The Trouble With Quarterbacks(89)
“Good game,” Ryan says.
I beam. “Great game.”
“Logan will be happy.”
You bet your arse he will be. I’m positively overflowing with giddy excitement as the lift sweeps us down to the ground level of the car park underneath the stadium. From there, Ryan leads me to where he has the SUV parked, and we move along in the queue of cars toward the exit. There’s no point in waiting for Logan to join me before I leave the stadium. He’ll have to do postgame press on the field then have a shower in the locker room. Sometimes he has to do more interviews after that as well. Still, it’ll only be about an hour or so before he gets back to the flat.
An hour! Hardly any time, really.
Once Ryan drops me in front of our building, I dash off toward the lifts, waving at the doorman and receptionist. They congratulate me on the good game and I thank them without stopping. I officially moved in with Logan only a few weeks after we started dating. Kat had a wild change of heart about the whole living together situation after she and Jay had their shotgun wedding, and it’s not like she could keep me from moving out once she had. We offered to cover our portion of the rent for Yasmine, but she could easily afford the entire thing, and she was happy to convert our bedroom into a home office for herself. It all worked out really well, actually. No need to burn anyone’s bras!
Speaking of bras, right when I make it up to our flat, I head for our bedroom. Decisions, decisions. I’ve got quite a bit of lingerie in here. Logan’s got a sweet spot for it. He says it makes it so I’m a present he gets to unwrap slowly. Ooh la la. I pass over the red set he got me for Valentine’s Day, and the black set I wore for him the night he proposed. I settle on a pale blue lacy bra and panties. There are matching stockings and a garter belt too.
With an indulgent smile, I lay the lingerie out on the little bench in the closet and then head for the kitchen. I couldn’t eat dinner earlier—nervous stomach—so I grab a protein bar and chow down, knowing I’ll need my strength for the night ahead. I check my mobile while I eat, scrolling through photos of the game that have already been posted. I linger too long, staring at each one, studying them while I chew slowly. There’s this one close-up shot of Logan on the field, about to throw a pass. His arm is cocked back and his body is stretched taut. In spite of the helmet and pads and uniform (or maybe because of them), he looks absolutely mouthwatering. I love when he’s in his element, all intense. He completely zones out. I could be standing on the sidelines in a cheerleading costume, waving pom-poms, and he wouldn’t even notice. I could strip off the cheerleading costume on the sidelines and wave around my ta-tas, and still, nothing. He only has one goal while he’s on that field, and it’s to win at all costs.
I get a little hot just thinking about it. All that severe, determined concentration…it’s the same way he gets in the bedroom.
I’m forced to use the empty protein bar wrapper to fan my face, but it doesn’t do the trick. Oh well, I need a shower anyway. Just a quick rinse. I got quite sweaty when I was leaping up and down back at the stadium, shouting at our team and their team—anyone, really—and getting a little carried away. It’s a wonder I still have a voice.
In our bathroom, I wrap my hair up in a bun so it doesn’t get wet and step under the hot water in the shower. I use my floral-scented body wash to lather up my arms. There’s nervous energy humming inside me, like I’m a little kid waiting for Santa to leave me presents on Christmas Eve. I exfoliate my arms and legs until my skin is silky smooth. It gets quite steamy in there because the water feels so good and I’m in no rush to get out.
Then, I hear a noise.
The bathroom door opens.
I scream and splay out against the cold marble wall behind me, reaching for anything within my grasp—a loofah. Oh good, that’ll really hurt a robber. Nice going, Candace.
“It’s just me,” Logan says, strolling into the bathroom all cocksure and pleased with himself. He’s wearing athletic shorts and his team’s t-shirt. His hair is still damp with sweat, so it looks inky black.
“What are you doing home already?!” I ask, stepping forward and wiping the glass so I can get a proper look at him.
He reaches back to tug off his t-shirt. “No postgame interviews, just a quick conversation on the field with that ESPN correspondent you like then I hopped in my car.”
“No shower?” I ask as my mouth drops open. Getting a good look at his naked chest will never not stop me in my tracks, even now, when there’s a fresh bruise on his ribs and a red line across his abs. Marks of war.
“No shower,” he replies, pushing his shorts down along with his boxer briefs and stepping out of them. My jaw drops farther.
“Well I’m just about to get out,” I say, like a total git who hasn’t got a clue.
He glances up and locks eyes with me through the glass. “I’ll just join you.”
My heart kicks up as if sending out a signal to my body: Full steam ahead, lads!
“But, I’ve pulled out lingerie,” I say weakly, pointing toward our shared closet.
He doesn’t reply. He moves toward the shower, swings open the glass door, and steps inside. It’s like he’s just sucked all the air out with a vacuum. I struggle to breathe as he comes closer. I think he’s headed for me, but he stops under the stream, letting it soak him from head to toe. He watches me while he does it, or rather, he devours me while he does it. There’s no hiding his true intent as his eyes glide down my body, pausing at my chest and the shadow between my legs.