But the risks are far too real for me to entertain it seriously. I can’t take that chance with my job, and there’s no way he could pull off dating me without it looking like I’m the next chick in a long line of his ladies.
That thought curdles my stomach. The notion that I could be an over-and-out girl, and the idea that people would see me that way. And see him that way.
As I look at him now, hanging out with the kids, I know this is what he needs, because this is who he is.
A guy who cares.
A guy who tries.
A guy who has a massive heart for families.
That’s what I want everyone to know about him, and if I keep dallying with him beyond tonight, then I’ll be risking more than my own job. I’ll risk his reputation, and his reputation matters.
He’s more than I thought he was a few weeks ago. Whether it’s animals left homeless, families who need a little extra, or even a woman’s dad trying to put together a piece of furniture, he has such a giving spirit. Seeing him toss a towel to skinny Charlie as the kid steps out of the pool is one more instance in a day brimming with moments that melt my heart and make me fall a little deeper.
A little later, as Emma and Charlie head for the exit doors, Jones gives me a big hug. “Thank you so much for doing this with me. I’m sure you had a ton of other work today, but I appreciate you being here.”
“There’s no place I’d rather have been.”
“Smile!”
I freeze for a second at the sound of Emma’s voice, but then remind myself we’re doing nothing wrong. We’re simply two colleagues hugging. As we break apart, we turn and grin for her as she lifts her mom’s phone and snaps one more shot. Though Jones’s arm is draped over my shoulder, I reassure myself there’s no way to tell my stomach is flipping, my insides are melting, and I can’t wait to see him again tonight.
The picture can’t possibly capture all that, and it certainly can’t photograph what’s inside my heart for him.
Which is far more than I ever expected.
As Emma’s mom waves goodbye, there’s a tug on my purse. I turn, looking for the girl, in case she has something else to say. But she’s out the door, and only Jones is here.
I give him a quizzical look, and he simply shrugs impishly.
“Rock star.”
The praise comes from Ford Grayson. He’s on the other end of the line, and I swear I can see his animated face, pointing at his screen, thrilled at the photos that have made their way across social feeds. “The world is seeing how motherfucking awesome this dude is. And check out the two of you.” I brace myself as Ford whistles his appreciation while checking out our picture, clearly. “You look like such a great team.”
I breathe a private sigh of relief, grateful that my feelings for the man were indeed shrouded in the image. All pro, that’s the goal.
“He’s been easy to work with, as he’s always been,” I say, pacing across my hotel room, checking the time. Jones said he’d text or call as soon as he finished his workout, and to say I’m an eager beaver would be an understatement. Though, it’s not just the beaver that’s eager; all of me wants to see all of him.
“When he gets back in town, Liam wants him to shoot some commercials and some online ads for Paleo Pet right before training camp,” Ford continues, chattering away about the deal. “Then they can roll that partnership out big-time. The sky is the limit. And you know, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this so well without you. Jones says you’re a dream to work with.”
Dream. I fear that’s what these two days will feel like when tomorrow comes and we go home. Nothing but a lovely, dirty, wonderful dream that’s ended far too soon.
“It’s been my pleasure,” I say tightly, and once more the double entendre isn’t lost on me. Everything with Jones has been more pleasure than I imagined.
And more pleasure than I should allow.
A frisson of guilt washes over me as Ford heaps on more praise for my work. But I bat the feeling away. I am a damn fine addition to the team. I have helped. I’ve done good work for Jones. I can’t let my feelings for him obscure the reality that we are well and truly a great team professionally.
I thank Ford, and as I hang up, a lump forms in my throat. Dumb lump. Stupid emotions. I roll my shoulders like a boxer, trying to shake off the wayward emotion. Touching my cherry earrings, I tell myself to keep my head clear. There’s nothing to cry over. Nothing to get all sad and mournful about.
Everything is going great for Jones. Everything is going great for me at work.
Work—the word clangs in my mind. My mother taught me to act with honesty and integrity in all endeavors. Perhaps that’s why there’s a lump in my throat and a churning in my stomach. Maybe I’m not behaving as I should at work.
I honestly believe Jones is a good guy. I truly want the world to see his real heart. That has to mean I’m acting with honesty and integrity, I tell myself, as I wring my hands.
I can’t ask my mom for advice, though, and I don’t know what she would have told me. Instead, I picture my dad’s face—my sarcastic, sweet, lonely-but-dealing-with-it widower father. He’d understand, surely. He’s been a fan of Jones. He’s always been a softie, a romantic. He would side with the heart. He always did.
Even so, I can’t expect him to fully understand all the risks. I can’t trick myself into believing what I’m doing is okay, simply because my dad thinks we’d be a cute couple.
I vow to remain realistic, to make my own choices. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this brief and fantastic fling, as well as its inevitable ending.
I square my shoulders, grab my phone, and turn to my playlist. I love me some sexy music. Always have. That’s the mood I want to be in tonight, so I find Zayn’s “Pillowtalk” and crank the tune all the way up. Closing my eyes, I sway to the slow jam, moving my body to its languid notes, its sensual words, its filthy lines, too.
It’s a promise of a long, lingering night rich with the kind of tempo I want with Jones. As I listen, I don’t think about good ideas or bad ideas. Roles or places. Right or wrong.
I let go of the daughter I am, the hard worker I am, the career woman I am. Tonight, I want to be only one part of me.
The woman. The lover.
When my phone rings, I’m turned on before I hear his voice. I’ve already set my own mood.
“Can you meet me in five minutes?” His gravelly voice rumbles over me.
“Yes.”
“Come down the hall to my room. You don’t even have to knock.”
“I don’t? Are you leaving the door open?”
“No. There is a key in the side of your purse. I put it there at the pool,” he says, and I remember the tugging I felt on my bag. That was him. “Let yourself in. You’ll understand why.”
20
Jillian
I slide the card key across his door, anticipation threading through me. Goose bumps rise on my arms. I don’t know what he has in store, but the crazy beat of my heart tells me I want whatever is coming my way.
Badly.
As soon as I push open the door, I know.
Water from the shower pounds in a rhythm, signaling to me. A zing tears through me, racing across my skin, leaving tingles in its wake.
I shut the hotel room door behind me, locking the chain.
I tiptoe, not because I need to, but because I want to. The lights are low, and when I enter the large, white-tiled bathroom, only the mirror lights are on. They illuminate him just enough. I see his reflection first in the mirror, and heat rushes to my core.
He’s naked in the shower.
He’s giving me my fantasy. Discovering him all alone.
As I walk into the room, I turn my gaze to stare directly at his carved, muscular body through the glass shower wall. He doesn’t look at me as he runs soap over his skin.
He’s bathing, and it’s erotic.
So much more than I dreamed.
That big left hand runs over his r
ight pec, down his side, and I murmur, as if I’m watching a naughty video.
This is my filthy fantasy.
His private time.
As I watch him rub soap across those powerful thighs and legs, he doesn’t acknowledge me. I’ve become a voyeur, and I hope he’s saved the best till the audience arrived.
I walk past the enclosed shower, heading to the counter in front of the mirror. The shower is behind me now, and my back is to him as I stop at the counter. My view in the mirror reveals everything, shows every move he makes. He glides the bar of soap over his body, lathering up his arms, his stomach, and now his erection.
His hand slides over his hard-on.
A murmur falls from my mouth. He’s in silhouette, his hand washing his dick. He lets go of the soap, places it in the dish, and leans under the stream, rinsing the shampoo from his head. Both hands rise, giving me a view of those powerful arms as he drags them through his hair, the suds pooling at his feet.
With his eyes still closed, he lowers his hands, the right drifting down between his legs again.
His palm slides over his cock and strokes once, absently, as if he’s testing whether he wants to pleasure himself, as if he’s curious if he’s even in the mood.
I moan as a wild pulse beats in my body, heat rising in my core. As he runs a hand slowly down his shaft, desire rockets around inside me, flooding every square inch of my body. I’m dying to touch myself, to slide my fingers inside my panties and feel how slick I am.
But I don’t want to miss a minute of this private show. The pace of the water is relentless, insistent. The patter of the stream against the tiles is the soundtrack of his seduction as he grips himself, stroking his length. I can’t help but start to rock my hips. I’m dying to move my body against his, to find some relief for this absolute ache in my center.
Instead, I stare unabashedly in the reflection as he tugs on his cock, his other hand cupping his balls. His palm moves faster, his fist sliding over the head now, squeezing, then back down to the base. I’m so jealous of his hand. I want it to be my hand, my mouth, me. But I want this even more. I want this movie that he’s not acting in—he is in—to keep playing on the screen in the mirror.
I’ve never been more aroused in my life. He squeezes harder, his hips moving now, rocking, thrusting, and my God, he’s truly fucking his own fist.
I’m liquid. I’m a pool of heat. My skin flames red-hot, and my bones dissolve.
A loud groan echoes from the shower, and it triggers a wave of molten pleasure. The fact that he’s so turned on already is killing me. I jam my palms against the counter, gripping the edge, watching him, craving him, wanting to know what he looks and sounds like when he comes alone while thinking of me.
But tonight, he’s alone with me. His hand shuttles faster, up and down his erection. He still doesn’t meet my gaze, and I love it. I love that he’s showing me what he does when I’m not here.
His lips part.
A harsh breath comes.
A jerk of his hand.
A thrust of his hips.
A visible shudder.
“Jillian.”
My name is a dirty word. I break. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve become a bonfire, and I’m going to burn alive if I don’t get in there with him right now. Swiveling around, I strip in a frenzy, tossing my sundress on the floor along with my shoes, panties, and bra.
He turns to me, his eyes blazing with heat, even in the shadowy light. “Get in here.”
I nod. I’ll do anything he says. He opens the door, and I step into the shower with him. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing. His hand flies over his cock, and I’m on edge. So aroused. So wet. So needy.
His expression is marked with a lust that I want to experience for a long, long time. “You’re gonna make me come.” His voice is a growl.
I’m desperate as I answer, “I want to taste it. I want to taste you. Let me.”
He tips his chin. “Get on your knees.”
In a second, I’m on the floor, my knees digging into the tiles, my hands grabbing his hips, my eyes watching his.
He stares down at me as he jerks his length. “This what you pictured?” His hand is a blur. His words are rough.
“Yes, but it’s so much better.”
“Fuck, baby. The real thing is so much better with you.” His hand moves faster than I knew it could, and he grunts my name. His next words are one syllable only. Tinged with desire. “Yeah. Now. Fuck.”
He yanks his shaft to my lips and I open, but he doesn’t fill my mouth. He rubs the head over my top lip as he trembles and comes on my lips, rubbing it across my mouth. My tongue flicks out, licking it off, tasting him.
He pants and groans and swears again and again.
Like this is too much for him to take.
Like he can barely comprehend how hard he’s come, how much I want him.
He reaches for my shoulders and pulls me to my feet, wiping his hand across my mouth before he kisses me like a mad, hungry man. As our lips lock, his hand finds its way between my legs where he discovers how insanely wet I am there.
He breaks the kiss, murmuring in my ear, “You’re drenched, baby.”
I nod. I can barely speak now. I only want him to put me out of my misery. My sounds are wanton and wild as he strokes. It won’t take long at all. I’m practically there. He pushes two fingers inside, his thumb rubbing where I want him most, and all the nerve endings in my body sizzle at once, then crackle. An instant and shattering burst of exquisite pleasure overtakes me, and I come on his hand while his lips devour mine.
Afterward, he dries me off, carries me to his bed, finds a condom, and spreads me open once more. I’m still wet and eager for him, and he’s hard again, ready to go.
He sinks inside me, and we screw like the desperate creatures we are. But even as we pant, as we scratch, as we thrust, this time feels different. He brings me closer, wraps his arms tighter around me, lowers his mouth to my ear.
Becomes gentler.
More tender.
Needier.
His words hook into me, surrounding me, warming my soul.
Want you.
Want this.
Wish I could have you again.
He takes me to the edge, talking dirty, talking sweet.
I’ll keep wanting this. I won’t stop wanting you.
Before I can even start to think about what this all means, I’m yanked under by another epic climax. He’s right behind me, flying in this land of ecstatic bliss by my side.
We spend the night together, and the morning comes far too soon, the dawn a cruel reminder that sultry, sexy Miami is nearly behind us and that we’re heading home to San Francisco, where our brief and explosive secret affair will become a fiery memory, one I will revisit over and over.
Endlessly, I’m sure, because I don’t know how I will ever get him out of my system.
But I’ll have to find a way.
21
Jones
Training camp is brutal. It’s supposed to be brutal. Exhaustion is my sole state of mind and body at the end of every day as Coach Greenhaven works us to the bone. We run routes like we’ve never run routes before. Last year, we went as far as the championship game, but we were knocked out by our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks. This year, the goal is to go all the way to another ring.
Better, faster, stronger. That’s my motto as I rise at dawn, hit the weight room, then run drills and sprints on the practice field all afternoon.
During training camp, I’m all football all the time, and I love it.
Except when I see Jillian.
We train at a university an hour from the city, and she’s here regularly, since training camp is a media fiesta. At least a few times a week, I see her. Standing against the wall in the back of the press conference room, scribbling notes in her notebook, tapping out replies to emails on her phone. Hanging out on the edge of the field, answering questions from reporters and bloggers. One afternoon
as I grab water after an intense drill, I see a local sportscaster stride over to her. Kevin Stone is his name, and he dresses sharp. As he approaches, Jillian crosses her arms and raises her chin, a slight shift in her demeanor, as if she’s protecting herself.
Awareness slams me like a linebacker.
She used to date him. I remember her seeing him a year ago. Holy shit. Is he the asshole who detests room service? Wait. His crime is way worse than hating a great meal option. He’s the shithead who cheated on her. For a second, this feels a little like jealousy because it tightens my muscles and makes me grit my teeth. But I feel zero envy for that ass. He’ll never have that incredible woman again. Not after he broke her trust.
That’s what pisses me off. That’s why I’m wound up. That jackass hurt my woman, and I have half a mind to march over, shoot him a withering glare, and tell him he lost out on the greatest chance ever.
But I don’t do that. I snap my gaze away and down another water. I lost a chance, too.
For vastly different reasons, but I’m in the same boat as that fucker.
She’s not my woman, either.
On the second to last day of training camp, Jillian asks the marquee players to sit for a news conference. That’s Cooper, Harlan, Rick, and me.
At the end of the presser, a sports blogger tosses out the final question in my direction. “Jones, how do you feel about your chances this year?”
The question has been asked every day, countless times, in press conferences all across the NFL and in every professional sports league. Reporters and fans have a bottomless appetite for pondering how far any team can go. Can we go all the way? That’s what everyone wants to know. Hell, that’s why we play.
As I clear my throat and prepare to answer, my eyes drift to Jillian, standing against the white wall near the front of the room. I’ve seen her in this pose hundreds of times before, dressed to the nines, her brown eyes taking in the whole room.
She wears a black skirt and a candy-apple red blouse with white polka dots. She’s so fucking business-sexy that it’s impossible for me not to want to strip those clothes off and fuck her against the wall.
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