Playing the Player (Sydney Smoke Rugby #3)

by Amy Andrews

  “Bloody hell, you really have crossed over into WAGdom, haven’t you,” she teased.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” The emcee for the night reappeared at the podium, and the screen that had been running season highlights switched to the official rugby logo. “We’ve reached the presentation part of the evening, if you could all please take your seats.”

  “Later,” Em said, giving Harper another quick hug before she and Val headed back to their seats.

  She beamed at Linc as she sat down, so happy for Harper it shone from her like sunbeams. She wondered how long Harper had known and felt a momentary pang that her bestie hadn’t already told her. But they’d both been so swept up in their lives—she with Linc and Harper with Dex—they just hadn’t seen much of each other. Not one-on-one, anyway.

  They really had to correct that.

  Her friend had hit the jackpot. She’d met Dex and now she was married with a baby on the way, all within six months. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

  And damn if she didn’t want that, too. Eventually.

  When Linc had given her that beautiful clock—a gift that didn’t just mean something but meant everything—she’d fallen all the way in love with him. More than that, she’d known that night their relationship was special to Linc, too. The kind of special she saw between Dex and Harper, and Matilda and Tanner.

  But, as she’d told her bestie the last time they’d chatted, she was taking one day at a time.

  Linc smiled at her again, bringing her out of her reverie, and her heart did its usual happy dance in her chest. She loved him so damn much it hurt.

  And this was his night.

  He was up for the John Davis medal and roundly tipped to be the one to take it out. With any luck, in the next half hour or so he would be wearing it around his neck, accepting the congratulations he so richly deserved for an outstanding season. And when they got back to his place, she was going to congratulate him in an entirely different way.

  She kissed him briefly before turning sideways in her chair so she could see the stage better. He turned sideways in his, too, his hand sliding onto her shoulder, easing her back against the hard wall of his chest, his hand moving to her waist, as her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

  “This is a spectacular view,” he murmured, his breath warm on her neck.

  Em smiled as the heat of his gaze blazed a path right into her cleavage. “You’re supposed to be watching the stage, pervert.”

  His lips curved against her skin. “You watch it. I’d rather watch you.”

  Her breath caught. When he said such sweet things, she felt sure he must be falling in love with her, too. “No,” she said, nudging him in the ribs. “Eyes up buster, you’re going to win.”

  “You shouldn’t have worn that barely legal dress.”

  “I thought you’d like it.” She felt feminine and spectacular in the purple raw silk gown with the tight bodice and the voluminous skirt.

  “Like it? You have no idea how much I want to reef this damn zip down. It’s all I can think about.”

  “Think about the medal.”

  “Nope. Can’t.”

  “Okay fine, think about me fucking your brains out wearing nothing but the medal.”

  His hand tightened on her belly and he growled against her neck. Her nipples hardened to tight, achy peaks. “You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” she smiled.

  “Christ, woman. You know how to incentivise.”

  “Good. Now eyes up and concentrate on the emcee. It’s not going to look good if you go up on that stage with a massive erection. There’s media everywhere.”

  “Fine,” he said, his lips against her ear, his voice a low, dirty whisper. “But just so you know, as soon as I’ve gotten the damn medal and made my damn speech, I’m dragging you out of here and I don’t care what media is around. So don’t make any plans with Harper. You’re mine.”

  Em’s breath caught in her throat. His. She was his.

  Damn right she was.

  …

  The cool, heavy weight of the John Davis medal sat flat between her breasts, and Em smiled as she admired herself in the bathroom mirror.

  Despite Linc’s threats, they hadn’t been able to extract themselves from the party for another couple of hours. Everyone had wanted a piece of the John Davis winner. Watching it all had been a particularly tortuous form of foreplay.

  The fact that Linc’s hands had found their way under her skirt again on the drive home, his fingers stroking the scrap of lace between her legs until it was damp, hadn’t helped. By the time they’d arrived at his place, she’d been breathing hard and had barely made it in the door before her zip was down.

  “Jesus,” he’d said as the dress pooled around her feet, leaving her in nothing but a black lacy thong and a pair of lace-topped, thigh-high stockings.

  He’d made a grab for her, but she’d slipped out of his reach. “Give me that.” She’d tipped her chin at the medal hanging from his neck by a thick royal green ribbon. “Then go and get naked. I’ll be right there.”

  And here she was, in her stilettos and stockings and the John Davis medal.

  “If you don’t get your ass out here in ten seconds, I’m going to come and get you.”

  Em hugged herself and grinned at her reflection. She couldn’t remember ever being this happy.

  She fluffed her hair a bit before switching out the light and sauntering into his bedroom. He was lying on his back in the centre of the bed, his head toward the foot, his feet resting on the pillows. He was naked, as requested, a soft glow from a bedside lamp playing across the planes and angles of his body.

  His cock lay rigid against his belly and her own stomach looped the loop. Her mouth watered at the thought of sliding her lips down the length of him, tasting him, sucking him right to the back of her throat.

  Hers. He was hers.

  He angled his head back slightly, his gaze trekking up the silk-clad length of her legs before fixing on the medal. “Man, that looks way better on you.”

  Em smiled as she walked slow and measured to the end of the bed, conscious of his gaze glued to her breasts and the slight swing of the medal between them. The mattress hit her just above the knee, stopping her advance. His arms, the tattoos displayed beautifully in the soft lamplight, lifted over his head, his hands coming to rest on the bands of lace at the backs of her thighs.

  “I like this view,” he murmured as his gaze zeroed in on the dark caramel triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs, where everything ached and tingled.

  She smiled as she leaned over, placing her elbows and the flats of her forearms on the bed, at either side of his head, the medal brushing the spikes of his number-two-blade cut. The timbre of his breathing changed as her lips buzzed his face. His eyebrows tickled, his eyelashes spiked, his whiskers scraped. She whispered over his lips before exploring his jaw, the hollow of his cheek, and his forehead.

  Em moaned as his hands slid to her ass, cupping and kneading, betraying both his arousal and his restraint.

  Her mouth teased the straight line of his nose, the softness of his upper lip, then finally, her pulse thundering through her ears, claimed his mouth. His deep, needy groan lit her up despite the awkwardness of upside-down kissing. Passion seethed and exploded in a desperate mashing of mouths.

  His breath sucked in on a harsh protest when she eventually dragged her mouth away. But, glancing down his body, she had bigger fish to fry. A bead of fluid leaking from the thick, plump head of his cock glistened in the lamplight and her mouth watered.

  That’s where she wanted to be. Down there. All that thickness in her mouth, sucking him until he came.

  She slid her right knee onto the bed, moving her right hand lower, planting her palm near his right nipple. She repeated the process on the other side, both knees on the bed now, her ass in the air, his hands still firmly cupping it.

  Her lips followed the ridged path of his trachea, dropping light kis
ses down his neck, into the hollow of his throat, trekking sideways to his collarbone and pecs, her lips brushing the sun, then the cursive ink.

  A time for everything…

  He’d told her he’d chosen those words to remember his clockmaker grandfather.

  His fingers trailed down the backs of her thighs, wobbling her knees and swirling lust through her belly and ass. She could feel the hot stickiness of her sex throbbing for attention between her thighs, desperate for the plunge of his cock, but right now needing it in her mouth more, needing to taste him, to worship him.

  She’d been so damn proud tonight her dress had nearly burst at the seams with it. Lincoln Quinn, the best player for the year. Her Linc. The guy she loved. The guy who had called her his girlfriend in front of his teammates.

  Her man.

  She inched her knees down, wedging them firmly against his shoulders, her trembling thighs straddling his head, as her palms slid down the bed, anchoring at hip level, her mouth following, kissing to his belly button, the flat of the medal dragging in her wake. She swirled her tongue around and around the perfect shallow bowl of his navel, dipping in and out, gratified to see the twitch and bunch of his abdominal muscles with every hot swipe.

  Ignoring the temptation of his cock, she diverted from her trajectory to trail her lips to the crest of one hip then across the sling of muscle to the crest of the other, drawing a wet detour with her tongue around the outline of rigid erection.

  The muscles low in his abdomen tensed and his cock twitched as her hot breath caressed the liquid-beaded tip before moving away again, trailing a path to first one groin and then the other.

  He groaned, shifting restlessly against the mattress, digging his fingers into her ass, urging her without words to take him in her mouth.

  It would have been fun to string it out for longer. Make him groan and twitch, maybe even beg. But she couldn’t deny how much she wanted it, too, and when he squeezed her ass and groaned, “Emmmm,” all low and needy, she couldn’t forgo her own pleasure any longer.

  She trailed her tongue back to the tip of his cock and swiped across it, tasting him, revelling in the salt and musk and his full-blown arousal.

  Revelling in her power.

  Knowing he was at her mercy was dizzying. Linc, the professional rugby player, the winner of the John Davis medal, the best back-rower in the game. The man who was a machine on the field, who took no prisoners, who was always in control.

  Except now. He was in her control. But it went deeper than that. This was trust. Him giving it to her. And respect. Not insisting, not guiding. Letting her set the agenda, letting her do it her way.

  And that meant more than anything.

  She slid her hand onto the shaft, and his hips bucked as if she’d hit him with a Taser. He was velvet and steel and hers.

  “God, yesss,” he hissed, his breath hot on the backs of her thighs, and she dipped her head and plunged her mouth down onto him, taking him as far as she could go. He cried out, his fingers digging into her ass, causing a surge of heat and tingling between her legs.

  She pulled back then, slowly, so, so slowly, his long, low groan and the pound of her heart beating loud in her ears. She swallowed him swiftly again then withdrew, slow and unhurried once more, taking her time, her lips clamped firm around his girth, savouring him.

  She took only his head in her mouth with the next pass, swirling her tongue around the plump sponginess, flicking it across his slit and the sensitive area at the back where head met shaft. She could see the clench of his abdominal muscles, feel the tremble of his quads, knew the effort it was taking not to thrust himself into her mouth.

  “Em.”

  The low groan stroked all her good places, pulsed between her thighs and curled her toes.

  She knew what he wanted, knew how hard he was resisting from taking it, and it went straight to her head in a giddying rush.

  She’d never felt so damn powerful in her life.

  “Em.”

  It was a growl this time, rough as sandpaper against her skin as she kept up the teasing with her tongue. His abs were strung taut, his fingers kneaded her ass, and he gasped every time she hit the sensitive spot.

  Without warning she plunged, tearing a guttural cry from his throat and a reflexive buck of his hips. Em smiled triumphantly around her mouthful.

  But not for long. In one quick jerk, Linc had yanked her hips toward him and was setting his mouth on her.

  Suddenly, she was at his mercy. And she totally lost her mind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Linc was done with letting Em have all the fun. She wanted to have her way with him, she wanted to make him moan and writhe and beg—he was on board with that.

  But there was no way this was going to be a party for one.

  Ever since she’d crawled down his body, flashing her ass and the glistening lips of her sex in front of his face, hovering above him just out of reach, it had only been a matter of time. With her aroma wafting toward him, growing more intense with every second, that time was now.

  He’d needed to taste her. Had to. To do to her what she was doing to him. To join in the feast.

  Her reaction alone was worth it.

  “Fuuuuck!” she gasped, the flesh of her upper thighs tensing around his face as his cock was released from the warmth slippery cavern of mouth. “You might want to warn a girl you’re going to do that.”

  “Can’t let you have all the fun, baby.”

  He swiped his tongue along the slick seam between her legs, and she bucked in his hands. He held her fast, though, tasting her. She was all lush and ripe in her arousal, her aroma intoxicating.

  Christ, he loved this position.

  Her mouth found his cock again, taking him right to the back of her throat—all wet heat and swirling tongue. He groaned into her as the sensation spiralled through his belly and sunk hot claws into the cheeks of his ass.

  She sucked then. Hard. All the way up and all the way down. Up and down. Up and down. Hot and wet and urgent. Until he was seeing stars. One hand holding him firm at the root of his cock, the other sliding to his balls, alternating between rolling and squeezing, so damn good.

  She made it impossible to concentrate on what he was doing, but Linc was nothing if not determined. For damn sure he was going to blow in her mouth sometime in the not too distant future—even the thought of it inched him closer—and he wanted her there with him all the way.

  He slid a hand between her legs, parting her with his fingers, his tongue sliding deeper, searching for and finding the round nub high amongst the folds. Her hips bucked and she moaned against his cock. It plucked hard at the taut fibres deep inside his belly, pushing him closer to the end game.

  Kicking up the pace, he flayed her clitoris with his tongue, both hands clamped to her ass again. She kicked up the pace, too, her mouth blistering in its speed and goddamn perfect with the intensity of suction and the right amount of ball play and the expert flick of her tongue over his head as she pushed him closer and closer.

  But the flick of his tongue was pretty damn expert, too, and he kept up the relentless torture, eating her greedily, insatiably, her wild female scent filling his head, intoxicating him, her taste driving him crazy.

  Her clitoris stiffened into a hard little bead beneath the relentless pressure of his tongue, and Linc knew she was close. Which was just as well, because his heart was crashing around in his ribcage, trying to push back his own release threatening to ripple up and out of him, already pulsing in his groin, lighting up the base of his spine and tightening his ass.

  Knowing he couldn’t hold it off much longer, he pushed two fingers deep inside, finding the spot he was searching for and crooking his fingers hard. She bucked violently, arching her back, crying out around his cock as her hot slippery walls clamped down hard around him.

  She came. Muffled but frenzied. He came, too, his cry lost amongst the hot, wet folds of her as he sucked hard on her clitoris, pleasure swamping him
in long, hot waves, unable to stop the thrust of his hips any longer as he spurted into her mouth.

  She took him all, though, deep and greedy, bobbing and sucking and swallowing everything he had to give as he greedily sucked and swallowed all she had to give. They gorged on each other until there was nothing left, until their orgasms had ebbed and flowed away, and she eased off him, collapsing sideways, her body a warm, reassuring presence smooshed along the length of his.

  His grandfather’s old clock striking the hour roused Linc a short time later. Midnight. He sat up then got to his hands and knees, moving his ass up the bed so he was the right way around, admiring the long, pale stretch of Em’s slumbering body, her crazy curls springing from her head, his medal around her neck, as he lay down next to her. His arm rubbed up against hers and she stirred. He slipped his hand into hers, weaving their fingers together.

  Everything felt…right. And it wasn’t the medal or the grand final win. It was her.

  His heart thumped in his chest at the implications. He’d told her he didn’t think falling in love was something he was capable of, and he’d honestly believed that. Hard not to with his family history.

  But he’d been wrong.

  He was in love with Em Newman. He knew it as surely as he knew he was the best goddamn rugby player in the country.

  There was like a…fountain…inside his chest and it was frothing feelings. So many feelings he couldn’t contain them all. A great fizz of emotions that he’d never experienced before bloomed in his chest, stretching his heart and his ribs and his lungs, growing bigger and bigger until it felt like he could burst with it.

  It felt surreal and yet so very real. And it was the truth.

  He’d thought Dex had been stone-cold crazy falling for Harper so damn fast. But he got it now.

  When you knew, you knew.

  Tanner’s words came back to him. Finding the one? Being with the one? Best thing ever.

  Giving her the clock—one of his most prized possessions—should have been his first clue, but Linc always had been emotionally stunted.

  He rolled up onto his elbow, their hands still entwined, looking down at her, lifting his hand to finger the medal, rubbing his thumb over the image of a guy running with a football tucked under his arm in the brushed platinum surface.