That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella (11)

He stills, keeping his hands on my breasts as he lifts his mouth off my chest. “What—how?”

I smile, kissing the tip of his nose. “I read it all over your body the second I laid eyes on you.” At his look of confusion I add, “My specialty is sports medicine.”

His eyes go wide. “Oh, shit—do you work for a team? Which one—”

“Ah-ah.” I place two fingers over his lips. “No more job talk. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep having sex.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes, as he rocks back on his heels and stands. The new angle puts me at face level with the massive bulge in his boxer briefs. “Oh, yeah? And what does my dirty-talking Mystery Girl want next?” he asks, his fingers combing through my tousled hair.

My hands are already smoothing up his thighs, brushing the bottom hem of his briefs. He groans, his hand tightening in my hair. I drag with my nails over the fabric up to his hipbones and he lets out a shiver. “Don’t play with me, baby girl. I’ll happily stay in this room giving you what you need all night. I’ll eat that pussy like it’s my goddamn job. Say the word, and I won’t get off my knees.”

I can’t hide my smile. See? He’s a giver. Apparently, he’s a talker too, and I’m here for it. My greedy pussy squeezes tight with excitement as my fingers brush over the waistband of his briefs, giving them a playful tug. “And if I want more than your mouth?”

He groans again, fisting my hair tight. He tips my head back, gazing down at me. “When these briefs come off, it’s all over. You don’t know the meaning of the word stamina until you’ve been with me. I will fuck you senseless and you’ll beg me for more.”

Oh, thank god.

I tug at his briefs again, ready to see him unleashed, but he stops me, both hands grabbing my wrists.

“Wait—tell me again you want this,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Tell me you want…me.” He almost winces once the words are out, his hands loosening on my wrists. I don’t think he meant to say that out loud.

I sit back, looking up at him, my hands still on his hips. I feel him like he’s part of me. I feel his excitement, his nerves, his need. There’s no way this sweet golden retriever isn’t a ladies’ man. He’s way too talented for this to be his first time. No, everything about him screams experience.

So why the nerves? Why this hesitation? From the moment we paid the bill, he’s been putting up speed bumps, when all I wanted to do was drive us at 100mph straight to Pound Town. I study him, my mind racing. This is different for him somehow. Why is he doubting if I want him? At what point have I given him that impression?

Then it hits me.

He’s never done this before.

Oh, I’m sure he’s done hookups. What pro athlete hasn’t taken advantage at some point in their career? Women quite literally throw themselves at these men every day of the week. But when they do, they know who the men are…or at least, they know their number, their position, their salaries and signing bonuses.

The more aggressive girls will even know their stats—and I’m not talking about their playing stats. Some of these crazies run entire websites dedicated to a player’s hookups. They’ll share info on what he likes. Does his cock have a kink in it? Does he like his girls shaved or natural? Does he go down?

It’s demeaning and gross, but it’s part of the life. The guys just have to get used to it and learn to be really careful. The groupies don’t care about the athletes. They only care about getting what they want—a few days or weeks of being pampered, some free gifts, access to exclusive clubs and parties.

Is that what he thinks this is for me? Am I using him like a groupie?

No way.

I don’t know his name or his sport. I don’t know his salary. And I’m not asking for anything. I would never do that. Hell, I’m still in bimonthly therapy from being raised in a similar environment. That’s what happens when your father is a world-famous rock star. Just one more reason I like my anonymity when it comes to my hookups. We still share a last name, and the press can be relentless and cruel. I’ve learned the hard way how to keep my head down and avoid all that spotlight-sharing bullshit.

I glance back up at the beautiful man standing so close to me. He wants me. He wants this. But he wants more. He doesn’t want to be used. And he’s feeling out of control. I’ve been the one driving this car from the start.

Oh god, he feels like the groupie.

He didn’t go up to the bar looking for a hookup. He went to get a drink and to feel sad about missing his sister. He’s only here now because he couldn’t avoid my pull, just like I couldn’t avoid his.

I stand, running my hands up his sides, resting them on his shoulders. “Look at me.”

He looks down, need and hesitation swirling in his hazel eyes.

“I want you,” I whisper. “Not for your fame or your name. If anything, fame sends me running. It doesn’t reel me in. And this isn’t about your body or me getting a quick fuck,” I add. “Maybe it started that way for like two seconds up at the bar,” I admit. “I was lonely and sad about some news I got today. But now I want you here because you’re kind and funny. I want you here because I feel a connection to you.”

I step closer, my tits brushing his bare chest as I splay my hand over his heart, feeling his strong heartbeat. I reach for his hand too, placing it over my heart. I close my eyes, letting my heart beat under his palm. “Do you feel that?” I murmur.