Something Real (Atlanta Outlaws)

by Aja Cole

  "Goddamn." He breathes, shaking his head. "I want to taste you just as badly as I want to fuck you."

  "Pick one," I gasp out, impatient and already so damn turned on from imagining all the trouble we could get into all night.

  "No condom," he growls, dropping to his knees, and the goody two shoes in me is completely shocked. It's like I'm watching myself from above, wondering what the hell I'm doing and if I've lost the good sense that God gave me.

  It looks like I have because I slap duct tape over the mouth of my conscience and all thoughts flee from my mind when Dylan licks his way up my slit.

  "Fuckkkk," I moan, slapping a hand over my mouth when I remember that we're in public. That only makes it hotter, and I grind against his mouth, shivering and squeezing my thighs around his head when he seals his lips over my clit, suckling as he lightly tongues it. My walls are rippling and squeezing, feeling betrayed by how empty I am, and like clockwork - he thrusts his fingers into me in a rhythm that's only matched by the pounding of the music that we can still hear.

  In no time, I buckle against him, my fingers digging into his hair while I bite the hell out of my hand to keep quiet.

  He pulls his face and fingers away, looking up at me as he cleans off his hand with that talented tongue and I swear I orgasm all over again watching him. He presses me against the wall, sharing my taste with me in a deep kiss, his very noticeable erection pinning my hips.

  "Missed that taste." He whispers in my ear and I hiss, astounded that I could still want someone so badly. I've never wanted someone this way, with this kind of intensity, and I want to run away from it as much as I want to hold onto it and never let go.

  "Dylan? Is that you?" Someone discovering us should be enough to dampen my libido, but it's not. I don't even move away, and I keep my hands where they are on Dylan's lower back, my thumbs stroking the ridges above his ass.

  "Go away," He snaps, and I can see how tortured his face is in the dim light. I can feel it too, obviously.

  "No can do, Bronco is about two steps away from beating a kid's ass for touching his girl, and you're good at defusing him."

  Dropping his forehead to mine in defeat, Dylan curses and I let a smile curl on my lips.

  "Thanks for the orgasm." I say quietly, pressing my lips to his. "Sorry I didn't get to return the favor." I go ahead of him with much more steadiness than I'm actually feeling, and I can't help that feel that by not fucking, I've done myself a favor.

  I don't think it's possible to play this game and not lose.

  7

  Dylan

  "You're a damned hockey player, shouldn't this photoshoot involve ice or parkas or something?" Shayla grumbles next to me, clutching the terrycloth robe she's wearing as close as she can get it.

  It's been a few days since that night at the club, and we haven't talked about it at all. She's still dismissing us being anything but silent roommates, and half the time, I only know she's at home because her car is here.

  What am I gonna do? Beg her to talk to me? Hell no.

  If she wants to play it this way, then I'll play it this way. It just makes torturing her a helluva lot more fun than I anticipated.

  No matter how much of an ice queen she tries to pretend that she is, I know how hot she gets. I've seen it and I've felt it, and there's not a single part of me that doesn't believe that she wants me just as much as I want her.

  I don't like to lose, and I'm just biding my time until she realizes that.

  "We do plenty of those shoots for spreads. This shoot isn't about my game...not my game on the ice, at least."

  "What other game is there?" She asks, finally turning away from watching them set up. When she sees the suggestive look on my face, she rolls her eyes. "Oh. Right."

  I walk behind her, leaning to her ear. "Don't pretend like you're not fully aware of what I'm working with, baby." Pure male satisfaction runs through me when I hear the small gasp she makes.

  She better get ready, because I'm just getting started.

  "Hell yeah, we're definitely keeping that one," I whistle when Shayla walks over to me in her last outfit change of the day, and if looks could kill - I'd be keeled over in the pool right now with all of the daggers she's been shooting my way all day.

  There's just something so damn satisfying about knowing I'm under her skin.

  She's definitely under mine, and I've accepted it.

  My needling wouldn't bother her so much if she was completely unaffected and I've been enjoying every little bit of our interactions during this shoot.

  Mostly because I get to have my hands all over her.

  The bikini they have her in now is a gorgeous yellow that warms the tone of her brown skin even more than it already is with the highlighting and oil. It's not even the most provocative one, but it's the one that's calling to me the most. The bikini bottom has scalloped edges that lay against her plump ass, and the same edges follow the curves of her breasts.

  "Come sit on Daddy's lap, baby." I laugh when she gives a frustrated growl, stomping the last few steps to me. To anyone on the outside looking in, it just looks like I enjoy getting on her nerves.

  Which I definitely do, but they don't know that I'm using this opportunity to touch her in all the ways that she doesn't let me when someone isn't around. If she really let me know that she didn't want me touching her intimately, I would respect her wishes. I've never forced my attention on a woman that didn't want it, and I'm not going to start now.

  Shayla won't let herself let her guard down with me unless it's because of the agreement, and I've decided that our rules don't work for me anymore.

  Now I just have to get her to admit it, too.

  Taking the direction the photographer gives us for the pictures he wants, I decide it's a good time to let her in on my new agenda.

  She's lying on top of me, between my legs with her hands folded on my chest and her chin propped up on them. I skirt my fingers down her back, teasing her skin just barely and drawing mindless circles on the sides of her hips.

  "You can say you want me, you know," I make sure the words are just for her ears.

  "Why would I do that?" She raises darkly lined brown eyes to mine and despite her bravado, her eyes spark and I can feel the deep breath she takes whenever I start to circle my fingers on her exposed skin.

  "Just say the words, and I'll give you what we both want."

  "You'll have to explain, I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

  Damn if her refusal to acknowledge what we both know is happening isn't hot. I'm a simple man, and I can't wait to feel the thrill of triumph when I have her writhing under me like she was the one night we spent together.

  I trail my hand up her side as she turns her head to lay on my chest as instructed. Using the advantage of no one being on the side of us, I tease the side of her breast and hear the hitch in her breath even as she tries to hide it.

  "Alright kids, that's a wrap!" Cheers go up on the makeshift set, but I ignore them in favor of turning all my attention to Shayla. I sit up, sliding her to standing and rising after her. Instead of the immediate escape I know she wants to make, I wrap a few of her long, soft twists in my hand and gently pull her head back. Her mouth parts and I take that as my invitation, slanting my lips over hers and dipping my tongue inside to taste. When I've finally had my fill, I pull back just enough so I can speak.

  "You know where to find me, Shayla."

  Not giving her a chance to make a smart comment back, I catch a towel that one of the assistants throws me, wiping the oil off some of my body absentmindedly.

  I know without a doubt that she would've let me fuck her in that club if Knox hadn't come to find me. She would've let me take it all the way, as much as she doesn't want to admit it to me. She's just as consumed by thoughts about us as I am, and with her, I would've broken my no protection rule without a second thought.

  Reckless as fuck, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't have.

  I can't l
et it go. I can't let her go, and it would take a saint to make it to the end of these six months without having her in my bed again.

  I'm the furthest thing from a goddamned saint.

  My new mission is to get Shayla under me again, and not only that...but to have her beg for the privilege.

  We're inevitable...she just doesn't know it yet.

  8

  Shayla

  Dear Diary,

  The Cold War is still going strong into week 4, with no signs of letting up.

  Does it still count as cold if I've gotten scorching kisses and one very good orgasm out of the deal?

  We'll go with lukewarm.

  I wrap my towel around me and slide open the shower door, stepping out onto the memory foam bath mat. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and the darkened circles under my eyes are a testament to just how cold this war isn't. I'm tossing and turning at night still, and it's not just about not being completely comfortable in my surroundings. I'm so damn restless, it's ridiculous. Dylan haunts me in my dreams and haunts me when I'm awake if I let him.

  I just want one good night of sleep. Just ONE. I need a bead on whatever god I need to make a sacrifice to because I can't go on like this. I called myself going for a swim and almost fell asleep mid-breast-stroke.

  It was embarrassing.

  But I'm not giving into that big, hulking excuse of a man. He's far too damn smug for my liking, and I would never live it down if I gave in. I made the rules about not doing anything unless there were people around for a reason, and he exploits them at every turn he can. We have a few things to do this week, and I'm convinced that he did that on purpose. There's no way one man has to go to so many things! You'd think he was a model and not an ice hockey player. Forget the fact that he looks like he could do both, that is so not the point.

  I'm thinking about going to my doctor and getting a sleep-aid, because these bags under my eyes are only getting worse and I can't keep being a walking zombie. The last time I tried melatonin, I had a few nights of those dreams where you know it's a dream, but you still can't wake up? There was a demon sitting on my chest and I still couldn't snap myself out of it.

  Yeah. Never again.

  My phone chimes from the bed and I make my way over to it.

  NO FLY-ZONE: Making dinner for two tonight

  Me: You do remember no girls are allowed?

  NO FLY-ZONE: We're the two, genius

  I purse my lips, considering my phone. Do I really want to sit across from Dylan for dinner, again? By choice? I don't even believe I've seen him pick up a spatula for anything other than a quick breakfast, so how do I know that I'm not going to end the night with food poisoning?

  NO FLY-ZONE: You have to eat. Don't overthink it.

  Pausing, I run quickly down the list of reasons why this is a bad idea.

  Terrible idea.

  Horrible idea.

  Disastrous idea.

  Dangerous idea.

  Then I text him back asking what time I should be downstairs.

  I don't want him to think I'm trying to look good for him, but I also happen to prefer matching lounge sets. The off the shoulder long sleeve in soft, lightweight sweater material and the matching cropped leggings are my choices for the night.

  It's effortlessly comfortable and you can run out of the house in it without someone thinking that you forgot to get dressed after rolling out of bed.

  "You look nice." Those are the first words off his lips and I acknowledge his compliment with a muted thank you, ignoring the small glow I feel.

  He's in dark sweatpants and a Nike tee, standing at the island in the middle of the kitchen.

  "Anything I can do?"

  "Yeah, grab those two covered bowls out of the fridge, please." He's cutting something on the chopping board, and I try to ignore the way the veins are popping in his forearms and the confident way he's using that knife.

  He's so damn annoying being so...capable!

  Just barely keeping a reign on what feels like totally rational feelings, I do as he asks and set the bowls on the island.

  "What's in them?"

  "One is a salad I mixed and the other is a strawberry vinaigrette that I thought would go well with dinner."

  "What's for dinner?"

  "Ancho-chile salmon with Mexican rice and vegetables." He looks up at me. "Wait, you eat salmon right?"

  I nod, struck mute.

  "Good, it would've sucked if you were allergic and I didn't know. I don't want to accidentally kill you or anything." He flashes a smile and in that second, I admit that this was indeed a terrible idea. "Everything's almost finished. You want wine or something?"

  "I could do with some alcohol," I mutter, hopping off the stool I'd sat on. I grab a bottle from the wine chiller under the island and a wine opener out of the drawer. Dylan takes glasses down and pushes them towards me before he goes back to being wonder-boy and checking on the food.

  "So, where did you learn how to cook?"

  "My mom owns a restaurant back in Texas, so she taught me a thing or two. All of my siblings and I, at one point or another, worked in the kitchen or the house with her."

  "You're not from Texas, right?"

  "Naw, we're from Nashville. She moved when her and my dad divorced and we split time between them."

  I sip from my glass, and set it down, my finger circling the rim.

  "This isn't the gambling, drinking, sex-having Dylan Hunter that I'm supposed to be babysitting."

  If I wasn't watching him, I wouldn't have noticed him pause before going back to sauteeing vegetables.

  "People exaggerate. I'm not doing anything that other single men aren't doing."

  "That's not what the interwebs say." I laugh, taking another drink from my glass. "I read that the number of women who say they've had an amazing night with the Dylan Hunter is pretty damn high. And that you really know how to party."

  "It's sensationalism." He doesn't turn around, but I can hear the tension in his voice without having to see it on his face. "They drum it up. Yeah, I like to have fun and unwind because I'm fucking great at my job and I leave everything out there on the ice - but I'm not out of control, and it pisses me off that everyone would rather believe I'm some monumental fuck up of a person instead of believing that I know how to reign it in." He braces his hands on the edge of the counter, shaking his head and I feel guilt roll through me that I reminded him of that.

  Sitting my wine down quietly, I pad over to him and put a hand on his arm, making him look down at me.

  "Hey, I don't think you're out of control. I just wondered where they got it from since I think I've seen a really different side of you." I admit, hating the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

  "You know how much it sucks to have your mom calling you because someone else lied to the press about something? Wondering if you're strung out somewhere on a binge?" He runs his hand through his hair in what I now know is his gesture of frustration. "I'm always trying to prove myself, and no matter what I do, someone has something to say. It's exhausting."

  I do the only thing that it feels like I can do at that moment.

  I give him a hug.

  I think I catch him completely off guard because he doesn't wrap his arms around me immediately. When he finally does, I feel his head rest against the top of my head and we stand there in the middle of the kitchen just like that.

  Pulling away, I pat his bicep. "Now, feed me before I get angry."

  His mouth tips up, and he nods. "Yes ma'am."

  Finishing off my wine, I pour another glass and he sits beside me, setting a plate down for each of us. I take my first bite of the perfectly cooked, flaky salmon and shake my head.

  "I just need you to be terrible at something. Just once."

  "Well, you didn't see me making dessert, did you?" He raises a brow and I grin.

  "Thank god."

  By the end of the night, I've forgotten all about what the press has had to say about him, and all I'm doi
ng is enjoying the charming, handsome man in front of me. I linger after we put up the dishes because I don't want the night to be over yet.

  I'm tired of running. Maybe I'm weak, maybe I'm pathetic, to be so easily won over just from a man cooking me dinner...but it's so much more than that.

  I'm just too tired to keep fighting whatever this is right now.

  He turns off the light in the kitchen and we both head towards the stairs.

  "Goodnight, Shayla." He keeps his distance, when this is a night that I would fully welcome him being the one to make the first move.

  That's what makes me wimp out.

  Maybe the chase is over for him. Maybe he's tired of me denying him and he wouldn't even welcome me making a move.

  "Night, Dylan." I watch him go up the stairs to his room and I silently bang my head against the railing of the stairs before I force myself to go to my room.

  Alone.

  I ruined it, of course. What man is going to keep going after someone who keeps acting standoffish?!

  NONE!

  God, I always do this. It's why I'm still single now. I always manage to push someone away. Unwrapping my twists from the bun I'd put them in, I shake my hair out and sigh, playing the night back in my head.

  He really seems like the whole package.

  Sure, he's got a few flaws, but who doesn't? He's sexy and fun and talented and loves his family...

  Once upon a time, I would've put a man like him down as the kind of man I dreamed of but knew that I'd never get. Not nerdy, boring Shayla who only likes selective spontaneity.

  You know where to find me, Shayla.

  I hear his low, sexy voice in my mind and I straighten slowly.

  I do, in fact, know where to find him.

  What the hell am I throwing a pity party for? Why did I just assume that because he didn't come onto me again, that he's not interested? He doesn't assume that about me, so why don't I give him the same courtesy?