Not by the Playbook: A Fake Relationship Football Romance (Wrong Place, Right Time Book 1)

by Ivy Hunt

  When the doors open, she precedes me through the lobby out into the busy street and stalks to the intersection. I grab her hand and steer her left when she turns right. She tries to tug it away, but I hold on tight and only release her when we reach the café. The hostess seats us at a corner booth with a view of the streetand hands us thickly bound menus.

  I glance at mine, not really seeing anything. I always order the same thing. My voice low, I ask, “Do you really think I could?”

  “Could what?” All Becs’s focus is on the weekend specials.

  “You know. Do the whole sports commentator thing.” I mumble, flipping through the pages.

  Now it’s Rebecca who reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Of course, you can. I mean, you explained things to me, and I know nothing about football. You could do that professionally or even go into coaching.”

  Her index finger traces patterns along my tanned skin. My abs tighten even though I know her subconscious movements are meant to be comforting.

  “You can do whatever you want, okay?” She follows that with a snort. “And who cares if you don't have a plan now or ever. Like you said, you've got your pond of money to keep you afloat.”

  “It's a whole ocean, baby.” I wink. I capture her hand and bring her knuckles to my lips. Her eyes soften on me.

  There’s a flurry of activity behind us. Fuck. The paps are here. Generally, they leave me alone, but a woman with me during the day? Out of the norm. Becs is an unknown entity.

  Our waitress, Tammi with an I, comes over, hips swaying, for our orders. She leans down, low enough that her breasts are inches from my face. Rebecca scowls. I should tell her the waitress flirts with everyone, but it's kind of cute to see Becs get all territorial. Tammi attempts to take her menu, but Becs holds on to it tight. “I need more time.” The woman shrugs and leaves us to it.

  I smirk. “Down girl. I only have one girlfriend at a time, fake or otherwise.”

  Rebecca hits me with a fierce glare. “And don't you forget it. Fake boyfriend or not, I don't need you embarrassing me.”

  She’s serious, but so am I. I don’t cheat. Grabbing my phone out of my pocket, I stand then slide in on Rebecca’s side and haul her to me for a selfie.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaks, pulling away.

  I do a quick search on Instagram and tag Rebecca in the photo. “Committing.”

  Seconds later, her phone pings, announcing a new notification.

  “You didn’t.” She grabs it. I inspect her screen over her shoulder. The photo’s not bad. Rebecca’s eyes are wide, her mouth open. I know it’s an expression of shock, but I hope my fans will chalk it up to true devotion.

  Her head whips back to me. “People will figure out who I am.”

  “Isn't that the plan?” I reach over to stroke a lock of her hair behind her ear, but she bats me away.

  “The plan is to fake it for Jenna, not your seventy million followers!”

  “What can I say, baby? I'm all in. Besides, you were going to be outed anyway.” I nod at the other patrons around us.

  “Oh my God.” Her eyes dart around the place, the cameras trained our way becoming apparent.

  “When I say I'm in, I'm all in.” My phone continues to light up with likes.

  Rebecca’s lids shut and her head slumps back against the leatherette headrest.

  I’m trying very hard not to laugh, but it’s a challenge. “Want me to update my Facebook status, too?” I deadpan.

  She opens one evil eye on me. “You got any grandmas you have to warn off?” she snarks.

  There are more whispers and squeals around us. Becs braces her elbows on the table and buries her face in her hands. A small groan of resignation leaks through. “No going back now.”

  “Nope. There's no going back.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday

  LOGAN

  True to her word, Rebecca committed to the cause and stayed over last night after we picked up some necessities from her place. Necessities that included an arsenal of pencil skirts and slacks to wear around the apartment, even on the weekend. She’s not fooling Jenna, but if it makes her feel more confident, I’m not going to tell her otherwise.

  It’s Sunday evening, and Becs and I are sprawled out on the couches across from each other. I’m having a beer and watching the TV mounted behind her while she reads some kind of HR book. I’m not sure if she’s actually interested in the material, or if it’s another ploy.

  Becs and I have spent the whole weekend at home playing the domesticated couple. If someone told me a week ago I’d be happy staying in without the possibility of sex (well, there is some possibility, but I’m not pushing it) as opposed to going out with the guys and hooking up, I would have laughed my ass off.

  I actually look forward to having Jenna around because I love teasing Becs so much, and it gives me an excuse to touch her. To put my arm around her and draw her close. Every time I do that, I discover something new—the smell of her Chapstick, her small, slightly turned-up nose.

  The tiny mole at the corner of her mouth has become my homing beacon. I have this constant desire to lick that spot then drag my tongue to her lips and kiss her.

  This whole situation is fucking with my head. I’ve always been a one-and-done kind of guy, and it perplexes me that I’m dying for round two with Rebecca.

  My fingers rake through my hair. I sit up and turn the TV off then lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees to fix my eyes on her.

  She looks over the top of her book to meet my gaze and tilts her head. Even her glasses are driving me crazy.

  “Hey. You okay?” she asks.

  “Yep,” I grunt, continuing to stare.

  I know I’m making her uncomfortable when she starts to squirm, but I am objectively trying to understand what keeps drawing me to her. Somehow, the package that is Miss Rebecca Gerone is bigger than the sum of its parts.

  “Ummm…You sure?” She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

  “Yep.”

  I’m annoyed with myself for this introspection. I down the rest of my beer and slouch back. “You really have no hand-eye coordination?”

  She frowns, looking confused by this turn in the conversation. “Nope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Now it’s her turn to respond with a short, “Yep.”

  “How do you know?” I persist.

  She sighs and puts her book down. “I know because I probably hold the record for most incidents with a ball ever.”

  I snicker like a twelve-year-old and she rolls her eyes, “Not those balls.” Her hand comes up and she unfolds her fingers as she counts. “Softball to my temple, a tennis ball got me in the boob.”

  I wince at that.

  “Billiard ball against my arm, bowling ball almost, almost hit my foot. Missed it by an inch.”

  I look at her, stupefied. “How did the billiard ball work exactly?”

  “Well, when we were in high school, Carrie was practicing her eight-ball skills in the games room—wanted to impress some guy by making a fancy jump shot. She hit the ball a little too hard, and it hopped right off of the table. She shouted for me to duck, but I just stood there like a frozen idiot. Wore the bruise on my arm for a week. Surprised no one called Social Services on my parents.”

  My eyebrows lift higher and higher with each incident she details out.

  She finally finishes with, “As a result, I’ve become an expert at evading flying objects, unidentifiable or not.”

  I scoff and lean back. “No way. I still don’t believe you.”

  “Want to try it? I can dodge anything,” she challenges.

  “You’re on. What do I get if I win?” I ask.

  “What do you want?” Interest stirs in her eyes, and she sits up straight.

  I wonder what she’ll say if I ask for sex. “Got more of those short skirts?” I give her legs a lascivious look. She’s in tight yoga pants since Jenna is MIA.

  She
shakes her head. “Perv.”

  “Only for you, girlfriend dearest.”

  She snorts.

  “And you? What do you want?” I ask.

  “The glory of the win, of course. And I’ll take another one of those.” She points at the T-shirt I’m wearing, stamped with my number. I grin. Call me a caveman, but I’m not going to complain if she wants to build a collection of clothing with my name stamped on it.

  “You can just say you just want to see me naked, you know.” I give her a devious grin as I stealthily pick up the cushion on my side.

  I shoot it at her, but she’s ready and ducks it neatly. I fire three more in quick succession, and my girl neatly avoids those, too. I push up off the couch.

  “You coming for me?” she taunts.

  Oh God, yes, I want to be coming for you.

  There is a set of cork coasters on the table, and I pitch them her way, one at a time. Rebecca ducks again. I spin one of them on purpose, just to make her writhe on the sofa.

  “That all you got, QB?” She smirks.

  I throw the last coaster at her and she contorts with the skill of a newly-minted Cirque du Soleil performer. I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed.

  I need more ammo, but there’s nothing suitable handy. But then I grin evilly, and her sage-green eyes glint with suspicion. I grab the back of my T-shirt and drag it up over my head. Watching her eyes widen at the sight of my chest doesn’t get old.

  “For the win, then. Time for your prize.” I launch the shirt at her, but she must have been distracted because she ducks a second too late and hits her head on the side table.

  “Oh shit!” I leap over the coffee table to get to Becs.

  “You okay? Honey, where does it hurt?” I ask urgently as I scoop her off the floor and into my lap.

  She groans and rubs her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just winded.”

  I’m not convinced. “Let me see,” I order.

  Chapter Twelve

  BECS

  Tension lines take root between Logan’s brows as he carefully pushes my curls behind my ear and feels around for bumps. I can’t help but give him a lightheaded smile even though there is absolutely nothing wrong with me.

  “Logan, really, I’m fine.”

  He cradles my head in one hand, the other wraps around me so I am completely enveloped in all things Logan. His eyes are soft, serious, and his lips are so, so close. I ought to put some space between us. It’s not like there is anyone around, no Jenna to impress. But any rational decision-making skills deserted me days ago, and I don’t pull back. I can’t. Not when he is holding me like I’m something precious.

  Instead, I close my eyes and allow myself to reach for him and press my lips against his.

  All of a sudden, our mouths are fusing like they’ve been apart too long. I groan, and Logan’s teeth nip my lower lip, asking for entry.

  I comply with a moan, letting him in as my arms twirl around him. He jerks back at the sound. “Shit, you okay? Your head!” His voice is husky, even as his eyes blaze.

  Momentary sanity returns. Can I blame this on an injury that’s already dissipated?

  My palms cup his shoulders, intending to push him back, make more breathing room for myself. But my hands stroke up his shoulder and coil around his neck. “You’re like the best medicine. You kissed me all better.”

  Logan’s lips twitch, a sign he knows I’m fine. He lets out a low, sexy laugh. “Well, we can do more than just better.” He ducks down and kisses me again, and I’m toppling back on the couch. He follows, his hands landing on either side of my head.

  Blue eyes silently ask, Is this okay?

  I bring one hand to the back of his head and tug him down in answer, the other wraps around his heavily muscled back. His bare chest presses against the thin tank I’m wearing and my nipples scream for more of the searing friction.

  My fingers travel further south, almost to that delicious butt, and he groans. He shifts his weight to one side and slips a hand under my top.

  His warm fingers against my belly are like matches to my skin, and I all but go up in flames as I arch up for more. His hands roam up until his palm is cupping my breast through the lace of my bra, his thumb stroking across the taut crest.

  Soft lips travel down, nuzzling into my neck, finding my pulsing heartbeat, and he gives that spot a lick that sizzles through me all the way down between my legs. One of my limbs wraps around him and his pelvis presses heavily on me, his hardness apparent.

  The buzzer interrups—security is sending up a registered guest. We jump apart. Both of our eyes widen.

  Jenna.

  Like two little kids avoiding the teacher, he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, and rushes for his bedroom. The door slams behind us the same moment we hear the elevators open.

  We’re both wheezing, desperately trying to keep our laughter contained. He sets me down against the door, keeping his hands on my hips. Slowly the laughter subsides. The air between us shifts and the tension rises up again. Our lips find each other once more, and we kiss desperately. I groan.

  “Shh.” He spins us around until it’s his back to the door and walks us toward the bed. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I let myself topple back and he comes down over me, hovering on his forearms. Our eyes meet and hold.

  He props himself up on his elbow and deliberately sneaks his hand back under my top, there is no mistaking his intention now.

  Impatient, I creep my fingers under and pull the tank off entirely, giving him room to maneuver. His eyes meet mine again, and a sexy grin forms on his face before his attention drops back to my chest. His head follows and his lips meet my nipple through the delicate lace. He licks and I arch up, moaning for more. I bring the back of one hand to my mouth to stifle the sounds I can’t help but make while the other claws at the back of his neck.

  Blue eyes lift to mine, they are a hot brand on my skin. He gives me another lick, making my core clench, underscoring the hollow within me.

  His palm curves around my back and deft fingers unclasp my bra. He tugs it off, leaving nothing between my breast and his mouth. His tongue swirls around one hardened tip before tracing his way to the other crest and giving it the same treatment.

  His tongue maps a trail to my belly then down to my panties. He stops, his nose pressed against the gusset, and breathes in my sex, and groans, as if he is hungry for it. My already flaming skin scorches.

  I’m not prepared when his tongue swipes against that part of me. It’s like pinpricks in my toes that zap up to the ends of my hair.

  He tugs down the scrap of lace, and his nostrils flare. “I’ve wanted to fuck this pussy with my tongue all day.”

  He smiles when I gasp. It’s a slow curl of his lips, then he drops his head and licks me again before closing his lips around my nub. He sucks and gives me a gentle nip. And then he gets to work.

  My teeth sink into my bottom lip. It’s almost impossible to contain my whimpers. Shudders wrack my frame.

  Logan leans up, melding his lips against mine. I taste a mix of myself and him. I need more. I shove off his shorts and boxers. He leans over me, and seconds later, I hear the blessed, blessed sound of foil ripping. And then his hands grip my ass, arranging me to his liking. His cock, heavy and thick, throbs against my fluttering belly, before dragging down to my opening.

  He pushes, insistent for entry. He is big, bigger than I remember, and after a momentary tightness, he is inside me. Our moans sound in unison. He drives in all the way to the hilt, the tip of his cock brushing against my cervix. I gasp at the sensation.

  He growls, low in his chest. His features are raw, his jaw clenched tight as if this is too much, but not enough.

  He withdraws slowly and my pussy clenches, unwilling to release him. He slides out until only his tip is within me, then surges back in.

  “Baby, fuck. God, this is all I’ve been able to think about.”

  “Me, too.” I bury my face in his chest, his
heart thuds against my lips. Then he rakes his fingers through my hair and tugs my face back, as if he needs to see me.

  And for a second, he is seeing me.

  “Rebecca. Honey.” His voice is raw.

  My toes tingle.

  He groans and thrusts.

  “Logan, Oh God. Oh God.” I’m panting, sizzling, going up in flames.

  That’s all the permission he needs.

  “Becs. Becs.” His voice is rough against my skin as he pounds into me, as if he can’t get enough. I marvel at him. Muscles flexing with every thrust. I’m doing this to him. Me.

  His pounding is hard, harsh. Each thrust drives me into the bed. But it’s not enough. He wraps a hand around one of my ankles and pulls it up, over his shoulder, opening me wide to receive him.

  He drives into me with another groan. There’s a momentary stinging and then pressure. God, the pressure is so good. I feel so full.

  “Logan. Oh God. Logan.” I’m babbling. I can’t help it.

  “Come on. Yes, just like that.”

  Twinges of pleasure spike through me.

  “God your pussy is so sweet. So tight.”

  His balls slap against my ass, the lewd sound only making me hotter. He drives me into a frenzy, but when I’m hovering over the tip, the bastard slows. Each drag of his cock. In and out. I wrap my legs around his hips and haul him back. He groans, and I thrust up against him. I need more. I need this to go on forever, but I can’t take one more minute. This delicate balance, this tightrope of ecstasy. And then it happens. I shriek. Right this moment, the whole building can hear me, and I’m happy for them to listen.

  “Honey. I’m coming. Oh shit.” He roars, and I feel him swell inside me and release.

  We lie there, side by side. My skin is buzzing, little aftershocks running through me. Logan takes my hand. I’m too tired to do more than curl my fingers into his. And now right this moment, it is enough. I am enough.

  Chapter Thirteen