The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(62)

Biting his lower lip as if to keep from smiling any longer, he punches in the code: 11-55-88. The door clicks open. “Did you get it?”

“Yes.” I force myself to stand taller.

“Good.” He nods toward the panel. “Remember it. Any time you want to come here, my house is open to you. Any time, Fi. For as long as you want.”

The back of my throat tickles. I stare up at him, struck dumb and only able to squeeze his big hand with my much smaller one. It feels momentous, what he’s done. Huge. The kind of commitment that speaks of permanence.

It’s terrifying and wonderful all in one breath. So I say the only thing I can. “Am I wrong, or wasn’t Gray’s college jersey number eighty-eight?”

Ethan blinks, clearly expecting something else, but he nods. “Yep. Drew’s was eleven. Mine was, and still is, fifty-five.”

“Aww. Aren’t you cute?” He’s perfect. And mine.

“It’s easy to remember,” he says gruffly. “Now let’s get inside.”





* * *



Fiona



The door to Ethan’s house opens to a little carriage way, lit by an overhead wrought-iron lantern. We follow the path to a private courtyard.

“Wow,” I say as we walk farther into it. “This is beautiful.”

Frosted globe lanterns are hung across the yard. Little lights twinkle in the ivy-covered walls surrounding a garden of crepe myrtle and various palms. In the center, an ornate fountain runs.

“It came like this,” Dex says at my elbow. He glances around as if seeing it from my eyes. A loggia covered in bougainvillea shelters a double-wide lounger. There’s a massive tractor tire to one side of the courtyard. As in, it’s as wide as I am tall. His lips quirk at the sight of it. “Well, except for the tire.”

“You gonna tell me what’s up with the tire?”

He ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck. “I whack it with a sledgehammer. Sometimes I flip it.”

“Oh, sure. Because why not?”

“Does the job. But that’s for off-season training.” So nonchalant. But he can’t really hide his smug grin.

“That’s got to weigh, what?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders. “A thousand pounds.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Get the hell out.”

Dex winks. “JJ Watt does it, so I do it too. No way am I going to be caught with my dick in the wind facing one of those defensive linemen coming at me like a tank.”

As unassuming as Dex can be, he’s also fiercely competitive.

I give his arm a squeeze. Not one ounce of give. “My big, strong man.”

“Yes, I am,” he says without hesitation, then surveys the courtyard. “The narrow building along the side is a guest house. The building at the back is an old carriage house, now a garage on the ground floor, and my painting studio is above it.

“You can look around tomorrow,” he finishes, his voice soft, his hand warm in mine. He’s pulling me toward the main house. We go up a flight of stairs, straight to the second floor. We walk past a large, open living room—exposed brick walls, wide, worn wooden floorboards—and through a gourmet kitchen. More exposed brick. Huge center island, stainless steel appliances, white marble counters.

I want to soak it all in, but Dex is on a mission, leading me along with purposeful steps.

“Not hungry?” I tease as we pass through.

He glances back at me, heat and need in his eyes. “Not for food.” He wrinkles his nose. “Christ, that was cheesy, wasn’t it?”

I laugh. “It was cute.”

“Cute,” he repeats. “Just what every guy wants to be called.” He hesitates at the doorway leading out of the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I should have asked. I’ve—”

“Not for food,” I tell him. Because I can be cheesy too.

That has him picking up his pace. We take a set of stairs to the top floor. His bedroom overlooks the courtyard. And the dim light from the outside lanterns slants through the massive paned windows, half covered by louvered shutters. There isn’t much in here, just a big club chair, a dresser, and a king bed with a padded leather headboard.

I smell the pine of the floorboards, the spicy scent of Ethan’s skin. It’s warm and quiet in his room. Quiet enough to hear his soft breaths and the steady pounding of my heart. He stands before me, so big and present; I feel his warmth even though we’re not yet touching.

Slowly he reaches up and slides off my damp cardigan. Gentle fingers ease the strap of my sundress down. When my breast pops free, he moves to the other side, pulling the strap until the other is exposed. Ethan has seen me naked, licked and sucked every inch of me, but standing here now, on display for him, makes me so hot. I struggle to catch my breath.

It grows erratic when he gives a little hum of satisfaction and runs the tips of his fingers across my nipples. Back and forth, barely touching them. God. I fight the urge to arch into his touch, because it’s hotter to hold back, to let him fondle me while my nipples grow stiff and achy.

He circles them, worrying the tips with the rough pads of his fingers, and then, without warning, pinches—pulling until my breasts stretch—before letting go.

My breasts bob back into place, and I whimper, my knees going weak.