The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

  “What? That little sneak.”

  He grins wide. “You actually look pissed.”

  “Of course I am.” I’m not really, but still. My hand drifts down to his awesome ass. Seriously, his butt is like warm granite. “Your ass is mine, Ethan Dexter.”

  “I promise you can play with it later.”

  Because I want “later” to happen sooner, I all but push him down the hall when the elevator doors open on my floor.

  When we reach my apartment door, Dex presses against me from behind, his forearms braced on either side of my head. “Tell me you live alone.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. “I live alone.”

  He lets out a gusty breath, and his lips trail along the sensitive skin of my neck, his beard tickling. “Good.” The hard length of his cock nudges my ass. “Open the door, Cherry.”

  My hands fumble with the key, and then I’m stumbling into my apartment—oh, so graceful of me. Laughing a bit, I turn, expecting Dex to grab me, give me the kiss I know we both want.

  But he doesn’t.

  He stalks me instead, his steps steady, his gaze hot. And it sets my pulse racing as I walk backwards, keeping my eyes on him.

  A slow, evil smile spreads across his lips. “Keep going.”

  The low, drawling command works like a band around my middle, constricting my breath, clenching my belly. I edge away until my butt hits the dining table. Trapped.

  My inner thighs draw up in anticipation. My clit is so swollen I feel it there, this hot button of need that craves his touch.

  He stops in front of me, so tall it’s almost overwhelming, and yet comforting because I know he’ll use his size and strength to protect me. Without saying a word, he sinks to his knees, then sits back on his heels. But his gaze never leaves mine. His voice turns deep. “Show me where it hurts, Cherry.”

  A breath puffs out of me, my nipples going tight. Oh, holy hell. His words make the aching emptiness between my legs clench with sweet pain. Never looking away from him, I find the flaring edge of my wool skirt and raise it high, bunching it around my hips.

  His attention flicks to my panties, and his entire body seems to sway. With utter care, he grasps the sides and slowly lowers them. I watch them go, watch his rapt expression as he exposes me. His nostrils flare, as if he’s breathing me in.

  It should unnerve me, but the strong flush that rises over his cheeks and the way his chest moves with every panting breath sends a wave of heat through me. I spread my legs, wanting more of his all-consuming attention.

  He swallows hard, his gaze growing fierce. The heat of his hands covers my thighs, his fingers curling around them, pressing gently as he parts my legs further.

  “Most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he rasps.

  I can only stand there, my sweaty palms clutching my skirt, my thighs trembling beneath his grasp. I’m so wet now, the air on my sex feels cool, makes me shiver.

  Then he lifts one hand and those big, brutish fingers delicately part my folds. My knees go weak. I think I whimper. I can’t tell because my attention is all on Ethan, on the way he slowly leans forward, his lush lips parted and his brows knitted in utter concentration.

  God, he looks gorgeous, all the bold lines of his face taut and flushed. His lips press against my clit, and a groan tears from him, his whole body trembling. My breath leaves in a whoosh, but I don’t get to recover because he’s licking my sex with long, lingering strokes, his lips sucking and nuzzling.

  “Oh, fucking hell, Cherry.” He licks deeper, slower.

  So intent. But never frantic.

  He’s savoring me. That, more than anything, has me so hot I break out in a sweat, struggle to find my breath. The low, almost helpless moans he makes, the soft gasps when he has to take a breath before coming at me again, eating me out like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted—it’s almost better than what he’s doing to me.

  Almost, because, damn. He might be a novice at this, but he’s making up for lost time. Strong lips, warm tongue, and that beard. Holy fuck, that beard. Soft, prickly, it adds another level of sensation, so good—so naughty-good—that I circle my hips, chasing the feel of it brushing my clit, tickling my inner thighs.

  It’s too much. I lean against my dining room table, afraid I’ll fall or maybe pass out. I don’t know. I can’t think straight.

  And then I see his arm moving. Oh, God. Somewhere along the way, he’s undone his jeans and pulled his cock free. His erection is enormous, ruddy and angry. He palms his dick, tugging at it with rough, rude jerks.

  When he runs his thumb over the glistening crown of his cock, toying with the sliver piercing, the sight is so illicit, I come without warning, my knees giving out. A little wail leaves my lips as I sink into the sensation. “Ethan.”

  He’s rising, gathering me up.

  I wrap my legs around his waist, rub my aching sex against the crinkly hairs at the base of his cock. “Ethan.” My lips find his. He tastes of sex. My kiss is frantic, little gasps still leaving me. “Now. Ethan. Now.”

  Big hands palm my ass. He lifts me high and then thrusts, going in deep. He groans into my mouth. “Oh, fuck yes.”

  I can only hold, my arms wrapped around his thick neck, as he pumps hard and fast, bouncing me on his cock. Every time his hips impact with mine, I feel a shockwave through my body, a flare of pleasure-pain in my clit. Every stroke of that little metal ball on his cock sends a rush of bliss through me.

  “More,” I tell him. “Give me more.” Give me everything.

  And he does, driving into me until I scream his name, my body arching tight against his as I come again—so hard my vision dims.

  He comes with me, his teeth clamping on my shoulder as he gushes, hot and wet within my body. The aftermath leaves us both shaking and panting. I rest my head on his big shoulder, shivering so hard my stomach aches.

  He walks us to the bedroom with lumbering steps, weaving a bit as if he’s drunk.

  Oddly, I feel like crying. My throat hurts and my eyes prickle. The feeling only intensifies when he lays me down in my bed, his softening cock still deep within me, his hard arms holding me close against him. I don’t know which way is up or down anymore. The only thing that feels real and true is Ethan—the man I can only have in stolen moments of time.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fiona

  “Smile for the camera.” My grin is goofy and wide.

  Dex makes a laughing noise of protest and tries to wave me off. “Get away from me with that thing. I’m all pictured out.”

  We’re lying in bed, having a well-earned rest, and I’ve been amusing myself taking multiple shots of Dex. He pretends to be annoyed, but I know better. He can’t hide the smile in his eyes or the curve of his lips.

  “If you don’t want me messing with the phone, put a password on this sucker, babe.” I take yet another photo. The image of his big, wide hand fills the screen. “Aw, man. You messed it up.”

  He sighs. “Cherry, I do not need naked pictures of myself on my phone.”

  With a move so quick I don’t have time to blink, he snatches the phone away and hauls me close. “Here,” he says, holding the phone high with an outstretched arm. “If we’re doing this, you’re going to be in them.”

  “You say that like I’d protest.”

  We take more pictures, laughing over the results. I pause at a shot of me licking Dex’s tight little nipple. “Here’s one for my wallet.”

  “Did you just quote Parenthood?” His smile is relaxed and happy. I love seeing him this way, without walls, just being himself.

  “I didn’t take you for an eighties’ movie buff.”

  Dex shrugs. “The guys watch a lot of cable on the road.”

  “Well, bonus points for noticing, Big Guy.”

  “Mmm… And what do I get as my prize?” He rolls over, taking me with him.

  Much, much later, I relax against him with a sigh. “Do you think we ever truly figure out who we are?” My voice is
soft.

  At my side he moves, lifting his head to rest it in the cradle of his palm. “Well, now,” he drawls, “let me see if I can help you out. I’m Ethan, and you are Fiona.”

  “Har.” I give his chest a lazy smack. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t.” I stroke the edge of his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who knows their own mind as well as you do.”

  He rolls his eyes, but sets his hand on my hip, caressing and edging me closer. “Babe, I hate every fucking second of getting tatted. I hate needles with a passion, yet I get a cortisone shot after nearly every practice and game. The ones in the hands skeeve me out so badly I have to look away or risk fainting.”

  At this I take his hand in mine. It isn’t pretty: battered, swollen knuckles; scrapes and callouses; the middle finger crooking inward as if it’s been broken one too many times. A warrior’s hand.

  Those long, scarred fingers wrap over my smaller ones with a gentle hold, and I lift his hand to my lips to kiss his reddened knuckles.

  Behind the veil of his lashes, he watches me do it. “I hate those things, and yet look at me. Tatted, pierced, and a pro football player. Fact is, I run to the pain. Part of me gets off on it. So while I might know my mind, I’ve clearly got my own issues.”

  He doesn’t look embarrassed by this. No, his eyes shine in good humor. Which makes all the difference and only proves my point. He knows himself in a way I don’t know myself; I envy that.

  The blunt tip of his thumb, the one with a bruised nail, brushes the crest of my cheek. “Why do you ask about knowing yourself, Fi?”

  With a sigh, I fall back against the pillows and stare up at my ceiling. “I don’t want to go back to work.”

  “So don’t.”

  A loud snort blows through my lips. “It isn’t that simple.”

  “Course it is. You’re miserable there. So leave.”

  A glance his way reveals that he’s absolutely serious.

  “This from a football player? I thought you guys were always about never giving up. Mental and physical endurance is key, blah, blah, blah.”

  He flashes a quick smile. “Blah, blah, blah? Nice to know we players are so eloquent.” His smile falls. “You also forgot ‘Don’t play the game unless you’re one-hundred-percent commented.’ Which really just means, if you don’t love it, get out. It isn’t worth the pain, otherwise.”

  “If I leave, she wins.”

  Dex looks at me for a moment with that stare of his that I always feel down to my bones. When he speaks, his voice is steady, thoughtful. “Winning is a subjective thing, Fi.”

  “Again, I can’t believe a professional football player would say that.”

  He chuckles. “If anyone is an expert on the subject of winning and losing, it’s an athlete. Last year we lost out on the NFC championship based on one loss. On a fucked-up foul that the refs got wrong, made a bad call. That shit burned, Fi.” His expression stays calm, but his eyes fill with ire. “Even now, when I think about it I want to punch something. And you better believe those fuckers on the other team taunted us without shame. Didn’t matter that they won on a technicality. Scoreboard was all they needed.”

  Slowly, he reaches out and cups my jaw. “Darlin’, that shit happens all the time. I know from personal, painful experience that winning doesn’t necessarily make a person the best. Sometimes, it just makes them lucky.”

  “Well,” I say, still full of petulance and resentment, “that bitch will get even luckier if I leave.”

  “Nope. Hell, one day she might become the most successful designer in New York—”

  “Not helping.”

  “But it will be based on nothing but her own insecurity. While you?” He leans in and gives me a soft, lingering kiss. “Have true talent and will be happily serviced by yours truly.”

  I have to laugh at that. But it dies quickly, and I flop an arm over my hot forehead. “You don’t understand.”

  “So educate me.”

  “I’m a fuck-up.”

  “Fi…”

  “It’s true. Almost every plan I start—and believe me, I always have a plan—goes off the rails at some point.”

  “You’re describing the majority of the population, Cherry.”

  “Do your plans fail?”

  Dex’s wide mouth goes tight as if he’s annoyed at me. But the look he gives me is tender. The bed creaks as he pulls me into his embrace, tucking me against his side. “I planned to stay away from you.” The rough tip of his thumb caresses my lower lip. “Best failed plan of my life.”

  “Ethan.” His heart beats strong against the wide wall of his chest, and I give him a soft kiss there. Sighing, I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “It’s just…I’ve always dreamed big and have never been afraid to tell anyone and everyone about my big dreams. Except my dreams often change—here one day, alive and bright with all these possibilities, then dead and on to the next something new.”

  I glance up at his solemn eyes. “Unfortunately my exuberance has made me into the Girl Who Cried Dreams. And my friends and family no longer believe me when I latch on to a new passion. I don’t blame them, but I’m tired of seeing people give me that tight, slightly patronizing, slightly irritated smile. I don’t want to be viewed as a quitter anymore.”

  “Fuck what other people believe. Do you think you’re a quitter?”

  “I told you. I never stick to anything.” My fingertip traces a longitude line on his collarbone. I love the way his skin pebbles under my touch. “I changed my major three times before I settled on art and design, and even then, my eye was always roving.”

  Dex shifts a bit, his hip canting as my nail scrapes his tight nipple. His voice is gruff, a sure sign of him being turned on. But he runs his hand over my shoulder, stroking me. “Why did you keep changing?”

  For a second, I simply play with his nipple, worrying it this way and that, because it turns me on too, the way he reacts, his breath growing heavier, his cock getting thick again. “I don’t know.”

  In a blink, I’m on my back, my wrists held overhead in Dex’s massive hand. With a low grunt, he settles between my legs and hovers over me, the long strands of his hair tickling my cheeks. “Now ordinarily,” he says in a low, smooth voice, “I love your particular method of avoiding hard questions.”

  “Oh, really?” I challenge, opening my legs wider so that his hard cock notches between the slick lips of my sex. A low hum of pleasure runs through me.

  “Really.” He shifts his hip slightly, rubbing his hardness over my sensitive flesh just enough to tease. “Thing is, I want an answer before I fuck you.”

  God. He’s a wall around me, unrelenting, hot. I want all that strength pounding into me. I think I whimper. I know I wiggle my hips, trying to seek him out. “Why is it so important to you?”

  His eyes are dark now, seeing more than he should. “It’s important to you.” He rocks against me, sending little shivers of sweet lust rippling outward. “Answer the question, Cherry. Why…” He slides up, “…did you…” A down stroke. “…keep changing majors?”

  I lick my dry lips. “They never felt right.”

  “Mmm…” He moves again, the rounded crown of his meaty cock stretching my opening. Slowly, with a smooth glide, he sinks in.

  And I lift my hips, my legs parting wider, as if this can somehow give him more room. He fills me so good, I can barely focus. But Dex’s eyes are on me, his lips hovering just over mine. “You wanted to be happy.”

  “Uh-huh…” I can’t really concentrate, not when he’s gently easing in and out of my swollen flesh, his lips taking mine with soft, slow kisses.

  He nuzzles me as he talks and fucks. “You seek joy in your life, don’t you, Cherry?”

  I shudder, my fingers curling around his hand. He still has me pinned. “Yes.”

  He smiles against my mouth. “You were never quitting. You were searching.”

  Despite what he’s doing to me, my attention snares on his words. He pauses,
his cock deep inside me, his brilliant eyes wide open. Searching for joy.

  A laugh bubbles up within me, and I crane my neck to reach his mouth. I kiss him as deeply as I can while I’m still laughing. And he grins against my lips, our breath mingling.

  “Fuck me, Ethan,” I tell him, not letting him go. “And give me some more of that joy.”

  He nips my lower lip, his grin still wide. “Yes, ma’am.”

  And he does. He does it so well, I’m limp and breathless when we finish. I should move, get cleaned up, offer him dinner, something. But I can only lie against him, draped over his solid body like a sweaty girl blanket, and just drift.

  “Aren’t you scared?” I whisper after a time. “I flit from boyfriend to boyfriend too.”

  I don’t know why I’m saying this. Maybe I want to test him. Maybe I just want to know he believes in me. All I know for sure is that trickles of ice-cold fear run down my spine at the thought of ever ending things with Dex.

  Rolling me to his side, he peers down, those eyes of his searching my face. His teeth flash, framed by his pirate’s beard. “Nope. That was just another search.” He leans in, nips my ear. “The search is over, Cherry Pie.”

  “Ugh. Do not refer to me as pie!” When he just chuckles darkly, I have to smile. “You’re kind of arrogant, you know that?”

  “Mmm…” The calloused pad of his thumb strokes my nipple. “Think we covered that.” I shiver. He does it again, slowly. “Abuse my character all you like; you know I’m right.”

  God, I love the way he touches me, love the dark, rumbly quality of his voice. I even love his unfailing confidence in all things Us.

  My palm slides down his back to the hard swell of his ass. I really love his ass. It’s massive, rock hard. The ass of a titan. Laughing a little at that thought, I give it a squeeze, earning a deep grunt from him.

  “Yeah,” I say with a small smile as I feel him up. “I think you just might be.”