Page 55 of Dirty Player
I needed to be more focused.
I would be, too, after I settled shit with Shannon. While I should have been focused on plays and receiving and running and taking off from the line of scrimmage, I had been thinking about black curly hair all over my pillows and heaven-scented pussy.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up my phone and called her.
“Hello?” She sounded distracted when she answered, more than a little irritated.
“You still at Stamped?” I asked, barking out the question like Pomville had just snapped at me.
“Oliver?” The phone went quiet. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t look at the ID before I answered.”
“You always this rude to unknown callers?” A grin tugged at my lips, the urge to tease her unbearable.
“No.” She sighed, and I imagined a finger going to those curls, wrapping it around her finger before she tugged and let it pop back into place like a spring. “Just a crappy afternoon. What are you doing?”
“Headed to your place. I want to see you. We need to talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes.”
“About?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.” And then I’d show her. “Where are you?”
“Um. I’m at Beaux’s. I can meet you…”
“No.” I wanted her in whatever bed she slept in for once. I wanted her to wake up knowing she’d never get the memory of me washed out of her sheets. Like I gave a shit if Beaux heard me. “I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Um, maybe we can—”
“Thirty minutes, Shannon. Be ready for me.”
I hung up before she could reply, but not before I caught the quick intake of her breath.
So fucking responsive. So beautiful.
Soon she was going to be all mine, because I had two choices: get rid of her before the season started so I could focus on only the game, or go all in so we could stop this ridiculous bullshit uncertainty between us.
And only one choice was acceptable.
I hopped off the bench, tossing the ice pack to the table.
“Hey,” the trainer, Alan, called after me.
“Ice it, twenty on, ten off. I got it.” I raised my hand as I headed out the door, listening to him grumble about how we didn’t know shit.
I walked carefully, my ankle tender and twisted but not sore enough that I couldn’t put weight on it.
The fact that I was injured, mildly, only gave me ideas on how Shannon could take care of me later. With her hands, her mouth, her thighs clenched around my hips as she rode me, taking us both over the edge.
“Hey.” Beaux slapped my shoulder, and his voice along with his touch was just the bucket of ice I needed to drown my erection. A hard-on in athletic shorts was too obvious. “We’re partying tonight, heading out. You coming, old man?”
I couldn’t help myself. “I’ll be coming. But not with you.”
The kid’s skin went green and he covered his eyes. “Jesus. Fuck. Don’t say that shit to me. I’m fucking serious. I don’t need that image—” He scrubbed his face and shook his head. “Seriously, you’re an asshole, Powell, you know that?”
I slapped him on the shoulder. “Have fun tonight. We won’t wait up for you.”
