I glance around, looking for Skye, but she’s conveniently disappeared. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I hate thatI’m actually thinking about risking my job for one conversation that can go nowhere.
“Five minutes,” he says, stepping closer again until his thighs brush against my dress. No … yes … no. His proximity, his presence,his eyesand the way they look at me. I want to say yes, but I shouldn’t … I can’t.Sage. Job.
“I can’t,” I whisper, hating how weak my voice sounds. Can he hear I don’t mean it?
“Yes, you can,” he counters, his confidence infuriating. “Five minutes to discuss five swans, Emma. That’s all I’m asking.”
His eyes flash and the edges of his lips turn up into the sexiest smirk I’ve ever seen, daring me to defy him.
My legs refuse to move, torn between walking away and leaning in.Why do I need my job if I’m going to become an occupational therapist?Because it will still take me at least three and a half years to finish university.
“We can’t,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.But I could get a job as an OT’s receptionist to pay the bills until then.
“Why not?” he counters, dipping his head to mine. Anyone looking at us would know we aren’t talking about the ball or the auction. “You know we need to talk. About that night … about us both at the Mavericks … about us.”
My eyes flicker to Skye, then to the crowd around us. “There is no us. It’s against my contract. It’s against the rules.”Really? Dylan can’t even follow the rules on the field. He’s the one player his team can count on to give away as many penalties as he draws.
“Screw the rules.” His eyes challenge me to disagree. Seriously? Did he just as well sayscrew the rules and your job? Immediately, he sees something in my expression and his face softens. Taking a step back, we are still in a conversation for two, but Dylan’s given us deniable distance. “Emma, please. If you didn’t want to talk to me, why the black dragons? If you don’twant to see how far this thing between us can go, why is your body poised for my touch, just like it was that first night? I bet your panties are …”
“Stop,” I almost yell, cutting him off. I don’t need him to tell me that my panties are soaked, and my nipples are rock hard, and I desperately need a jacket to hide them before they become a meme. Aware that we are now drawing unwanted attention, I add softly, “I can’t. Not here.”
But even as I say the words, my gaze drops to his lips—those full and kissable lips—lingering there for a fraction too long. My blood heats, and I have to clench my thighs to keep from agreeing to follow him anywhere.
“Then when and where?” With a nonchalance I can’t hope to copy, Dylan strikes the confident,fuck me if you dare, pose that photographers seem to love, and women can’t resist. “You can’t expect me to go the entire season without sex, and since my cock has decided to leash itself to your smile, I’m hanging on by a thread to my sanity.”
“Your sanity is linked to your cock?” Humor and banter I can do. “Why am I not surprised?”
“My cock likes to be linked to many things,” he says softly, “most especially your tight, wet pussy.”
“Stop.” I want to back away but my stupid feet refuse to obey my brain. I know what I should say, but no words come out. He has no idea how hard this is for me.Because you won’t tell him.
“I just … can’t.” The words would sound stronger if my voice didn’t crack.
“Then either tell me you don’t want to receive another swan, or follow me so we can talk somewhere privately.” Now I know why he’s such a great rugby league player, how he can throw out a challenge, knowing how I’ll react. “Your choice, Emma. Your choice.”
He leads me to the edge of the room, near the balcony doors, where the crowd’s noise fades into the background. I tell myself I’ll just hear him out, let him say whatever he needs to, and walk away. But the second we’re alone, I’m in just as much trouble as our first night together. That night, I wanted a night away from my responsibilities. Tonight, I want to hand over control to someone who knows what to do with it.
Dylan. If I told him, would he take my weight? Or would he let me fall?
My throat is dry, and I want to wipe my clammy hands down this beautiful gown, but don’t dare. I need to hear him out. If he wants us to be more than one night, then I need to hear how he thinks we can make it work. As we pull to a stop, Dylan stands too close, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the ballroom, but also hiding us from prying eyes.
“You’re killing me, Emma. I need answers,” he says, head bowed so his lips are close to my ear, his voice low and rough. “Question one, why did you leave that morning?”
I flinch at his directness, my breath catching in my throat. Of all the things he wants to talk about—it’s why I left him before he could ask me to leave? I force myself to hold his gaze, but it’s impossibly hard. How can I look at him and not tell him the truth when I know he’s not ready to hear it?Sage. Sage is my truth, and there’s no way Dylan would want me with a twelve-year-old responsibility.
“Dylan …” I moan.
“No,” he interrupts, his jaw tightening, and I fight the urge to kiss it. Would he soften at my touch? “Don’t dodge the question. Was it something I said? Something I did?”
“No.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Then why?” he presses, frustration palpable. “Did you know who I was? Was it some... I don’t know... last hurrah before I became a forbidden fuck, or was it real?”
I inhale sharply. Is that what he thinks of me? “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I didn’t know who you were. I told you I was starting a new job. I didn’t know any of the players until that night at the event.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, baby.”
“It’s not bullshit if it’s true.” I hiss back. Is he serious? “Spoiler alert … not everyone knows you. Stuart didn’t back there. I didn’t when we met. We talked, you made me laugh, and I needed one night to forget … things.”
