With a Hitch

by RC Boldt

  “Dax.”

  That’s all she says a split second before she stiffens and shudders wrack her gorgeous body. Her hips rock as she rides out her release, and the moment I see a bit of wetness seeping from her pussy, I lose all control. I clench my jaw and work my fist up and down my cock in rapid strokes, spilling over the inside of her thighs and saturating her pussy lips with long, hot spurts. Shit, I didn’t think it was possible to have that much so soon after she’d made me come in her mouth. This woman… Fuck. She just does it for me.

  Our ragged breaths hang in the air. Head tipped against the seat back, I close my eyes to allow myself a moment to catch my breath. Hell, she’s wrecked me.

  I loved every second of it.

  Somehow, I manage to open my eyes, and my breath catches at the sight that greets me.

  Darcy’s blond head rests against the seat back. Her eyes are closed, though a small but satisfied smile tugs at her lips. Her flushed body looks sated. Pleased.

  Carefully, I heave myself up to grab some tissues to clean her. She finally opens her eyes when I gently begin to wipe her, her gaze watchful. Once I’m finished and have tossed the tissues in the trash, she offers a quiet, “Thank you.”

  “Time for a shower, Duchess.” I extend my hands to help her up. The moment she places her hands in mine, I give a little tug and pull her in for a tight hug. She feels right at home in my arms.

  As though it’s where she’s always meant to be.

  36

  Darcy

  Hitched® Tip #10:

  Know when to apologize. Admitting your wrongdoing or mistake means you’re human.

  ♥

  By 2 p.m. on Monday, I’ve managed to compartmentalize everything that happened with Dax. It’s certainly helped that I had two meetings with potential clients, and my usual schedule for the day has kept me busy. I’ve mentally classified this weekend with Dax under the Will never happen again file and tucked it away.

  Sure, it could also be listed under the Most incredible time of my life, too, especially since certain parts of my body are still sensitive from where his scruff abraded my skin, but I need to be strong. I can’t let the part of me that yearns for my own happily ever after get carried away. It’s much too risky.

  Which is why, when my phone rings and his name pops up on the caller ID, I hesitate to answer. Riddled with indecision, I tap my fingers in a rapid staccato against the receiver of my desk phone.

  “You are a professional. You can put everything back in the box exactly like it was and move on.” My pep talk has me nodding in affirmation while my brain practically snorts derisively as if telling me, Get real, Cole.

  “Darcy Cole.” There. I answered just like any other call on my direct line.

  “Hey, Duchess.” His voice is pure sex, washing over me. It instantly spurs an onslaught of naughty memories from the past weekend. “What’s the good word?”

  “I’m glad you called because I actually wanted to discuss a few things with you.” My formal tone makes me wince. When his voice sobers, I close my eyes as remorse floods me. But I have no idea how things are supposed to work.

  “And these things are…?” Caution weighs heavily in his tone. No trace of the playfulness I’ve become accustomed to.

  I clear my throat. “I wanted to touch base with you regarding your matches.” The next words pass through my throat like razor blades. “And whether you’d like me to schedule a date with Shanae, your second choice from the mixer.” Internally, I beg, Please tell me to cancel your services! Tell me you want me to quit being your damn matchmaker.

  I want so badly for him to prove we weren’t just a weekend fling.

  Silence greets me. It lasts for so long, I prompt with tentativeness—and a shard of hope—“Dax?”

  “I’ll set up a time with you to go over everything. Right now, I have to run some errands, so just email me some times and dates.”

  “Sounds good.” I attempt to inflect a businesslike cheerfulness in my response even though my entire body feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself.

  “By the way, ignore the email I shot over a second ago. Just… go ahead and delete it. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  That’s it. He ends the call after that simple, curt, “I’ll catch up with you later.” Simultaneously, a faint chime notifies me of a new email in my inbox.

  I feel like the biggest asshole on earth. But what was I supposed to think? That some famous football player would fall in love with me after a sex-filled weekend? Happily ever after might be my end goal for business, but even I understand realism.

  Shaking off the dreadful feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake, I click the mouse to wake up my computer screen. My stomach churns with nervousness at the sight of a new email from Dax.

  From: Dax Kendrick

  Subject: Awards Ceremony

  Hey, Duchess,

  I wanted to shoot over the info for the NFL awards ceremony next week. I’m slated to receive Sportsperson of the Year because of the relief fund I started for Gainesville. I’d love for you to come with me since I’m nervous as hell. It’d be nice to have you by my side. I understand it’s late notice, so no pressure, but having you with me would make my night.

  Have a great day, gorgeous.

  D

  P.S.

  The guys have been giving me shit, saying I have a perma-grin. This past weekend was amazing, and I can’t wait to see you again. Still bummed I didn’t get to sleep with you curled up next to me last night. Next time, you can bring your work clothes with you.

  My heart plummets, free-falling to the pit of my stomach. “Oh, God,” I groan, covering my face with my hands and slumping in my desk chair. The universe hates me, and now he does, too.

  I realize now, from his email, that he wants—wanted—more with me. Even if he hadn’t mentioned canceling my services.

  It takes me about two minutes to compose myself enough to open the email attachment that details the event and the fact that he’ll be receiving the highly esteemed award and why he’s been chosen to receive it.

  Shit. He makes it far too easy to forget exactly who he is when I’m around him—famous NFL wide receiver with a multimillion-dollar contract and numerous endorsements.

  I was a total asshole to the man who fronted five hundred thousand dollars to kick off the hurricane relief fund for the city of Gainesville, home of the University of Florida, where he played football and graduated with honors. He’d posted a video on his social media pages to ask the public to consider offering what they could.

  Within a week, that fund surpassed two million dollars.

  I open another window on my computer and search for the video I recall hearing so much about. He’d posted it two weeks after the initial video when the fund had hit 6.3 million dollars raised. I click on the YouTube video, and the instant his handsome face fills the screen, something pinches in the center of my chest.

  “I’m in absolute awe…” He shakes his head and looks off to the side. It’s clear he’s battling his emotions. When he gazes back into the camera, his eyes have a sheen to them.

  “You’ve stepped up in ways I could’ve never imagined possible. No way could I ever thank you enough for your generosity to the people of Gainesville.

  “I want you to know we’ve already delivered over one hundred semis filled with supplies to those in need, and we continue to work on housing solutions. The photos I posted earlier are only a small fraction of what’s been supplied to the residents of Gainesville.

  “Everyone who’s donated—whether monetary or in the form of prayers or positive thoughts—should know that you’re actively making a difference in the lives of so many people.” He clears his throat, his voice turning husky with emotion. “As a former Florida Gator, I always keep Gainesville near and dear to my heart, and I’m overwhelmed by the outpouring of help that’s been offered. Thank you to everyone.”

  Oh, God. I need to fix this.

  But how?
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  I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous before. My white-knuckled grip on the plate threatens to shatter the ceramic. Only a foot away from the front door, I decide if I lift the plate a bit, I can stick out my pinky finger and nudge the doorbell.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, I heave out a long breath. I got past the gate guard simply because he’s seen me plenty of times by now. I wish I knew if Dax was home. A sudden, jarring thought hits me. What if he’s with someone? Oh, God, what if he has a woman here?

  I should turn around and go. But I want to leave these as an apology. Probably a terrible one, but I tried. There should be paper in my car I can write a note on and leave it—

  The door swings open, startling me so much I jump, nearly losing my grip on the foil-covered plate.

  Dax stands in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung athletic shorts. Broad, firm chest on display, all that delicious toned muscle, and bare feet. His eyes, though, hold a chilled wariness.

  “Darcy.” God, he says my name cold enough to compete with the harshest Nor’easter.

  I draw in a deep breath and then speak quickly on my exhale. “I’m sorry for earlier. I was an asshole, and I wanted to make up for it by making you turmeric muffins because…” I finally run out of steam and falter because he’s not giving anything away. The man has a poker face that could rival the most seasoned Vegas poker players. “It’s the only thing I could think of to make.”

  His gaze narrows. “You made me turmeric muffins.” He studies me, eyes sharp. “The same ones I made you when you were on your menstrual cycle.”

  Shit. This was a terrible idea. I should’ve listened to that logical voice in my head. Hel-lo, Darcy. Guys don’t have menstrual cycles. Clearly, I ignored it and decided it would be a sentimental gesture. Indicative of when our friendship really began to bloom.

  Evidently, I was wrong.

  I wince. “You’re right. This was stupid. Never mind.” I start backing away. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to say sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.” I turn and rush down the steps leading to the driveway. Get to the small landing, and only five more steps to go till you hit the driveway.

  I make it two steps away from the bottom, my car practically glowing as my finish line, when heavy footfalls sound after me. My response is to speed up because self-preservation, people. Instead, my heel slides on my next step down. That’s when things morph into slow motion.

  I flail at the sensation of keeling forward and grasp for the railing so I don’t splatter face-first onto the concrete driveway. The muffins fall victim when I let go in order to save myself, and the plate shatters, contents rolling messily in the wake.

  Except I don’t hit anything. Strong arms wrap around my waist, dragging me back against a warm, familiar body. My chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I clutch at his arms. He presses his face into my hair.

  “Dammit, Duchess,” he growls. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Yeah, well…” I force a laugh. “Just keeping you on your toes, I guess.” I pinch my eyes closed at my pathetic attempt at humor.

  His laugh is hoarse. “You do that without trying to dive head-first down my steps.”

  My throat grows tight. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  When he whispers back, the vulnerability is clear in his words. “You said you were apologizing for being an asshole earlier.” Caution edges into his tone. “I want to know why.”

  Of course, he does. Leave it to this man not to accept an apology but dive right to the heart of the matter.

  “Because…” I falter. Anxiety pulses through my veins. I’ll be laying myself bare if I admit why.

  “Because…” he prompts.

  I scrunch my face, grateful he’s at my back and can’t see me. “Because I’m scared, and we’re so different, and I’ve never—” I stop abruptly, going rigid in his arms.

  “You’ve never what?” God, that tender quality to his voice is my undoing.

  “I’ve never let anyone this close. Never felt anything like this. I’m just”—my voice fades, becoming faint—“afraid.”

  He exhales slowly and releases me. “I need to get this cleaned up.” He pads down the steps, careful to sidestep the shards from the ceramic plate. With a few punches of the keypad outside the garage, one of the doors opens, and he ducks inside to grab a dustpan and broom.

  Four deep breaths later, I feel like I’ve composed myself… enough. Careful so as not to have a redo, I gingerly step down and start to pile up the large pieces from the wreckage.

  “I’ve got this.”

  My head snaps up, and my eyes lock with his. I straighten and dust off my hands. “Right. Um… sorry, again. I’ll just”—I gesture to my car—“get going.”

  My heels click on the smooth concrete, and I vaguely register the sound of a groan.

  “Duchess?”

  I stop, hand on my door handle. “Yes?” But I don’t dare turn around. My emotions hover at the surface, my eyes burning. I just want to go home and have a good cry. A glass of wine. A bath, maybe. I’ll be okay after that. Hopefully, Dax will forgive me. Eventually.

  “I was about to whip up a kale smoothie. Know those are your favorite and all. Be a shame if you left now.”

  A faint whimper-laugh escapes me. I press my lips thin, attempting to get a handle on my feelings. “You know I don’t like those.”

  “Sometimes the things we thought we weren’t into at first become something we end up really… liking.”

  “If I stay for a bit tonight, can I”—I hesitate, and it takes a concentrated effort to force out the words—“still be your date for the awards ceremony?”

  Clinking sounds immediately follow, and I’m certain he’s swept everything and is tossing it in the trash can located on the side of the driveway. His soft footfalls approach me, but I can’t bear to look. Maybe his lack of answer means no. Maybe I should just—

  “Look at me.” His voice softens, the gentle quality of his tone embracing me. “Please.”

  Hesitantly, I turn around. With my back to my car, I lift my eyes to his. The austere quality his features held earlier has vanished. In its place is a tenderness I hadn’t realized I missed.

  He steps closer and rests a palm against my car. “Why do you want to go with me?”

  There’s a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball, but I force my words through it. He deserves the truth. “Because I’d be honored to be by your side on a night that special.”

  His expression softens. “Then you will.” He says it like it’s just that easy.

  And I guess, for him, it is.

  37

  Dax

  Earlier that day…

  I never expected things to be easy when I fell in love. Then again, I never could’ve predicted I’d fall in love with Darcy Cole.

  The way she acted on the phone—as if the weekend meant nothing, like it hadn’t even happened or had barely been a blip on her radar—gutted me. Knowing I need to get my head on straight and put things in better perspective, I head over to Becket’s.

  He sits me down with the serious, intimidating expression I’d come to know from our days playing ball together. After being friends this long, he knows how to read me and can tell something’s wrong.

  “What happened with you and Darcy?” His words have a demanding edge of protectiveness to them.

  “She treated me like nothing we did over the weekend mattered.” I press my lips thin against a wave of pain. “Like I didn’t matter to her.” I recap my conversation with Darcy earlier.

  He falls silent, as though mulling things over, before he pins me with a hard, analytical look. “What makes her different from any other woman you’ve dated?”

  I grip the straining muscles of the back of my neck and start to pace. “Because she gets me. She’s not around for any reason other than because she wants to be with me. Because she’s sweet and so damn smart. She’s fucking gorgeous and doesn’t seem to kn
ow it.” I slow my pacing. “We can do absolutely nothing together, and it doesn’t matter. I’m just as happy.”

  I drag a hand over my face. “I don’t know when exactly it hit me, but I”—I clear my throat—“I love her, man.”

  Silence is all the response I get. I whip my head around to find my friend watching me with a satisfied expression. He nods slowly.

  “Think we need to call in reinforcements.” He tips his head in the direction of the open doorway leading to the kitchen and calls out softly, “Ivy?”

  She steps into view far quicker than I think either of us expected. Little Ella is asleep in the carrier strapped to her front, and Ivy’s knowing smile tells me everything.

  “I was eavesdropping,” she offers, without a trace of remorse.

  “I figured.”

  “So, let me understand this.” She sways gently from side to side, one hand protectively cupping the back of the baby’s head. “You guys finally had sex this weekend, and she spooked on Monday?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She tips her head to the side thoughtfully. “Did you tell her you love her?”

  “No.” I scrub a hand over the scruff along my jaw. “Glad I didn’t, or it probably would’ve ended up worse.”

  She lets out a long sigh. “Look, Dax. I can’t say much, simply because it’s not for me to tell, but Darcy has been through… a lot. Foster care wasn’t a walk in the park for her. She’s afraid to let people in, to trust.” Her expression softens. “But you’re the first guy to ever really break through a lot of her defenses. That has to count for something.”

  Ivy holds up a hand. “Now, I’m not excusing how she handled things today because that was harsh—to put it lightly. But just... don’t give up on her yet.”

  I exhale a long, slow breath. “Okay.”