by Ryli Jordan
I give her a long a sensual glare at her body, showing her how much I appreciate a well-endowed woman. I bite my lip and grunt. She smiles and looks away embarrassed and pull away from the curb a little too fast. I probably should have picked her up a little earlier, and now we were going to have to push it if we wanted to be to the hospital on time. Not that they wouldn't wait for me, of course, but I knew PR would chew me out if they found out I was late, even if the reason I was late was because they scheduled things so damn early in the morning and required me to pick up their press agent.
“Ben, slow down!” Marissa cries as we fly around a corner.
I smile. “Relax,” I tell her. “I've been driving this car—well, a version of this car, anyway—for years now, ever since I made it big. I know exactly what she can handle.”
I spun the wheel to the left, and I could hear her gasp. “Ben, I'm serious,” she said, and when I glanced over, she was white-knuckling the door handle, looking practically petrified. “Ben, Jesus Christ, pull over! Now!”
Marissa looks pale enough that I actually think she might be sick, and I grimace—she's not about to get sick in my beautiful car! So I pull over, like she asks.
But she doesn't move to open the door like I expect. Instead, she scowls over at me. “Think for a moment, would you?” she snaps. “I get that you don't give a damn about other people, and I'm sure that it doesn't bother you at all that you're terrifying me, or that you could kill someone, driving like that. I mean, what if someone had been jaywalking at one of those crossings, or-”
I snort out a laugh. “You sound like such a mom right now,” I interrupt her. “Look, I didn't hit anyone, did I? And never, in the eleven years that I've had my license and driven like this, have I hit anyone. Chill out.”
“But you could,” Marissa persists. “Anyway, can you imagine what a PR nightmare it would be if you so much as got a speeding ticket? It would totally negate this whole children's hospital thing that we're going to—and don't try and tell me that you don't know your contract is up for debate at the moment. You don't want to give the franchise a reason to trade you, do you? Because reckless behavior at bars is one thing, but reckless behavior while driving is another thing entirely...”
“Now you sound like my agent,” I mutter, even though secretly, I'm enjoying hearing her voice. The girl I ran into in the hallway at work seemed so shy—but I guess if you get her going about something that she cares about, she can talk your ear off. I file that away.
I also can't help but smile a little because I really like that she isn't falling for my macho act. I like that she makes me work for it—it's a refreshing change. I smoothly rub my hand on her knee, my feeble attempt to get her to relax.
“Ben,” Marissa says again, warningly.
“All right, all right,” I say, giving an exasperated sigh. “I promise I'll be a good boy and obey all the traffic laws. But we're going to be late.”
“Then you'd better get driving,” Marissa says simply.
We're late, but not too bad—easy enough to just say that there was a bit of traffic along the way and leave it at that. Which of course is what Marissa does; I don't make apologies, but I guess as a press agent, she kind of has to; that's her job.
The kids are all over me from pretty much the moment I walk in the door, so I don't really have that much time to think about her. Instead, I'm signing autographs and taking selfies with the kids, and okay, I may put on the macho act, but I really enjoy being around the kids and doing things like this. Not that I'd ever admit it to PR because they'd have me in for one of these every day of the week if they could.
But yeah, the kids are always great, and it's just kind of nice to think that they really focus on my playing. They don't care about the spring break debacles or the lack of points this season or anything like that. They just think I'm awesome. It's a good feeling to have.
It doesn't hurt that I can feel Marissa's eyes on me the whole time, tracking every move that I make—and I like that feeling too. The more I'm around her, the more I can tell that she's the kind of girl who's actually looking for a nice guy. Although my bad boy act really gets a lot of girls going (and I'm sure Marissa's no exception to that), she wants to know that I'm not going to be a jerk to her.
I can show her the nice guy face, if that's what she wants to see. I'm going to bed her, I've decided, no matter what it takes.
Thinking about this, I turn towards her and flash her a smile.
“Who is she?” one of the kids asks. “Is that your girlfriend?”
I laugh a little and shake my head. “No, she's just a friend,” I tell the boy—Jake. “She works for the team, and she wanted to come meet all you guys today too.” I look around at all the excited kids around me. “How many of you guys want to work with the Chicago Kings when you grow up?”
Practically everyone raises their hands, of course, and after that, the kids all have questions for her and we get Marissa in a bunch of the selfies as well. She's giggling and grinning by the end, and I consider that to be a great success.
Chapter Five — Marissa
I don't know what I expected from Ben's event at the children's hospital. Of course, even if he was a bit of an arrogant ass the rest of the time, he'd turn on the charm for these kids who were so excited to see their hero in real life.
It was sweet, though, watching him interact with the kids and take selfies and everything else. And I can't help but laugh at the way he gets me included in a bunch of the pictures—even though every time I think about seeing Ben at work, specifically when I'd seen him buck naked at work, I can't help but blush a little. I'm sure that shows up in all the photos, and I can only hope everyone just thinks I'm a bit shy.
As we're finally walking back out to the parking lot, Ben glances over at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
I think intently. Now that he mentions it, I realize I'm actually starving—no surprise, really, since it's one in the afternoon and I hadn't really eaten breakfast due to my jitters about my first real project for the Chicago Kings. Granted, it was just meant to be a small piece for their website, but still. It would have my name attached to it and everything, and that was big.
“Yeah, I could eat,” I say cautiously, not wanting to appear too… I didn't even know what. Weirdly enthusiastic? We were just two coworkers going to get lunch together.
“I'm fucking starving,” Ben groans, echoing my actual thoughts. “Honestly, I don't even know if I can make it across town without food in me, but there's this great little barbecue dive not that far from your apartment that I hardly ever have an excuse to go out to.” He glances over at me. “But let me guess, you're, like, a vegetarian or something—or you're one of those girls who somehow just 'doesn't like' meat, as though that were actually a thing.”
I roll my eyes. “Ben, remember that I work for the Chicago Kings,” I say. “I'm not one of those stick figures that you pick up at bars. I do actually eat, and I do actually eat meat.”
“Okay, okay,” Ben says, holding up both hands, but I can see the smile around the edges of his mouth. “I just wanted to check. But seriously, this place does really good barbecue. Although you probably already know that since you live right near it—it's called Hotter than Hades; you ever been there?”
I frown and shake my head. “Honestly, I don't even think I've heard of it,” I admit. “I just moved to the area not too long ago; before that, I was living out near the college. But I wanted something with a little less of a commute to get to the stadium.”
“Oh man,” Ben says. “Well, just wait—you're going to love it.” He looks actually happy, too, not the fake happy look that he gets when he's talking to reporters. I almost want to ask him if we're off the record at the moment, because this Ben is the type of man I actually want to be writing a story about.
Hey, maybe that's an idea to pitch to Mark: a series of snippets about Ben's daily life and what he does when he's off the field (other than banging a bunch of rando
m floozies). I could really see that taking off with his younger, female groupies, and it wouldn't be too difficult to imagine what they would be interested in, given that…
...well, I was kind of developing a bit of a crush on him. Once you got past that cocky, obnoxious exterior, I had a feeling he might actually be a good guy.
“So, Marissa,” Ben drawls, glancing over at me—but he's still driving far more carefully than he had at first that morning. “What do you do when you're not hanging around with the Chicago Kings?”
I shrug a little. “I guess just the usual,” I tell him. “Watch some TV. Hang out with friends. I've been on kind of a baking kick lately. I made some chocolate-maple cookies yesterday that didn't turn out half bad.”
Ben groans. “I'd kill for a cookie,” he admits. “Totally not part of my diet plan. Barbecue is bad enough, but at least I can get on the treadmill and work that off later. But a cookie? Oh no. The trainers would kill me.”
“It must be tough, being the star quarterback,” I say. When I see the way he starts to defend himself, I quickly shake my head. “No, I mean that—I'm being serious! It must be really tough. I've never done anything even remotely comparable so I don't really know what all you go through—I mean, I can guess at a lot of it because I've read all about you and your daily routine and everything—at least, everything that's been published by the press, although I'm sure it's not all...entirely accurate, and-”
“You're babbling again,” Ben points out, grinning at me.
I snap my mouth shut with an audible click. “Sorry about that,” I say after a moment of silence. “It's a bad habit that I'm trying to break.”
“It's kind of cute,” Ben says, and oh my god, did Ben Price just tell me that my babbling was cute?
I furiously cast around for something else to say, trying to ignore how hot my cheeks feel at the moment. “What about you, though?” I finally manage to ask. “What does the famous Ben Price get up to—besides the things that we all already know about?”
Ben frowns and drums his fingers a little against the steering wheel. “I mean, I guess you kind of already know everything about me,” he says. “I train with the team. We have away games pretty often when we're in season. When we're in the offseason, I still keep training. I hang out with the guys. Hit up the pool. Just...stuff.”
“Wow, we're both really interesting,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes a little—and that gets a laugh out of Ben. I'm pretty proud of being able to do that…
We arrive at the barbecue place and head inside, and Ben is quick to lead us to a table at the back, almost before the hostess can greet us. “I get used to having to do that,” he explains to me as he slides into the booth. “You never know when the paparazzi are going to decide that something mundane is going to make one hell of a story, and me out to lunch with some chick—remember that no one knows who you are—is the perfect scoop for them.”
I scowl a little. “I wouldn't say no one knows who I am,” I say. “I did a few internships when I was in college. My name is out there—how do you think I landed a job with the Kings, after all?”
Ben, to my surprise, winces a little. “Right, sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” he says, and I actually kind of believe him. “I just mean that, it looks like I'm having a lunch with some girl. The paparazzi will spin that however they want to—probably in an unfavorable light, since it's me that we're talking about.”
“They're not all out to get you,” I say, looking down at my menu because I don't really have the guts to say this kind of stuff while looking in his eyes. “What I mean is, you kind of bring it upon yourself.”
Ben groans and opens his menu as well, pretending to hide behind it. “You're sounding like my agent again!” he cries, but when he pulls the menu away from his face, he's laughing again. “Come on, let's get a round of ribs and some wings and maybe some fries and see where that takes us. All on me, sweet legs.” He winks and I start blushing again at his forwardness.
Chapter Six — Ben
I know it's a little bold to be out in public with Marissa like this, but that's part of why I've chosen a restaurant near her apartment. If anyone asks, I'll say it was just a simple lunch between coworkers after we finished up at the hospital—nothing big. But I'm treating it like it's a first date.
In light of that, I make sure I'm on my best behavior throughout the afternoon, and I can practically see her spreading her legs wider and wider as the meal goes on.
So when we arrive back at her apartment, of course I walk her to the door of her apartment on the third floor.
Marissa laughs at me. “Seriously, Ben, you didn't have to walk me up here,” she says, leaning against the door. “I know it's kind of a sketchy part of the city, but I really don't think I'm going to get murdered on the stairwell—maybe on the front stoop in the middle of the night, but not in the middle of the day in the stairwell.”
“Well, better safe than sorry,” I tell her, smiling at her in a way that I know makes women swoon. “You going to invite me in?”
Marissa's face clouds suddenly and then she shakes her head. “Trust me, you don't want to come in,” she tells me. “The place is kind of a wreck at the moment—I really need to do some laundry and just in general kind of straighten things out a little. But maybe some other time.”
“Oh come on,” I say. “I'm sure it's not that bad. Anyway, we've been having a good time this afternoon, right? So what's say we continue that good time in the privacy of your apartment?”
But Marissa's face becomes even more closed off at that, and she's shaking her head before I've even finished speaking. “I had a great time, Ben, don't get me wrong,” she tells me. “But not this time, okay?”
I can't help rolling my eyes at that, not sure what the hell is going on in the woman's brain at the moment. I've done everything right—I hung out with the kids, I got her laughing, I took her out for lunch, and I got her to open up to me a little about who she was outside of the office. I thought we were really “forming a connection” or whatever it was that women were looking for on a date.
So the logical conclusion of the afternoon, as far as I was concerned, was that we would go into her apartment and she would let me fuck her hard into the bed. That was the way things always went.
I reach out to tuck a lock of hair back behind Marissa's ear, wondering if maybe a little physical persuasion might do the trick. Slowly, I lean in and claim her lips. Even though I want to push her a little, to force the kiss and to slip my tongue inside of her mouth, I hold back, keeping the kiss sweet and gentle, trying to keep up the nice boy act.
To my surprise, Marissa slaps me across the face.
“I said no, Ben,” she says, her voice frosty with tightly-controlled anger. And although I expected her to be practically oozing with joy after a kiss from me, I can see only frustration in the pinched corners of her lips. “Goodbye.”
Without a backwards glance, she opens the door to her apartment and slams it behind her.
To be honest, it's one of the sexiest moments of my life right there. I was so sure this was actually going to happen, and to have her take it away from me, just like that… Wow.
But also, what the hell. Quite frankly, I'm a bit dumbfounded about the whole thing because I really did think it was a sure thing from the way Marissa was acting at the barbecue place and on the drive back to her place. And I know I could have a dozen dumb bitches at the snap of a finger, so who the fuck does she think she is anyway?
I'm not about to give up, though.
The next morning, I show up at her office with a dozen crisp red roses to hand. She looks a bit worried when she looks up and sees that it's me who knocked on the door, and she quickly stands up to shut the door behind me—presumably so that no one sees. I wonder if she realizes that she just made things look even more suspicious, since now we're shut off in private, alone, together. But I don't say anything about that.
“Look, Marissa,” I say, holding out the f
lowers to her. “I really wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday afternoon. I know you said you weren't interested, and I really shouldn't have pushed you. I just couldn't help myself—all I'd been thinking about all day, from the time that I picked you up, was how much I wanted to kiss you.”
Marissa looked like she didn't know whether to be frustrated or pleased by that, and I took that as a good sign: at least she wasn't angry with me.
“You're a really nice woman, Marissa,” I tell her, playing on her sympathies. “And honestly, that's a bit terrifying for a guy like me—I'm so used to having women just throw themselves at me that I really don't know how to treat a nice girl like you. I was trying really hard yesterday to be on my best behavior, but… Well, I screwed up. I'd like to make it up to you.”
“That's not necessary,” Marissa says, but she accepts the roses, looking almost bashful. I have a feeling that somehow, it's her first time ever getting a dozen roses from a guy, and I'm kind of proud to have done that.
“No, seriously,” I say. “Let me take you on a date—a proper date. We'll go out for dinner on Friday night and-”
“No,” Marissa says firmly, before I can even finish outlining what I have in mind—and I'm a bit frustrated at that, because I actually spent a decent amount of time calling around that morning to get us a reservation at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city.
“You can't say no if you don't even know what I'm offering,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I can,” she says. “Ben, do you realize what would happen if the franchise found out that we were dating? Mark would fire me in a second—even if I'd been here for years and had turned in a dozen really successful pieces, he'd still have me out of here. He warned me that before I even made it down to HR my first day.”
“Aww, come on, Marissa,” I say. “Rules are meant to be broken. Going out to dinner isn't a big deal; people do that all the time around here.”