugh or fidget, just keeps his gaze steady on my face. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. You can call me Dex, if you like.”
Before I can ask him why he’d insisted on Ethan if that’s the case, he speaks again. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”
Gray and Ivy’s wedding. Now that was a drunken blur. Good times.
Truly, I don’t drink often. But when I do… Ahem. Which is why I try to avoid reaching the point of maximum craziness.
Memories of the wedding are a strain, but hazy edges of them remind me that I danced with Gray’s boys—Dex included. Ivy danced too, which is always a show. My sister, who I love more than anyone on Earth, is a horrible, scary dancer. So mainly I’d concentrated on helping Gray run interference, making sure she didn’t accidentally clock anyone on the head while she convulsed—danced.
“I remember you mostly holding one of the walls up all night,” I tell Dex now. He’d danced a few songs, sure, then had taken a bottled water and leaned against the wall to watch the rest of us.
He grips his current bottled water. It’s too dark to see what his tattoos are, but I can tell they’re colorful, vintage looking. And he has more of them than he did a year ago.
“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch.” His gaze doesn’t move from my face, but it feels like it does. My breasts swell heavy against my bra, more so when he continues. “You ripped your dress off and flung it in a tree.”
A flush works over my cheeks. It was a tropical resort. And I’d wanted to swim. Everyone did. I lean forward. “Are you saying you liked watching me strip, Ethan Dexter?”
His chuckle is a gentle rumble. “I’m saying it was memorable.” He glances down, those long lashes hiding his eyes. “And entertaining.”
“I aim to please.” Crossing one leg over the other, I study him. I’m enjoying myself, which is a surprise because I never pegged Dex as much of a talker. “What are you doing in San Francisco? I don’t recall you playing for Gray’s team.”
“I have a week off, and so does Gray…” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “I thought I’d visit him and Ivy.”
“Wait. What?” A bad thought rises in my head, and I find myself leaning toward him. “You’re staying with them too?”
He nods, wariness creeping over his features.
“Did they send you here to babysit me?” I snap. I cannot believe he just happens to be at the same club. Not after both Gray and Ivy had complained about me going out on my own tonight.
“Yes and no.” Dex takes a long pull of his water. “Yes, they said you were here. Yes, they were worried. But I happen to like this band, so I thought I’d come listen and say hello in the process.”
“Oh, how convenient,” I drawl, sitting back against the wall.
“Isn’t it,” he agrees in a dry voice.
I snort, the temptation to chuck my cherry stem at him riding high. I don’t think he’ll care if I do. Dex seems too unflappable to be offended by flying fruit bits.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You can inform the wardens that you saw me, and I was fine, and be on your way.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I want to sit with you.”
Okay. Right. The big football player wants to listen to moody music all night. Sure.
My expression must be skeptical because he gives me a half smile and hands me his phone. “Check my music selection.”
He doesn’t have a password—not smart—so it’s easy to look. Flunk, Goldfrapp, Massive Attack, Portishead, Groove Armada, even some Morcheeba… He’s got a veritable trip-hop library going.
I grin up at him. “You know, before this, I’d have taken you for a hard rock, or maybe even a bluegrass fan.”
“It’s the beard, isn’t it,” he asks.
“And the man-bun.”
He laughs, a short rumble of sound. “Want me to let it down?”
Yes. Maybe.
“Not necessary. Man-buns are hot. I blame Jason Momoa. There was only so much watching him bang Khaleesi the female population could take before they wanted their own Khal Drogo.”
Shit. I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Because it sounds a lot like flirting to me. Instinct tells me flirting with Ethan Dexter isn’t something to do lightly. And there’s the fact that I don’t go for athletes. At all. I don’t care how fit they are. Or how confident. I don’t like sports. Football bores me. Oh, I know tons about the sport—kind of impossible not to in my family—but I don’t want to pretend that I care when I’d rather talk about other things.
Dex’s eyes crinkle again, and he turns toward me, leaning an elbow on the table. “Doesn’t Momoa have a beard?”
I wave my hand. “Who has time to look at his beard when his muscles are on display?”
I most certainly do not look at Dex’s phenomenal arms.
“So your stance on beards is?” His gaze so strong I feel it in my toes.
My breathing picks up. “Don’t particularly like them.”
It’s the truth. And yet I can’t help but look at his. It’s dark, framing his mouth, which should be a turnoff for me. Only it draws all my attention there. To the shape of his mouth—the upper lip a gentle curve, the lower lip fuller, almost a pout. There’s something slightly illicit about the whole effect.
I clear my throat, glance up, and find him watching me through lowered lids. He doesn’t seem particularly put out by my frankness.
“What don’t you like about them?”
Is he serious?
He stares at me.
I guess he is.
Taking a quick sip of my drink, I search for an answer. “They’re just so…fuzzy. Prickly.”
He moves in, not crowding me, but putting himself at arms’ reach. He smells faintly of cloves and oranges. It must be his aftershave or cologne, but it works for me.
I’m distracted by it and almost jump when he speaks again. “Do you know this based on experience, or are you making an assumption?”
My gaze narrows. “Aren’t you the philosopher.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Fine. Assumption.”
His lips quirk. “You should find out if your assumption is true before you condemn the beard.”
“Is this some sort of creepy way to get me to touch your beard?”
A challenge flashes in his eyes. “There are a few guys at the bar sporting beards. You could go ask them. But I figure since we know each other…”
“Not that well.”
“You’d rather ask a stranger?”
“You’re assuming I care enough to ask, Slick.”
His teeth shine white in the shadows of the club. “I know you’re curious. You’re fairly twitching with wanting to know.”
I flatten my hands against the table and glare. Is it just me, or is he closer? Close enough that I can see his eyes are hazel, lighter around his cornea with a starburst pattern. I wish I could see the colors, but he’s painted in shades of blue and gray right now.
And he’s watching me. Patient. Calculating. Tempting.
“It’s always the quiet ones,” I mutter before taking a breath. “Okay, I’ll pet your fuzzy face.”
“Hold up.” Without hesitation, he reaches for my drink and takes a sip. “Liquid courage.”
A strangled laugh leaves me. “Because I’m sooo scary.”
“You have no idea, Cherry.”
I think I growl at him. I definitely want to give his precious beard a good, hard tug. But he simply lifts his brows at me. “Get on with it, then.”
This cheeky bastard is totally playing me. And here I am falling into his trap. Because I cannot look away from his beard now. More specifically, his lips, which are parted just slightly. An invitation. A dare.
Shit. I’ve never been very good at ignoring a dare.
I hate that my hand trembles as I reach up to touch him. He stays perfectly still, his arm casually slung on the edge of the booth behind me, his body turned toward mine. But I don’t miss the way his breathing has kicked up just slightly.
I hesitate, shy almost. Hells bells, I’m only going to touch a bit of facial hair. Why does it feel like we’re two kids tucked in a dark corner, playing a game of “I’ll show you mine”?
Annoyed with myself, I close the distance between us.
Soft. His beard is soft. And springy. I didn’t expect that.
Gently I press my fingertips into all that springy-soft mass, stroke it a little. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath.
I glance at him, search his eyes. He gives me nothing back. So I keep going, running my fingers up his jaw, against the grain. There’s the prickle I expected. Only it feels good, sending little tingles of awareness over my skin, up my thighs.
I swallow hard, press my legs together. Can he tell? I’m too chicken to check. I keep my focus on his face, on his lips, which look so smooth in comparison to his beard.
My own lips part, suddenly sensitive. Somehow I’ve moved closer. I can’t help myself. I trace the bottom edge of his lower lip with my thumb.
Sweet Mary Jane Watson, that was a mistake. The contrast between his soft yet firm mouth and the thick, crinkly beard sends a bolt of sheer, shocking want straight to my clit.
In a daze, I stroke his lips again, following the gentle upper curve, keeping contact with his beard while I do. Fuck, but I can’t stop imagining his mouth moving over my skin. Would I feel his beard when he sucked my nipples?
I’m throbbing now. Said nipples aching for relief. Dex’s warmth is a wall against my chest. I’ve moved onto my knees before him without realizing it, my free hand clutching his shoulder as if I’m afraid he’ll back away.
But he won’t. Not when his big, heavy hand has landed on my hip, bracing me, his fingers clutching in a way that’s a little possessive and a little protective.
I should stop. I tell myself this even as I keep tracing his mouth, the corners of it, his chin. Dex breathes lightly through his parted lips, and each exhale sends a little gust of soft warmth over me.
I want—no, I need—to feel more. And that need has a mind of its own. I feel his shocked intake of breath a second before my lips graze his. God. God, that’s good. Silky-firm, prickly-smooth. I do it again, touching the corner of his mouth, his beard tickling my lips.
A small whimper sounds between us. I don’t know if I made it or he did. Doesn’t matter. I’ve become obsessed with his mouth, taking kiss after kiss, just feeling it.
Jesus, there’s something downright dirty about beards. Fucking naughty. All I can think about now is sex. About other places with hair that’s both soft and wiry. My mind fills with images of this thick, full beard running over my clit and how it would tickle and tease. And it makes me frantic.
I lick into his mouth, greedy, needy, my thumbs bracketing the corners to feel him as I taste him.
Dex’s groan vibrates through his body. A heavy hand cradles the back of my head, his long fingers twisting into my hair. Then he’s angling his head, kissing me back, deeply and thoroughly, as if I’ve woken him from a long sleep, and he’s starving.
Lust rushes through me harder and faster than I’ve ever experienced. It takes my breath, my reason. I can only stroke the sides of his face, press my tender breasts against his chest, and give him what we both want.
He tastes of whisky and sweet vermouth, candied cherries and some mouthwatering flavor I can only assume is his own. I slide my tongue along his to get more of it.
Dex’s chest heaves on a breath, his mouth opening wider to let me in. His large hands cup my ass. Suddenly I’m weightless, dizzy. I land on his lap, straddling his hips. He’s big enough that it’s a stretch. I wrap my arms around his head, grind my center against a rock hard erection that’s truly impressive. Perfection.
He reacts with a grunt and squeezes my ass, spreading my cheeks apart in a way that’s downright lewd and so hot that I whimper, rock into him again.
That we’re basically dry-humping and fucking each other’s mouths is all I care about. Until I hear a catcall, loud and unmistakable.
“Fuck yeah, man. Give it to her.”
We freeze, our lips still touching. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Putting a protective hand at the nape of my neck, Dex turns his head and glares over my shoulder. I can’t help but look too, and find a table of three guys watching us with unabashed interest.
One loudmouth hoots again. “Fucking nice, honey.”
Shit. It isn’t really my style to give a public show.
Dex’s muscles bunch. God, but he’s solid. A veritable wall to lean on. His voice comes out deep and hard. “Enough.”
That’s it. One word. And the odd thing is, the guys listen. Immediately they turn away and busy themselves in their drinks.
I glance back at Dex to witness the tail end of his scary glare before it fades to his usual neutral expression.
Some guys are alpha dogs, snarling and snapping. Dex is more like a silverback gorilla, quietly going about his business until something pisses him off and he gives a warning.
I wonder what would happen if he truly lost his temper. He could easily pound the shit out of most people. Something those guys obviously understand.
But I no longer care about them. Now that we’re not mauling each other, I’m slightly mortified over the way I outright jumped Dex.
His expression isn’t smug, though. It’s thoughtful and a bit tender. “So, still not a fan of the beard?”
Sign me up and call me a convert. “Tell the truth. Did you do all this just to get me to kiss you?”
“No.” He gives my hair—now fisted in his hand—a tug, holding me a little away so he can study my lips. “I just wanted you to touch me.”
Then he takes my mouth again. One more time in a slow, exploring kiss before letting me go.
Breathless and more than a bit befuddled, it takes me a moment to gather my wits and climb off of him. I don’t even know what to do with myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex and am not ashamed to go after it. But I don’t do this. I don’t make out with guys who aren’t remotely my type. And I certainly don’t hit on a friend of my family; that’s just asking for awkward when things go south.
