Beauty and the Baller(4)

She nods.

I slant my mouth across hers, our breaths mingling as I part her lips. She melts against me. A shudder ripples over me as lust, long banked and hungry, strains to be unleashed, to crush her beneath me. I hold it back, for now, and learn her mouth, the shape of it, the dips and valleys. Her breath hitches as I tug on her bottom lip with my teeth, then kiss it softly. I move from her cheek to her ear, my teeth biting on the lobe.

“I don’t normally either,” I breathe.

Later, she takes the card from me and opens my door. We walk inside the suite and pause in the foyer as she takes in the penthouse I booked. The decor is mostly white with a low-profile, black gas fireplace burning in the den. The views of Manhattan are glorious from the windows, which is where she drifts, but my gaze goes to the kitchen . . . and the whiskey bottle.

I offer her a drink, and she says no. I pour a glass for me; then we wander into the master bedroom, where an empty bottle already sits on the nightstand. Tuck was right about me not being a drinker. For years, I set high goals, studying how to be a great leader and quarterback for my team, pushing my body to its limits with training, eating right, rarely consuming alcohol. For me, it was the game I lived for.

I won three Super Bowls in a row.

Look at me now.

There’s a moment of clarity, my mind debating if bringing the girl here was a good idea. I’m supposed to see Whitney’s parents tomorrow—

I kick that thought away.

She gives me a heart-stopping smile and does a pirouette in front of the window, her loincloth billowing around her. She repeats her quote, correctly this time, then laughingly admits she doesn’t know any more. I tell her I’ll teach her all my favorites. I finish my drink, then another. Time passes fast, yet slow, as she flits around the room. She talks, telling me things, maybe her name, and I soak her in, the graceful way she walks, the way her overgenerous lips curl when she smiles.

Propping myself against the wall to keep steady, I find music on my phone, some slow pop song.

“You’re incredible,” I murmur in her ear when she glides over to me.

How did I get here with you? How did you find me?

With our arms draped around each other, we sway as she sings along with Savage Garden’s “I Knew I Loved You.” Her voice is rich, each note perfect and clear. She’s good. Or maybe I’m just trashed and anything sounds good.

When the song ends, there’s a silence as we face each other.

The air thickens.

I brought her here, but she can walk out that door.

With that thought, I twine our fingers together and dip my face into her neck and inhale deeply, deciding this spot is my second-favorite part of a woman. I rest my hands on her clavicle with ownership, my thumb brushing against the goose bumps on her skin.

“It’s game time. Are you staying, Princess?”

“Yes.” Her gaze is steady and sure.

It’s all I need as I try to remove her costume, but my fingers don’t know where all the snaps and buttons are, and she does it for me, quickly, tossing her top to the floor, then her bikini bottoms, revealing a white lace thong. Sitting on the bed, she loosens her green boots, tugging at the laces. She undoes her hair, the curls from the braid spilling around her shoulders. My mouth dries as she stands unabashedly in front of me. There’s no shyness. No pretention. She’s lush and decadent, her tits heavy, her nipples a rosy red. The curve of her waist gives way to full hips and long legs. Her toes are painted a shimmery gold—

My thoughts halt as she jerks the duvet and blankets to the floor, leaving the sheet and pillows on the bed.

My adrenaline spikes. We’re doing this. I’m doing this.

“Come to me,” I demand softly.

She walks over and strips me of my jacket, then tosses it on a chair. She unknots my tie while I tear at the buttons on my shirt. They fly across the room. My pants are next, both of us fighting for the zipper as our breaths mingle. I shove down my underwear, and she takes my length in her hands. A long guttural sound comes from my chest as our bodies fall to the bed.

I shove down the pain in my knee and cage her in underneath me. She looks fragile and vulnerable, and my blood heats, the alpha in me rearing up to protect her. I capture her sapphire eyes, and something there is eerily familiar. Shadows of pain.

I nudge my nose against hers softly, then give her tender kisses as our scents mingle, my whiskey with her sweetness. I tell her she’s perfect, that she’s safe with me, that she’s mine. “And I’m going to eat you up,” I purr.

“Ronan . . .” She runs her hands through my hair, pulling on the ends and dragging me down for a wet, openmouthed kiss that turns frantic. My hand cups one breast as I suck the other nipple into my mouth. I move between the two, my five-o’clock shadow brushing over her soft skin. She tastes like . . . I don’t know . . . joy.

I kiss down her body, my hands following. I touch the curve of her waist, her inner thigh—then I’m at her center. I lick the nirvana there, my hands clenching on top of her thighs as I feast.

Moaning, she tugs on my hair, and I rise up.

An unexpected flicker of disconnect hits, almost choking the desire, as the chain around my neck, the one with Whitney’s engagement ring on it, swings between us, glittering. I shove the ring to my back as guilt washes over me.

A dark road flashes in my head, the scratching swipe of windshield wipers, hail pinging, wind battering the car. I should have paid more attention to the storm and slowed down, taken a different road, insisted she put her seat belt on—fuck, how did I miss that? She hated wearing it, the one rule she refused to follow, and I wasn’t paying attention; then a bolt of lightning hit the bridge—my breath shudders. No.