One Night with a Quarterback (12 page)

“Then what—oh,” she cut off in a moan. “What are you?” she finished faintly as one finger entered her, then two. Swirling around, finding those perfect spots and massaging them with his calloused fingertips.

“I'd rather be a regular meal. See, a splurge doesn't come around often. I like to think I'm more of a meat-and-veggies kinda guy.” He grazed his fingers up and over her clit, just enough to make her shiver, before positioning himself and pushing inside. “I'm substantial enough to keep you coming back for more, day after day. I'm a balanced diet.”

She wanted to say more, have some witty comeback to put him in his splurgy place, but she couldn't think when he did things like—
oh!
Like that. Her eyes nearly crossed when he pushed fully inside and rotated his hips. She was nearly panting his name while he mixed up the rhythm.

Fast, fast, slow. Fast, fast, faster. Slow . . 
.

“Oh, my God!” She'd been so intent on anticipating his next pattern, her climax took her by surprise. She clenched, spasmed, lost complete control of her limbs as he thrust into her without any further care of rhythm. He followed her into bliss, muttering his own prayers to the Lord above before collapsing on top of her.

A few minutes later, he slid from her and padded to the bathroom. Dimly, she realized this was her chance to rearrange herself in a more sexy pose. Some seductress's sprawl, with her hair fanning the pillows and her back arched out to make the most of her cleavage. But she still couldn't move for anything. Trey could set the bed on fire and she'd be a dead woman.

He came back—still naked—walked over to the dresser, and tossed her the shirt and shorts he'd picked out for her.

She stared for a moment. “Ready for me to leave?”

“Hell no. You even think about bolting for the door, I'm dragging your ass back here caveman style.”

She grinned at that. “How Neanderthal of you. I think I'm getting turned on again.”

He flashed his own smile at her. “No you aren't. You'd hate it. But I'm willing to risk it.” He went to a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of boxers and slipped them on. As they glided over the taut muscles of his ass, she sighed inwardly. It really was a grade A butt. “How do you stay in shape?”

He turned and tilted his head. “Same way most guys do, I guess. Work out.”

“Yeah, but most guys are just fighting the impending beer gut. You're . . .” She waved a hand at his midsection. “A freak of nature.”

He glanced down at his stomach. “I'm not sure how to take that.”

She tugged the shirt over her head before she said anything else stupid. From inside the shirt, “It means you're hot. Take the compliment and let's move on.”

The cold hand on her inner thigh made her squeal in surprise. He squeezed, then bit lightly on one nipple through the cotton shirt. “Thank you.”

Her head popped out and she glared. “Rude.”

“You like it when I'm rude.”

She did, sort of. So she just kept glaring while wriggling into the shorts. Then more wriggling under the covers as he lifted and rolled her from side to side so she didn't have to stand up to get under them. And when he pulled her against him, tucking her so sweetly to his side and making sure she was comfortable, she started feeling things again.

“There's no way anyone can experience what we just experienced and not think it was a splurge,” she murmured against his chest.

“We'll see.” His hand rubbed up and down her back until she couldn't keep her eyes open.

The last thing she heard before drifting off was a cocky voice whispering, “Meat and potatoes.”

* * *

The first thing Trey felt when he woke up was a mouth circling around his hard cock. His eyes opened to total darkness and he quickly checked the clock. Only twenty minutes since he last saw the time. Barely even worth calling a nap. But he was still pissed he fell asleep at all. Nice way to savor having the woman he'd been thinking about for almost a month in his bed. Passing out cold.

Though her method of waking him back up just about made up for it. She was hidden under the covers, so he couldn't see her at all.

“Cassie?”

She hummed an answer that vibrated around his erection and sent sharp zings of pleasure to his balls.

He hissed in a breath, stomach tightening when she lowered her mouth completely down his shaft, her hand covering the base. She worked him up so fast he almost wasn't ready when the orgasm tightened his muscles. He barely had enough time to rip the covers off the bed to watch those last few seconds of her working his cock, her eyes intensely meeting his while her lips stretched around him before he came. Then he couldn't see anything but a fireworks display behind his eyelids.

He came back into his own body as she kissed her way up his torso. “Hey, stud.”

“I don't think I earned the name. You did all the work.”

“Yes, well, you're welcome.” She kissed him on the cheek, then curled back against him. Though the posture was relaxed, she squirmed like she couldn't get comfortable. Or like she didn't want to be comfortable.

“You okay?”

She forced her body to still, though her muscles quivered anyway. “Sure.”

“And the award for Worst Liar Ever goes to . . .”

She pinched his side, smiling at his yelp.

Despite her pinch, he kissed her temple. “Tell me what happened to send you running here.”

“Maybe I just wanted to use your hot body.”

His lips curved against her skin. “Maybe. Soon enough, you'll come here because you want to, not because you're running from something. But stop avoiding the subject. Who hurt you, baby?”

She nuzzled against him. “Things aren't going like I'd hoped with my father.”

He ran his fingertips over her back and arm, but said nothing.

“He says he wants to get to know me, he says he wants me here. But he's never around when I want to spend time with him. He cancels lunches, avoids the house when I'm around, and then tonight . . .” She breathed in, but it was a shuddering sort of sob, and she coughed to clear her throat. Trey decided not to mention the near-terms. “He didn't even acknowledge me as part of the family.”

“I'm sorry,” was Trey's low voiced reply. He squeezed her tighter against him, until they were completely molded together and would take a crowbar to pry them apart. One hand fisted behind Cassie's back. He'd love to know who her father was and beat the crap out of him for hurting her like that. What the hell was this guy's problem? “I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

“I'm in my late twenties. I shouldn't care. I'm not some little toddler sitting by the window waiting for Daddy to come home from work. Why does it still hurt like I was a kid?”

His answer didn't come right away. He pressed sweet kisses to her forehead and hair for a few minutes. “I'm not a therapist, I'm just a guy calling it like I see it.”

“Okay. Call it.”

“You're smart, you're self-reliant, you've got a good job, you've obviously got good friends, if one of them is willing to trek across the country with you to be here for support when you meet him. And he's seeing this. He's having to come to terms with the fact that you're amazing, and he had nothing to do with it.” He ran a finger down her nose. “About the only thing he can claim is half of the DNA to make this beautiful face.”

“I look like my mom,” she said dryly, smiling when he chuckled. “Except for my coloring.”

He breathed in deeply. If he was going to take the plunge, might as well try now. “Cassie, I know he's hurt you. And I hate that. But before he does something else again to make you run for a distraction, can you at least acknowledge what we have here is more than just hot sex?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again and pressed her face harder to his chest.

Not quite the answer he was looking for.

He curled one escaped tendril of hair around his finger and tugged until she looked up at him. Then he kissed her, with all the heat he had for her, all the emotions he wasn't ready to unpack yet, showing in every stroke of his tongue. Every nibble and every caress. He laid it on the line, in a language they both spoke fluently, praying she translated it.

When they came back up for air, her eyes were wide.

“I want more of that.” He kissed the corner of one eye. “And not just that. I want to wake up with you in my bed. I want to meet you for lunch and show you around the city more. I want you to come over and watch sports with me, or drag me to one of those stupid chick flicks where I groan at the cheesy lines and you throw popcorn at me to make me shut up. I want more than just sex.”

She blinked. “Isn't that my line?”

“You missed your cue, so I'm picking up. And damned if it makes me the girl. I'm just saying out loud what we both want. You're either too slow to pick up on it, or you're denying it to yourself.”

He hadn't meant to be quite so blunt. But if she was going to walk away from whatever they had growing, at least he knew he'd laid it all out there.

She stared across the room for a moment, and he knew she wasn't looking at anything on the wall. Her mind was somewhere entirely.

“I like you,” she finally said, quietly. “But I don't want to use you.”

“Feel free to use my body whenever,” he said, to make her smile. She did, but barely. “You're not using me, Cassie. You like me. If you didn't like me, it'd be mutual sex. But we like each other, so it's something to build on. I want you around, outside the bedroom.”

“I don't want you to think I'm coming here just for the sex. I mean, it's a fantastic perk,” she added with a sultry smile. “But I came over here for friendship, too. I miss Anya. I need someone here I can talk to.”

“And then have sex with.”

She smothered a laugh, but he felt it vibrating through his chest. “Is that so wrong?” she asked, her voice muffled.

“Absolutely not.” He rolled on top of her. “Just say it. There's something more here.”

“There's something more here,” she deadpanned, but her eyes were soft and a little misty. Her hands cupped his face. “I don't know what, and I don't know for how long. But yes, something more.”

“That's what I needed to hear.” He kissed her again. “So. Movie, snack, or sex?”

Cassie glanced at the alarm clock by his bed. The bright red lights said it wasn't quite ten yet. “I should go.”

He raised a brow. “Curfew?”

She hesitated, then rolled her eyes. “Do I look fifteen?”

“God, I hope not.” Slithering down to nibble her breast, he said, “Since you seem pressed for time, I'll just combine two of the three options. For your sake, of course.”

“Combine two . . . Trey!” she shrieked when he scraped his teeth over her lower ribs. “That tickles. “Combine what?”

Using his elbows, he pried her thighs apart and settled between them. “Snack and sex.” He licked once between her puffy outer lips, sucking on her clit.

“That's so wrong . . . but it feels good so I'm not arguing.”

“There we go.”

Cassie snapped a hand on her iPhone, cursing when the beeping didn't stop. Why didn't phones have raised snooze buttons like alarm clocks did? Life would be so much easier if she didn't actually have to pry her eyes open to earn five more minutes of sleep.

The pounding at the door, however, she couldn't make go away even by opening her eyes. It wasn't quite nine in the morning. The girls were at school . . . not that they knocked anyway. They were fans of the B&E school of sisterhood. Her father had been leaving for the office or practice before seven each morning, which was so not him. The housekeeper would just buzz the intercom until she answered. So that left . . .

“Just a second,” she called out, knowing her voice carried through the pool house enough to be heard. The fact that Tabitha hated raised voices gave her only the smallest feeling of satisfaction.

She located an old GU sweatshirt and tossed it on over her sleep tank, then grabbed a pair of capris that hadn't made it back to the drawer from the last Mellie-raid. Hopping into them as she walked to the door, she checked her reflection in the hallway mirror.

One word: yikes.

Her makeup, which she'd forgotten to remove last night, was smeared in that “walk of shame” sort of way. Her hair was hanging on by a thread in some places to the semblance of her updo from the night before, though most of it had quit the field and fallen around her face in depressing strands.

She looked like Grumpy Cat, in a wig, after a bender.

Tabitha knocked again.
Oh, well
. Pasting on a polite smile, she opened the door. “Morning, Tabitha.”

Her stepmother recoiled a little. “Cassandra, it's nearly nine in the morning.”

Cassie glanced at the hall clock. “Yes.”

Frowning, Tabitha stepped inside carefully, making sure not to touch Cassie, as if “Grumpy Cat on a bender” was a contagious disease. “I assume you didn't shower after last night.”

“Too tired.” Closing the door, resigned at playing hostess, she walked to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, but no.”

Cassie shrugged and went through the steps to get the nectar of the gods into her own bloodstream ASAP. When she had the coffee brewing, she turned to see Tabitha standing there with one of Cassie's tank tops dangling from two fingertips, as if she were holding a dead animal.

“I assume this is yours?”

“Yeah. Where did you . . .”
Uh-oh.

Tabitha sniffed. “I found it in Mellie's closet this morning. I'm going to pretend it ended up there on accident, and not even consider the possibility she wore it.”

If that was the offending tank Irene had mentioned Mellie wearing around the mall . . . too late. But Cassie wisely kept her mouth shut.

“In the future, I would appreciate if you wouldn't give my daughters fashion advice, or lend them clothing. They are not life-size Barbies for your enjoyment. They are impressionable young children, and it is my responsibility to raise them in a manner I see fit.”

“You and Ken,” Cassie corrected.

The older woman blinked. “That's what I said.”

My
and
I
were like the royal we, now? She just shrugged and turned.

“This was the exact reason we set out ground rules before allowing this little experiment to begin in the first place.”

“I don't think I remember any rules about sharing shirts with my sisters.”

“It's a part of the whole,” Tabitha said tightly. “It violates the spirit of the agreement. You are to remain a good role model for our girls.”

The girls who broke into her pool house and “borrowed” clothing without asking. Yup. She was obviously the offender here.

“Which brings me to my next point. Last night, you were impossibly rude.”

Cassie found a perfect white mug in the cupboard. Of course, the pool house kitchenette came with its own set of matching dishes. She resisted groaning at the turn this conversation would take. She'd known there would be repercussions for her leaving early last night. She'd taken the risk anyway.

And it had been very much worth it.

“Ken was in the middle of a speech, and you simply left. Not a good-bye, not a polite excuse. Nothing. How are we supposed to explain that to people if you do that again once you're acknowledged?”

“You don't.” Cassie gripped the mug so hard her fingers hurt. What she really wanted to do was throw it at the window and hear a very satisfying—if unproductive—sound of shattering glass. “There's nothing to explain. I needed to step out, and I decided to take off.”

“Next time, let one of us know before you do that. We waited an extra fifteen minutes after the event thinking you were still in the building somewhere.”

And for that, she felt a moment of guilt. “I'm sorry. I should have let you know.”

Nodding regally, Tabitha took a step back. “Ken mentioned he wouldn't be able to make lunch today. He has—”

“Things to do,” Cassie finished for her. “Sure. Thanks for passing on the message.”

Tabitha walked to the front door, which only took about four steps. Hand paused on the doorknob, she looked at Cassie. “He's trying. I know you're upset with him. You're quite awful at hiding it. But he's an important man with many commitments, and his life didn't halt the moment you waltzed into it. He carries enough misplaced guilt about not being available for you as a child. Acting petulant about his lack of time now as an adult is not making the situation any easier.” Her little speech complete, she walked out the door and closed it silently behind her.

Of course. Because it wouldn't have been easy to just let it go with “He's trying.” Why not twist the knife a little harder?

Cassie waited until her coffee was cool enough to sip, then debated. She didn't have any meetings with the PR people until two, in which they would sit around the table and criticize every piece of clothing she owned, and several of which she didn't own but apparently should, to pick out The Outfit for her initial interview. Which meant she was free the entire morning.

The momentary instinct to call Trey annoyed her. She was not—absolutely not—going to turn into one of those girls who smelled commitment a mile away and glued herself to his hip. Not only was it not her style, but it was unacceptable. She needed to be her own person, and stop waiting around for one male or another to have time for her.

And somehow, Cassie knew just what she wanted to do with the day.

* * *

“Sweet Jesus, Owens, did you put on ankle weights when we weren't looking?” Coach Talbin clicked his stopwatch and rolled his eyes. “My Aunt Nancy runs faster than this, and she's using a walker now.”

“Is Aunt Nancy free this weekend? I like a fast woman,” quipped center Michael Lambert.

Coach Talbin slapped him on the arm with a clipboard.

Ah, camaraderie.

“Sorry, Coach.” Trey grabbed a water bottle and rinsed his mouth out. His gray Bobcats T-shirt clung to his skin like a wetsuit, the light color now completely dark with sweat. But he refused to take it off and finish the sprints. Most of his teammates, he noted, weren't so bashful.

Bashful wasn't quite the word, really. But there were always photographers at practice. And any time he took off his shirt—even for the most normal of things, like at a freaking pool—a picture ended up somewhere. Leaving on his shirt, even uncomfortable as it was, meant less ammo for bloggers to comment on. Less people to label him “man candy” for various social media.

Josiah jogged over, having completed his own set of sprints. The man was lightning, and knew it. Trey's legs were close to buckling. Josiah looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, refreshed and ready to start the day. “Fuck you.”

His friend laughed and grabbed a water bottle for himself. “You know, it's odd, but running seems to be something I do well. Maybe it's because it's in my job description. Running. Back. Running.” He gave Trey a puzzled look. “Think that's where they got the name?”

Trey slapped him on the back of the head and tossed his water bottle aside. “Coach Jordan alert,” he said from the side of his mouth, just seconds before the man was within hearing range. Josiah straightened up and tossed his own bottle down.

“Hey, Coach.”

Coach Jordan muttered and walked right by, then halted and backed up three paces until even with them. “Problem?”

Trey and Josiah looked at each other. “No,” they both answered in unison.

“Good. We don't need any more trouble.” Without further explanation, he walked off, still muttering to himself.

They looked at each other. Josiah spoke first. “What was that all about?”

Trey had no clue, and shrugged.

From the opposite corner of the field, they heard one of the assistant coaches yelling at Stephen to pick it up and move, move, move.

“He's gained more weight,” Josiah said.

“I'm sure the coaches love that.” Though Trey knew it wasn't healthy weight. It was a four-bottle-a-day habit. The bigger he got, the slower he moved. Though whether that was because of his recently acquired sloth-like nature or the weight, who knew?

“Coach seem more agitated than usual?” Josiah was staring off at the end zone of the practice field, where Coach Jordan paced, intermittently slapping the shoulder of some unsuspecting player—scaring the crap out of him—or walking a circle around the goalpost.

“Nah, looks good to me,” Trey deadpanned. They both grinned, then fell silent. A distracted coach could be the death sentence of a season. With Coach Jordan, the straight-and-narrow man of the NFL, it wasn't likely to be a financial scam or legal trouble. No prostitution ring breakdown, like what happened a few years ago.

Family trouble? No, he and his wife were a rock. His kids were never in trouble, and they looked like little model citizens out there with their parents on the crusade for family togetherness. The Leave It to Beavers of the twenty-first century.

“Fore!”

Trey managed to duck—barely—as a football whizzed by his head.

Killian Reeves, their kicker, jogged over with a serious look. “You okay?”

Trey rubbed a hand over his skull. “Almost gave me a haircut.”

“You need one,” Josiah added.

Killian, a quiet guy even in the best of circumstances, looked like he'd rather chew his arm off than stay around shooting the shit. He palmed the football, gave them both a long look, as if making sure they were actually okay, then left.

“He really needs to stop talking so much,” Josiah said quietly. Trey snorted.

“He's always been quiet. Some people just don't have a lot to say. Good guy, quiet guy.” And that was all he wanted to say on it. “Cassie came over last night.”

Josiah wiggled a brow. “Yeah? I'm guessing it wasn't for another night of pasta.”

“No pasta was harmed in the making of the evening.”

Josiah leaned against the bench. “That's it? No sexy times story?”

“No.”

His friend waited a beat, then grinned. “You like her.”

Trey rolled his eyes, then used the toe of his cleat to flip up a football high enough to catch. “I'm aware.”

“No, I mean, you
liiiiike
her, like her.” The word came out like a show tune.

God save him.

“I like her,” he agreed, then punched the ball into his friend's gut. “Go back to catching things. If you can't catch what I'm throwing at you, we're screwed.”

“Go back to throwing things. If you can't throw what I need to catch, we're screwed.” With a cocky salute, Josiah took off back toward the other running backs and receivers for sprint drills.

Trey watched him go, his eye catching on Coach Jordan taking another lap around the end zone. He shook his head. Some things were out of their control on the field. But he could only hope Coach pulled out of whatever hole he was pacing himself into before the regular season started. He wanted a solid twelve weeks of play leading into the playoffs. No drama, no craziness.

* * *

Cassie looked up sharply at the opening of her father's office door. Her shoulders drooped when Kristen walked in instead of Ken.

With an apologetic smile—Kristen wasn't an idiot . . . she'd picked up on what was going on early—she started to say, “I'm sorry—”

Cassie popped up out of her chair. “Does it ever get annoying, playing the messenger of doom?”

Kristen glanced back at Frank, who was typing as always. The way that man's fingers flew over the keyboard was something of amazement. Then she closed the door behind her and crossed her arms over her chest. The effect rattled the chunky beads of the cute orange-and-teal necklace she wore over her starched white button-down shirt. “I get a healthy bonus every year for playing the messenger of doom.”

Cassie rolled her eyes and sank back down. “I'm not sure why I bother,” she muttered, not expecting a reply.

She should have guessed that she'd get one. “You do a lot of waiting around for him.”

Cassie snorted.

“Are you getting out and doing your own thing? Exploring the city a little?”

Her mind spun back to the parking garage and her aerial tour of the city's landmarks. Her lips curved a little. “Some.”

“Maybe you should crank up ‘some' to ‘often.' He's . . . important to you. But you're feeling neglected. I know it's not a romantic relationship, but I'd give the same advice to a girlfriend dealing with a guy who was playing it cool. Get interested in your own life again. Start doing your own thing. If he sees you moving on and not sitting around sulking and waiting for him, he's going to re-think ditching you behind all the time.”

She blew a strand of hair out of her face. Thanks to Tabitha's early morning pep talk, she hadn't had time to fix it like she'd wanted.