Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  He winces and drops his hands. “Don’t call me Greg.”

  “Okay, Eugene.”

  He huffs out a laugh. “Tell me about you.”

  “My middle name is Michelle.”

  He gives me a long look, his eyes darkening as I undo the last button on my shirt, picking up where he left off. I’m doing this. And the freedom of it, knowing that this man wants me, makes me bold.

  “Tell me more,” he murmurs, eyes low, watching me like a wolf might watch its prey.

  “I love books—the smell of them, the weight of them in my hands. Before I was a librarian, I used to edit romance books in New York.”

  He holds my gaze, his mouth deliciously close to mine. “Nice. What else?”

  “When I’m nervous, I spell words.” I blush.

  “I make you nervous. Filing that away. What else?” he growls.

  “I’ve never had an orgasm with a man.”

  His eyes go to half mast. “Sweet Elena, I’m gonna take care of that first thing.”

  A long exhalation leaves my chest, part exhilaration, part excitement that licks over me at the way he’s looking at me, as if he’s going to devour me bit by bit. That feeling of confidence roars. With a skilled motion, he slides my blouse off, and it falls to the floor.

  He swallows, his throat bobbing as his eyes burn over every inch of me. He takes a step back, his eyes hot flames.

  I might be a librarian, but my lingerie screams sex kitten.

  I unzip my skirt and step out of it, kicking it to the side. It lands near the kitchen table.

  And I know exactly what he sees—a three-piece pink sequin set, a bra and panties with garters featuring handmade Italian lace on the straps.

  His chest rises. “Fuck me.”

  Oh, I will.

  I cup my full C cups, sliding my hands over the material, showing him how the sequins change from pink to silver. “There are little unicorns on my breasts when you move the fabric.” I drift my fingers over the waistband of the panties, feeling brave, oh so brave, by what I see on his face. I touch the top of my mound. “And here, when I move the sequins”—I slide the fabric resting on my small bundle of nerves—“is a little heart.” It’s funny how easy this is with him when I was never able to model for Preston any of my designs. He took one look at the mannequins and dress forms in my sewing room and left the room, chagrined, his face livid. He yelled at me and said I was going to ruin my entire family with my proclivities. I should have seen then that we weren’t the same. That he wasn’t the one.

  Because the one is supposed to get you, accept you.

  But the man in front of me is not looking at me with distaste at all. He rubs at the scruff on his jawline, a flush on his cheekbones. “Elena, you are not what I expected. Or maybe you are. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Can’t really think straight right now.”

  I dance my fingers down to my thighs, to the scraps of lace there, unsnapping the clasp and letting the garter fall.

  “More,” he pushes out, palming his slacks.

  I unclasp the tiny triangle bra, twirl it for a moment before letting it fall from my fingers and drift to the kitchen tile.

  He bites his lip, eyes skating over me before coming back to my face.

  I shimmy, and my panties fall to the floor.

  Who am I right now? Who is this crazy girl? I don’t know, but I like it.

  “Elena.” He says my name with a groan and drops to his knees right there in the kitchen. His hands encircle my waist as he presses an openmouthed kiss to my hip bone, sucking and nipping at my skin as he works his way down to my apex. A finger brushes my nipple, skating from one to the other as his tongue paints me with ownership, with scalding heat and dark promises. My body ripples with desire, clenching, nerves quivering as I shudder and arch into him.

  All coherent thought vanishes.

  A delicious frenzy spirals inside me, wet and slick, passion wrapped in the feel of his lips and tongue. Every groan he makes, every touch of his hands, every lick is amplified, expanding into an unrestrained ache until I’m lost in this reckless universe that is me and him. He flicks his tongue and moves his fingers in a wicked way inside me, and a star explodes in a bright light somewhere overhead, drenching me with the fallout, glowing sparks and embers bursting around me. Throwing back my head, I cry out, gasping as my entire body undulates, surging and swelling, my skin reveling in this beautiful release.

  Moments pass as I grapple with the aftereffects. The room spins as he sweeps me into his arms, then carries me away from the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. We don’t speak, or maybe he does, but I’m not tracking, limp and loose in his warm embrace. The wolf has caught me, and I couldn’t be happier.

  I may not recognize this daring part of myself, but he is what I want right now. This moment. This bliss. This one night.

  I’ll worry about tomorrow later.

  Chapter 6

  JACK

  Hours later, I snap awake and stand straight up from the bed, fists raised, heart hammering like a freight train. Fuck. The nightmare again. Slowly I rub at my left shoulder, where my scar is, easing the ache there. I sigh and sit back on the bed with my head in my hands. Deep inhale, long exhale. I close my eyes, hoping to banish the dream from my thoughts, but it doesn’t work . . .

  Harvey tosses me against the wall, his hand tight against my throat. He hovers over me, cigarette breath in my face. I’m not a match for him at thirteen, and I flail around, my lanky arms reaching up to pull his meaty paws off me. His road-map eyes glare down at me, and I see darkness there, emptiness that alcohol or Mama can’t fix. He reeks of dissatisfaction, discontent, a grenade that’s itching to be pulled.

  My mouth opens, gasping for air. Black spots dance in front of my face.

  “Get off him!” Mama yells from behind, but he doesn’t even turn around. He gives me an oily grin and presses harder. My nails scrabble at the old paneling, grasping.

  “He smarted off to me, Eugenia. Need to teach this boy some lessons. Might do him some good. Little pussy. Always getting on my nerves.”

  I look over his shoulder at Mama as my lids shut. This is it. And maybe I always knew it would come to this, Harvey getting sick of me being around and under his feet, another mouth to feed. Mama can’t quit him. Even after busted lips and cracked ribs on her body. Belt whippings he did to my back.

  Dimly I’m aware of Mama running into the bedroom and dashing back. “Let him go, or I’m going to shoot you, Harvey.”

  He lets his arms fall, and I sink to the shag carpet, sucking in air, but all I focus on is Mama—and those two trembling hands that clasp the gun.

  Shoot him, shoot him, I scream in my head.

  He advances toward her, creeping in, the stillness of it frightening me more than any of the fast jabs he takes at me.

  “Mama,” I croak, and in that instant when she looks at me, he pushes her down to the floor, takes the gun from her hands, and fires two bullets at her. He points it back at me—

  Stop.

  I scrub my face, then grab my phone and check the time. Five o’clock in the morning. Too close to my workout time to go back to bed. Besides, there’ll be no more sleep for me. Once that dream hits, it digs its claws in deep, rocking me, taking me back to the hell I grew up with. Twenty-eight years old, and that shit still sticks to me, like dirty gum you can’t get off your shoe.

  A soft snoring sound reaches my ears, and I start and jerk back off the bed, nearly stumbling as I blink down at the girl in my bed and study the lump she makes under the white quilt, her body curled up in a ball. Her hair, a mix of red and gold, is splayed out on the pillow, her soft pink lips parted as she breathes. I trace over the soft curve of her cheek, the elegant arch of her auburn eyebrows. Part of me is tempted to crawl right back in with her, to wake her up the way she deserves, but my head isn’t there. Once that nightmare hits, I crave time alone.

  Plus, today is going to be hard enough anyway. I may as well face it.<
br />
  Being as quiet as possible, I head to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Dark shadows are under my bleary eyes, and I’ve lost a few pounds since the Super Bowl, when I should be bulking up and prepping for summer camp.

  Even though I’m headed to the gym, I get in the shower and let the hot water slide over me, trying to shake the last vestiges of that dream out of my head. My back stings, and I glance in the mirror from the see-through glass of the shower. Long scratches are across the yellow-and-black tiger tattoo that takes up most of my back, and a small laugh comes from me. She quieted all the shit in my head last night, a bandage to the turmoil. I recall the way she stood in front of me, all curves and fire, the sound she made deep in her throat as she came under my tongue that first time, her hands deep in my hair, showing me what she wanted—

  My cock is hard again.

  I ignore it.

  Once she finds out who I really am, she’ll probably be just like everyone else . . .

  Whatever.

  There’s no reason to make something into more . . .

  Once out of the shower, I ease back into the darkened room, and moving as quietly as possible, I toss on my workout gear and shoes. On the way toward the door, I stop by the kitchen and grab her NDA, sticking the papers inside my duffel without looking.

  It’s the flash of sparkly pink that makes me stop. Lying near the kitchen island are the little panties she wore last night. Memories of her flood my head. Impulsively, I bend over and snatch them up and tuck them in my joggers. I grab a pad of Post-its from the desk; then I scrawl a note for her and leave it on her pillow. I owe her the truth.

  I exit the penthouse, and Quinn stands at the elevator, big and muscular, all of twenty-one. He’s one of Lucy’s former foster kids, and I hired him a few months back to be on call whenever I need him. It makes me antsy that someone else might figure out where I periodically spend time. My apartment is a block away, but that building came with top-notch security—the hotel, not so much. I called him last night and told him I was headed to the penthouse, and he came over. He’s got zilch experience in security, but he’s tough looking, and when Lucy asks for something, I move heaven and earth to make it happen.

  “Morning, sir. The stadium?”

  I nod. “Yeah, and you don’t have to call me sir, Quinn.” We have the same conversation every time he addresses me.

  “I’ll call a car for you now, sir. Or I can drive you?”

  I wave him off. “I’m going to drive.”

  He looks disappointed, and I figure he’s bored just standing here all night—although he still looks fresh. He probably napped in the big leather chair near the elevator. My head nudges toward the closed door of the penthouse. “Will you make sure the cleaning lady skips today? Call down, and let them know.”

  His face splits in a grin. “Nice evening?”

  I frown. “We don’t discuss my private life. Whoever comes in and out of that room is my business.” I pause. Yet . . . “Tell her I’m sorry, will you?”

  He gives me an odd look, then straightens and gives me a nod. “Of course, sir.”

  “Quinn. Call me Jack, please. The same lady raised us. We’re practically family.”

  Not really. He came along long after I left Lucy’s house and went to college, but damn, sometimes I wish I had a real brother.

  He nods. “Sorry, it’s just I’m thankful for the job, sir—Jack. Not many people want to hire someone who’s been in jail.”

  Lucy told me all about his drunken skirmish with another college kid, who happened to be the son of a senator. That kid ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and broken ribs. Quinn got six months, a tough sentence for a kid just starting his life, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s polite and good at what he does, and he definitely looks the part with that brawn. And I’m a big believer in going with my gut, and my gut says Quinn’s a good kid.

  “Hey. Forget that. It’s how you live your life now that matters.”

  He exhales. “It was self-defense, sir—Jack. He brought it on himself, and I took it and took it until I snapped. The media blew it out of proportion.”

  “No need to explain it to me. I’ve snapped a few times myself.” I recall a skirmish I got sucked into on the field just this last season, after a helmet grab that took me down hard and hurt my shoulder. And even though I didn’t start that fight, you better believe people think I did.

  I slap him on the back. “Never look back, Quinn. Let people talk.” That’s my motto.

  He gives me another hopeful glance. “You think you’ll need me tonight? I don’t have any plans. I can be here or wherever you need.”

  I don’t really need him tonight. But I can tell Quinn wants to be busy. “Devon’s got a birthday party at the Razor. You can hang out if you want the hours.”

  He grins. “Yes, sir.”

  An hour later, I’ve gotten fifteen miles in on the treadmill when Aiden waltzes into the gym, his face fucking perky for the early hour. Looks like someone else is working on his game. Most of the team is on vacation right now, chilling out in some faraway place, enjoying their families or significant others during the off-season. Not me. Here I am, working my ass off to keep my number one spot.

  And Aiden . . . yeah, he’s a real go-getter too.

  Twenty-three and a superstar draft from Alabama, he’s been breathing down my neck since he got on the roster, just waiting for me to screw up so he can step right into my shoes.

  He doesn’t speak as he walks past me, but those eyes are all over me. A little smile curls his lips as he leans on the treadmill next to me.

  I click off the machine and tug out my earbuds. “Like what you see? Need some pointers on how to run?”

  A lot of this game is in the head, and nobody’s as good at that as me. Sure, my private life might be piling up around me, but I know when a young buck is aiming for my heart. Football is all I have, and I’ll do anything to protect my game.

  “Ease up there, old man. I’m just here to work out.”

  Uh-huh. He’s been here every morning like clockwork, staying as late as I do.

  “You need some help with your passing game? You hesitate half a second on a blitz. You better fix that before you even dream of taking my spot.”

  He frowns.

  I grin.

  “I do not hesitate.”

  “Yep. You do.” I shrug and grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face, knowing he’s playing back that last horrible game we had.

  He rolls his shoulders before picking up a barbell, doing reps for his arms. “I just want what’s best for this team—”

  “And you think that’s you?”

  He sets down his weight and pushes back brown hair, flashing me a cocky grin.

  “Yeah, man. Think about it. You’ve been here for seven years, and I don’t see a Super Bowl ring on that finger. You messed up that game good, Hawke. Five interceptions. Five. You choked last month in front of millions, and this town remembers. And now . . .” He laughs as he sets the barbell back on the shelf, grazing his hands over the selection, idly picking up a heavier one. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Dude. You’re practically handing me the starting position. You hit a little kid in your big-ass Escalade last week. They might have forgiven you the loss of that trophy, but a young fan . . .” He lifts a shoulder nonchalantly.

  Anger ratchets up. “I didn’t see you out there trying to score when they put you in that game. You couldn’t move the ball one inch. You. Hesitate.” I continue, “You might be bright and shiny now, but you don’t have the grit, Alabama.”

  He bristles.

  The double doors of the gym open.

  I turn as head coach John Connor walks in, his gaze beady. “Everything all right?” He moves his eyes between us.

  I cross my arms. “Aiden and I were just jawing.”

  “Yeah,” Aiden adds. “Jack was saying how great I am.”

  I bend down to grab my water bottle on the bench; my lips t
ighten as a fissure of pain races down my left shoulder, tingling all the way to my arm. Gritting my teeth, I force my shoulders to relax. No way do I want Aiden to get a whiff of weakness. Or anyone. I shake it off, rolling my shoulders, relaxing as it fades.

  Coach frowns as he takes in my running joggers and sweaty face. “The press conference is in two hours. You know what you’re going to say?”

  The press conference.

  A tight feeling grows in my chest. Do I know what I’m going to say? No.

  I pray I can speak at all.

  I give him a tight nod and stalk out of the gym. Lawrence meets me out in the hall, his Armani suit gray and as sharp as his face. He straightens up from the wall he was leaning against. “First things first, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Late night.”

  “Also, there’s a pic of you online in Milano’s with a woman, drinking. What part of keeping your head down until this blows over did you not understand, Hawke?”

  “It was a date. And it was one drink with dinner.”

  His mouth gapes. “A date?”

  I scrub my face. “Wasn’t planned.”

  He nods, eyeing me carefully. “There’s a video of you getting in some guy’s face too—”

  “I did not get in his face. God damn it, Lawrence. I have a life. Why does everything I do have to be picked apart?” I push off past him, and he follows, his legs considerably shorter than mine, so he scurries to keep up.

  “Because you’re you, and the media hates you.”

  “They love the lies.”

  “But it makes for a good story.”

  I walk into the locker room and yank open my locker, eyeing the clothing I have there, everything from street clothes to a couple of suits.

  Lawrence looms over my shoulder, rifling through the rack and pulling out a yellow polo with the Tiger emblem and a pair of designer jeans. “You need to dress casually for the reporters, nothing flashy. I know you like your pressed shirts and slacks, but look relatable. Be nice. Try a smile. Soften that growly voice.”

  My shoulders tighten as I take in a deep breath. “I am relatable. I grew up poor as shit. I won the Heisman my junior year in college. Why doesn’t anyone remember that, huh?” I send him a side-eye. “And we both know I can’t stand those reporters in my face. I can’t do it, Lawrence. I don’t know why I’m even going to this thing.”