Page 18 of Dirty Player
She didn’t pull away. I was still being an ass.
I expected a punch to my back from Beaux at any moment.
But none of it came. Instead of pulling away like she should have, her chest pressed to mine.
“Then let’s go talk.”
Chapter FIVE
SHANNON
Almost every woman at the party stared as Oliver led me through the small crowd of players and their wives and girlfriends. They glanced at us once, quickly looked away, only to surreptitiously slide their gazes back to us as we passed them.
I swallowed hard in an effort to push down the apprehension and focused on the tingling in my stomach, the way my heart jumped and pulse pounded as he guided me inside the house. His confidence and the way he seemed to not care about what anyone thought of him—along with the sexual magnetism between us—flooded my veins in preparation for what would happen next.
What he wanted was obvious. The desire and need written all over his face from the moment we made contact was clear.
That look, along with Beaux’s permission to do whatever I wanted earlier, made me want to toss my morals to the ground and stomp all over them.
I’d never had the freedom other kids had.
Now, I was free to do whatever I wanted. Live how I chose without the risk of screwing things up for anyone.
First, it was Beaux. If I was too hung over, too caught up in the arms of a stranger, I could miss getting him where he needed to be. I could miss a game or a practice or a meeting with a college recruiter. I could miss giving our mom her meds when she needed them, or running her to doctor’s appointments.
My entire life had been spent taking care of my family, and then later, making certain I wasn’t screwing up anything for Patrick or his family.
I was so, so tired of the responsibility bearing down on my shoulders, I could break at any moment.
So why not throw it all away for a quickie in a stranger’s house with a sexy man whose confident and warm touch held the promise of pleasure and wild abandon?
Oliver led me through an enormous house with more floors and windows and doors than they sold in most home improvement stores until we reached a room at the end of a hall on the top floor.
I looked at everything from the incredibly fancy decor to the windows that overlooked the pool outside, to the overly dramatic chandeliers and woodwork so expensive and well-oiled it gleamed when the sun hit it.
“Kolby’s house is a mansion,” I murmured.
Beaux and Oliver could probably afford something like this. Oliver probably lived in something like this. With years in the league and millions to his name, he probably had houses and condos in fabulous vacation spots and private planes to take him wherever he wanted to go on whatever random whim he had. He had to travel all the time, whenever he could, to be seen in so many different places with so many different women.
“He needs a home, not a crash pad like so many of the other players,” Oliver said, not looking around or swept up in anything except his intended purpose with me.
I swallowed at the thought before I realized what he said.
“And your house? Is it a home or a crash pad?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek when he finally pushed open a door and tugged me through. It was a bathroom, not a bedroom, and my resolve to live free shook beneath my feet.
He couldn’t give me the courtesy of a bed?
My wants and my needs conflicted with my past and my choices and the way I’d always been.
I was a jumbled mess.
He pulled me flush against him like he’d done on the dance floor a week ago, surrounding me everywhere.
He was only wearing a thin T-shirt, a hint of chest hair peeking through the top of his collar, and bright red board shorts. Leather flip-flop sandals adorned his perfect feet and I’d smiled when I first saw them. Seeing him casual was an illusion.
As he touched me, his hand brushing through my hair again and then trailing down my arm, he was anything but casual.
