The Trade(88)

I press my hand against his barrel of a chest and play with the divot between his pecs. “Well, I do work from home.” I chew on the side of my cheek, growing nervous from the suggestion I’m about to throw out there. “I can come visit you during spring training, but that’s only if you—”

He silences me with two fingers pressed to my lips. “I already planned on flying you out to visit me. I was hoping you’d give me a schedule of when you were free.”

“Anytime. You name it, I’m there. When you work, I’ll work, when you get home, I’ll be uh, in my hotel waiting for you.”

He chuckles. “You’ll stay with me, Natalie.”

“Yeah? But what about the no sex thing?”

“Doesn’t mean I still don’t want you in my arms at night when you’re visiting me. I’m not going to make you go to a different hotel room. Plus, who knows, maybe we will have sex by then.”

“Yeah?” I ask. My excitement is far too obvious. “Does that mean things might get frisky tonight?”

“No.” He laughs and runs his hands to my ass where he squeezes me tight through my leggings. “Fuck, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out though. Especially when you wear shirts like that and leggings like these. Have you seen your ass in them?”

“It’s big, yeah, I know.” I wink. “But apparently you’re attached to large rears.”

“Only yours.”

I grip both his cheeks and bring my mouth down to his where I carefully place my lips on his. It’s a whisper of a kiss, nothing I planned on turning into much more, but when Cory’s hands slip up the back of my shirt, he ignites something within me, and I feel my grip on his face tighten as my mouth starts to part, making our kisses bigger, sloppier.

He groans.

I moan.

His hands float higher up my back and then down where they slip under the waistband of my leggings.

“Shit, Natalie,” he whispers when I offer him my neck. He kisses and marks me all the way down to my collarbone, rubbing the rough feel of his jaw over my sensitive skin, marring my skin red, something I enjoy seeing in the mirror—oddly—along with his small bite marks. I like knowing I belong to him, that I’m the only woman he’s claiming. I just wish the nibbles he leaves along my skin were in the shape of his initials so everyone truly knew who I belonged to.

Taking a risk, I start to rock against his lap, and that’s when his hands grip me and his mouth pulls away. The heady look in his eyes slowly disappears as realization sets in of where we are and what we should be doing, other than trying to do each other.

Out of frustration, I say, “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

“Yeah right.” He laughs. “You’re anything but quiet, Natalie.”

“I can try.”

“You’re fucking cute.” He places another kiss on my lips and then helps me off his lap. When he stands, I watch him adjust himself and take a few breaths before taking my hand in his and walking me to the golf clubs. I love that he has to collect himself before we move on to our activity, because it shows that I affect him. It causes me to feel more confident, because this man delights in my body. In me.

I never imagined myself with someone like Cory, someone who, without trying, claims the room when he walks into it, but doesn’t act he like owns it. Every person I’ve spoken to about him always makes the same conclusion. He’s almost larger than life, but his humility, his . . . genuine kindness . . . is what draws and keeps your attention. I’ve met dozens of driven, powerful athletes, those who are paid ridiculous amounts of money to play a game. And often that vast wealth brings equal arrogance and condescension. Something Cory Potter is not. He’s warm, funny, so, so sweet, and surprisingly humble.

Even with the Rebels fans eating him alive on the Internet and apparently on the streets occasionally—from what Cory has told me—he still finds the energy and the passion to dig deep and train, work on the sport he loves so dearly.

I’m in awe. I pause as he tries to hand me a club. “Everything okay?” he asks.

“You’re just a really great guy, Cory.” His eyes soften as he smiles. “You’re going through media hell, and you don’t really complain about it at all. You don’t say anything unless I ask.”

He shrugs. “Why talk about the negative shit when I can enjoy you?”

“Ugh, could you be any more loveable?”

He wiggles his eyebrows and snags my hand, pulling me into his chest. “You think I’m loveable, huh?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He chuckles and captures my mouth, dipping me back into his strong arms and having one more taste before we start driving balls off the cliff of this suite.





“Don’t lie to me.” Cory laughs, that hearty laugh I’m starting to become addicted to. Hell, not starting, I’m already addicted to it.

“I’m not lying.”

We’re sitting on the couch of the suite after hitting all our golf balls into the range and we’re enjoying some really amazing steak and salad—Cory is watching what he’s eating these days, which I can understand. Yeah, that means no more three desserts in one night.

Gripping my thigh as we’re facing each other, he gives it a squeeze. “You’re lying. I can see it in the way your eyes are smiling at me.”