Dirty Player

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  “That’s what your sist—” He cuts off, acting like he just caught himself before crossing the unspoken line regarding Nat, when we both know it was just another jab, trying to get me to react. Vent off some steam. But it’s not working. I’m still thinking about the clip someone dug up from an entertainment site interview with Rylan a few months back where he admits to a longstanding crush on Julia. The guy’s making a play for her because he doesn’t even know she’s taken.

  I fucking hate it.

  I finish getting dressed, cranking my laces tight and pulling on my pads and jersey. I tape my stick, telling myself it’s time to leave this shit with Julia behind.

  Only, it’s still with me when I step onto the ice to warm up, and when I blow around the rink, pushing fast and hard beneath the swirling spotlights and blaring music. It’s with me as I fire puck after puck into the net.

  Rux sees it too.

  The game’s about to start, and he cuts me a look devoid of any humor. “Whatever it is, man, let it go and get your head in the game.”

  “I know.” Head in the game. I fucking know.

  15

  Julia

  I’M WORKING LATE with the rest of the crew, doing my best not to look up the Slayers game every five seconds when I’m supposed to be preparing to cover my own game this week. I’ve already watched two of the home team’s last games and have a third queued up, but my head isn’t in it. I’m rewinding the footage again when I look over the wall of my cube and see Darnell and Izzy watching the Slayers game. They don’t cover hockey, so this is just for fun. Their hands are up as they rock back in their seats amid a flurry of hoots and laughs.

  I call to Darnell, “Who you talking about?”

  He angles his head my way but keeps his eyes on the game. “Slayers. Baxter’s got some shit going on.”

  My stomach lurches, and I have to draw on all my calm to not give anything away. “He’s starting fights?”

  Darnell scoffs. “Nah. He’s running his mouth, but he’s too smart to throw the first punch.”

  Izzy laughs, shaking his head. “He’s sure as shit finishing them, though.”

  I circle around to Izzy’s cube, planning to only watch a few minutes. But then I’m pulling up a chair and accepting a bottle of water from Izzy’s drawer as Greg skates over to the penalty box for the third time.

  Guilt gnaws at me as I watch him pull off his helmet and glare out at the ice, eyes hard, aggression visible with every breath.

  This is my fault. I put my career before everything else, and now his career is taking a hit because of it.

  The fighting stops midway through the second period, and Greg makes up for it by scoring two points in the third for the win, but I still feel sick with guilt.

  I text him after the game to ask if I can come by. I only need to hold my breath for a few seconds.

  Greg: My place. Be waiting for me.

  I’m getting a glass of water when the door opens and slams shut from the front entry.

  “Greg?”

  I don’t even make it out of the kitchen before he’s there, filling up the arched doorway with his broad shoulders and powerful arms.

  His eyes lock with mine, and he loses his jacket, leaving him in a pair of expertly cut suit pants, a hand-stitched shirt, and an aqua tie that some personal shopper matched to his eyes. His shirt pulls across the bulk of his chest with every breath and stretches over the flexing mass of his biceps. He’s gorgeous and vibrating with the kind of intensity that is both exciting and intimidating all at once.

  “I saw your game.”

  “I saw Mike’s interview.” Greg’s jaw flexes, and I swear the bulk of his upper body gets even bigger.

  “I didn’t know that was out there, but it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, we’ll make our statements and it’ll be over.”

  Greg’s nostrils flare, and he crosses the kitchen in less than three strides. His big hands close around my waist, and before I can do more than let out a yelp of surprise, he’s got me lifted onto the polished steel island.

  “I don’t want to talk about him.” His hands move over my hips and up my waist, his thumbs brushing my nipples through the Slayers T-shirt I took from his drawer.

  The contact has my breath hitching and my body warming in anticipation.

  I slide my fingers into the dark strands of his hair, but Greg shakes them off and takes my wrists in each hand to press them back on the countertop at either side of me.

  Leveling me with a hard look, he says, “We need to talk.”

  “Greg,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I know there’s been a lot to deal with lately. And now this thing with—”

  “Are we together?” The question lands heavily between us. No teasing. Nothing playful in his tone.

  “Yes.” He knows that, but he’s still asking. The most unrelentingly confident man I’ve ever met needs to hear me say it. “We’re together. Absolutely.”

  His hands find mine on the counter beside me, giving them the slightest press. A reminder not to move.

  He wants control.

  My eyes connect with his, and my breath catches at the dark heat I find in them.

  It makes my heart skip a beat, and suddenly my nerves are tangling up with the need I feel every time we’re together.

  “Here’s the thing, Julia. It’s driving me fucking crazy that no one knows it but me. That outside these walls, what we have doesn’t exist.”

  “That’s not true. Greg, please.”

  “‘Please’ is a good start.” The corner of his mouth curves, but it’s not the same mischievous smile he’s so famous for. It’s something darker, and it calls to a part of me I didn’t even know was there.

  “I’m going to need to hear you say that a few times tonight.”

  “I’ll say it as many times as you want to hear it.”

  He takes the hem of my shirt and pushes it up, so the soft fabric bunches above my breasts. Then, dragging his knuckle across the low-cut lace edging of my bra, he nods. “Yes, you will.”

  Again, there’s that edge to his tone, and my body responds with a needy pang.

  Slipping a finger into the cup of my bra, he teases my nipple, brushing back and forth until it’s hard and aching.

  “Please, Greg.”

  He looks up from where he’s playing with me. A half smile on his lips.

  “That sounds like a pity please, Jules. I want the real ones.”

  He slips another finger into the cup, catching my nipple between them with a firm hold. My breath catches, and liquid heat spills through my center as my hips begin to move.

  He plays with me like that, his hot gaze shifting from my eyes to my mouth to where his skilled fingers are driving me wild. When he’s had enough, his hands skim lower, over my belly and down to my stretchy yoga pants.

  A nudge, and I raise my hips for him to pull them off my legs, leaving me in my panties, the bra that’s barely covering me, and the shirt bunched above. I might have felt exposed like this, maybe silly sitting on the counter like an item on display, but the way Greg is looking at me leaves me burning hot.

  “Pull down your bra, and touch yourself like I am.” He squeezes my nipple tighter, giving it a tug as I reach for the other cup, my fingers trembling. I do as he says, too excited to do anything but comply. Eagerly. The men I’ve dated before would never talk to me like this. I wouldn’t want them to. But with Greg, I hope there’s more he wants from me, because I love giving it to him.

  He gives my nipple another tweak, harder than before, and need, sharp and pointed, spears through me. Before I can even think, the plea spills past my lips. “Greg, please.”

  Another one of those darkly satisfied smiles as his eyes hold with mine. “That’s more like it.”

  I pinch and pull, mimicking his touch as best I can, turned on beyond belief by the idea that what I’m doing pleases him.

  He pulls me closer to the edge of the counter and, standing between my legs, leans in to kiss me. I’m
expecting something on the rougher side to match the way he’s playing with my breasts, but it’s soft. More about the teasing slide of his lips against mine than the crush of possession. This claim is seductive and slow, and it makes me want to beg for more. To beg him to take. To beg him to let me give him everything, all that I have.

  When his tongue slips past my lips, a shudder tears through me, and I moan around the taste of him.

  My legs are open, my knees clutching at his sides as we work my nipples to the point where pleasure crests inside me with every pull, pinch, twist, and tug. All the while he’s totally in control, thrusting deep into my mouth, taking my escalating need and building it higher.

  When he pulls back, I try to follow him.

  “Greg.” I run my tongue over my sensitive lips, aching for more. “Please.”

  He smiles against my lips. “Now you’re just spoiling me.”

  Then he’s brushing my hand aside so he has control of both breasts. Cupping them together in his big hands, he bows his head so his hair dusts across my chest as he licks from one tender mound to the other. Drawing the straining bud into the warmth of his mouth, he sucks hard.

  “Greg, please! Please!”

  I’m met with a low growl and the tightening of his grip.

  My hands are in his hair, the dark strands spilling out from between my trembling fingers. It’s erotic and emotional and overwhelming in all the ways I associate with this man.

  Releasing his hold on my breasts, he runs his hands blissfully lower. I’m aching, and even though he’s standing between my legs, I need more. I want him to grab my ass and haul me against his straining fly. I want him to rock into the needy spot between my legs and take me so hard on the countertop that I won’t even be able to look at it again without coming.

  “Julia,” he growls against my neck, his fingers tracing the lace edging of my panties from the sides, down the front of the leg holes, to where they’re soaked between us. “Tell me you’re my girl.”

  I’m barely able to form the words. “I’m your girl.”

  His thumb slides beneath the slick panel, barely grazing my folds as he pulls away from the heat of my pussy. Cool air teases the overheated skin, and I moan.

  “Wider, Jules.”

  My heart skips, and I do as he asks to make room for him.

  Then he’s got both hands wrapped in that panel, pulling it tight around my hips and through the back, making me aware of what he’s about to do.

  He meets my eyes and I give him what he’s waiting for.

  “Please.”

  The fabric shreds within his grasp, and my inner muscles clench with anticipation.

  He’s standing in front of me still fully dressed, his shirt open a single button at his neck, but otherwise tucked in beneath his belt and suit pants. My rugged gentleman.

  I’ve never seen anything so sexy in all my life.

  He steps back, and I imagine he’s about to start to strip. Instead he runs his hand over the hard bulge of his cock, moving up and down the length in a slow, firm stroke that has me squirming where I sit. His eyes are fixed between my legs where my panties hang in shreds, leaving me open and exposed to him.

  With any other man, I’d be shy, embarrassed. Trying to cover up. But with Greg, I’m starved for his eyes on me.

  “Tell me what you want, Jules.”

  I love the way he’s always saying my name. No baby or babe or sexy or any other pet name as interchangeable as the women he’s used it with before. Like he doesn’t ever forget that he’s with me. Julia. His Jules.

  I follow the movement of his hand and imagine him sliding into me. “I want you inside me.”

  “That all? Just me pushing up inside you nice and slow and gentle? That’s what you want?”

  He knows as well as I do it isn’t. When I shake my head, he demands, “Then what? Tell me. I want to hear the words from that pretty mouth.”

  He’s gripping his shaft through his pants now, the fine fabric outlining how long and thick he is.

  I lick my lips. I need it.

  “I want it hard. I want you to… fuck me. I want you to make me feel it. Everywhere.”

  His hand stops moving, and I blink up to his eyes. I’ve never seen them so dark. So hot.

  He steps back into the space between my legs, pushing the scrap of my panties aside to brush his thumb up the length of my sex.

  When he gets to the top, he rubs my slickness around and around in slow circles until I’m shaking, jerking into the contact, giving up one “please” after another in a steady desperate stream.

  “You know what I want?”

  I shake my head. “Tell me.”

  Make it as dirty as possible.

  “I want Mike fucking Rylan to stop telling the world how into you he is.”

  I gasp, my eyes shooting to his. His fingers haven’t stopped playing with me, the contact only intensifying.

  “I want you to tell him to back off because you have a boyfriend.” He’s dragging me closer and closer to the edge with his touch. Making me fight off my pleasure as I struggle with the words that are breaking my heart.

  “Greg,” I start.

  “I want to go online and see the picture someone caught of us. I want the look in your eyes to have been exactly what it appears to be.” He slides a finger into me, long and thick, pulls out, and then pushes back in with two. “I want to see a poll guessing how many months we’ve managed to keep our affair a secret, and not one showing that ninety-three fucking percent of those asked think you and Mike would make a perfect couple.”

  “Greg, please.”

  He shakes his head, giving me a stern look as his fingers flex and spread inside me, stroking over that spot that makes me crazy.

  I can’t let him make me come like this. I can’t find release in all the ways I’ve hurt him.

  “I don’t want to give you what you want, because not having what I want is fucking killing me.” He strokes into me one last time, pushing me to the very edge of coming, but then somehow holds me back from tipping over.

  He pulls his hands from between my legs and brings his fingers to his mouth to suck. God.

  “You’re so fucking sweet, Jules.”

  Then his hands are going to his belt and he’s undoing his fly. I’m teetering on the brink of release, but all that matters to me is how my choices have affected this man.

  “Greg—”

  “Tell me you’re mine. Even if no one else knows, I want to hear it.”

  “I am.”

  “Tell me your heart is mine.”

  “It is.” More than I can admit.

  “Your body.”

  Completely. “Yes.”

  His cock is out, pulsing an angry red as he rolls on a condom from his wallet. He lines up with my opening and grits his teeth. “This.”

  “Yes.”

  He pushes inside, and I cry out, contracting around him as he stretches me wide.

  “Greg!”

  “When you come, it’s mine.”

  I’m nodding, but it’s not enough. Not what he wants. “Say it,” he demands, shoving inside me until he bottoms out and I cry, “Yes!”

  “Christ, Julia, I’m fucking insane. I know that if I wait, eventually it’s going to work itself out. I know that I’m throwing a tantrum, and it’s not fair, and I’m jealous, and it’s bullshit. But after seeing your name with that other guy, knowing that he fully intends to try and win you… because he doesn’t even know about me, I need to hear you begging for me, coming apart with my name on your lips, because no one else makes you feel the way I do. Because you belong to me.”

  He’s shafting inside me, full length. Thrusting so deep, he meets the edge of all I can take.

  He’s giving me everything. Everything.

  “You’re mine, Julia.”

  “Yes!”

  Our eyes lock, and he can see it’s true. He knows it as surely as I do.

  His movements become faster, his muscles tensing
, until my name rips past his lips as he comes.

  We’re quiet and still. Just the sounds of our breathing filling the silence around us.

  Brow pressed against my chest, he says, “That’s good. Because I’m yours.”

  16

  Julia

  HEAVY TRAVEL IS part of the gig, for both of us. Minimum, I’m gone three days a week. And for the most part, I love it. Just not so much right now. The Slayers had a seven-night road trip, and the day Greg got home, my flight out left thirty minutes before they touched down. We’ve been talking and texting, but it’s not the same as touching. Sharing the same space and breathing the same air. Being able to reach out and press my hand against his chest just so I can feel his heartbeat.

  I’m tucked into the wingback by the window in my generic hotel room, my laptop open with my notes from talking with the Raiders players and coaches this afternoon. My phone is resting in my lap, my headphones plugged in for our video call.

  “Rux is probably going to miss a game,” Greg says from the tiny window. “But the team doc doesn’t think it’ll be more than one.”

  “I’m glad it isn’t worse. That hit was brutal.”

  He nods, and even through the phone I can see how his eyes harden. He’s pissed about his friend being out for a game from a cheap shot thrown by a guy on the other team. It actually hurts to see him upset like this and know that I can’t go to him. I won’t be able to wrap my arms around him or sift my fingers through the overgrown waves of his hair for another few days.

  “I miss you.” It’s like an ache in my heart that’s only getting worse with every day that passes. And as much as I look forward to the texts, phone and video calls, I hurt even more after saying goodbye.

  “I miss you too. Like you wouldn’t believe.” He looks around to make sure he’s alone, then leans closer to the screen. “I actually looked up flights last night. Thinking I could get there and get back before the next practice.”

  “So what happened? Airfare too steep for the cool fifteen mil they’re paying you?”

  He laughs, shaking his head.