by Shayla Black
“Rum, vodka, four flavors of liqueur, a few fruit juices, along with some sweet-and-sour mix. It goes down smooth like a punch because it’s loaded with sugar, but it packs a hell of a wallop. It will sneak up and set you on your ass.”
After the last few months of malaise, an evening with strong booze and an even stronger woman sounds fantastic.
“I don’t know… Is that some fruity girls’ drink?” I can’t resist teasing her.
“They all say that—at first. Come with me.”
She heads to the kitchen, which I hadn’t even been able to find on my first pass through the enormous house. I didn’t realize how big over eight thousand square feet really was until I roamed the joint. Trace will come visit me now and then. But otherwise, what am I alone going to do with this much house?
Another problem for another day.
Right now, I far prefer to focus on Harlow’s fine ass, swaying gently from side to side as she leads the way toward the heavenly scent of slow-roasting meat and potatoes.
“That smells so good. And you eat that?” I nod at the Crock-Pot once we reach the kitchen.
“You don’t?”
“I love it.” And it isn’t as if I have to maintain the strict chicken-and-rice diet I did during my pro quarterbacking days. I can splurge every so often now. “Most women I know are too busy watching their figures.”
She snorted. “I may be carrying a few extra pounds but if I have to choose between being a bag of bones and eating hearty, I’m totally picking food. Separate me from cupcakes, and we’ll have a real problem.”
I laugh. Nothing about this woman is artificial. Not her hair, her nails, her breasts, or even her glow. Certainly not her personality.
I can’t remember finding my last five girlfriends put together half this amusing.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Mix me a drink, woman. Some booze and beef is just what I need.”
Harlow has an easy way in the kitchen. It’s not organized or neat, but somehow she makes a few homemade biscuits, which are ready at the same time the roast and veggies come out—all while mixing the drinks. We talk. And we laugh. My own mother hasn’t directed me to set the table since I was maybe twelve, but Harlow does it with a snap of her fingers and without missing a beat.
I’m still smiling as I sit to eat. She presses a few buttons on her phone and some old-school Nirvana roars through built-in speakers. It’s like she’s speaking my language.
Then I take my first bite of the roast and moan.
“Good?”
“Amazing.” I sip the drink. Like she warned, it’s sweet but not syrupy or cavity-inducing. I gulp down half of it in a few long swallows. “So is the booze. You’re gorgeous and have good taste in music. You know, I think we should get married.”
Harlow laughs me off. “Oh, god. None of that for me. I’m happy with just sex.”
I can barely swallow the bite of roast I just shoveled in my mouth. Now there’s a subject I can warm to.
Bracing an elbow on the table, I set my fork down and level a smoldering stare her way. “I can make that happen.”
A little smile dances across her face. “I’ll bet you can.” Her gaze slides over my shoulders and chest, and I swear she’s so potent it almost feels as if she’s touched me with her hands. “You look more than capable to me.”
I see interest and speculation on her face. She’s wondering what I’d be like in bed.
“I’ll give you whatever you want, Harlow. However you want it. As long as you want it. As hard as you want it. All you have to do is say the word.”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment, merely sips her liver transplant from a red Solo cup and stares at me over the rim. “How do I know you’re not an ax murderer?”
She’s teasing. I think. “You weren’t worried about that when I approached you all laid out by the pool.”
“Yeah, but I was watching you. The only harm you were causing me then was blocking my rays. I figured that if you had murder on your mind, you would have done far more than stand there gawking at me.”
“I wasn’t gawking.”
“You totally were. I know I surprised you by being here, but once you got over that you checked me out. You going to deny it?”
“No, I am not. That is one banging bikini you’re wearing. You look damn fine in it.”
“Thank you. My brothers hated it and suggested something with a skirt down to my knees.”
“They’re your brothers. When my little sister got married last year, I winced every time someone talked about what they’d be doing on their honeymoon. I just…can’t think about that.”
Her smile turned into a sparkling laugh. “I hear you. My brothers are newlyweds. It’s one reason I’ve stayed here. Their wives are sweet as pie, but if I bunked with them until I head back to San Diego… Let’s just say I don’t want to hear my sisters-in-law crying out in passion or whatever.” She winces. “Just no.”
I laugh. “How do you know there’d be screaming?”
“Please. My brothers are macho enough that they’d insist on that whole conquering, chest-beating thing. I also suspect they’re trying to get their wives pregnant, and I’d rather not be under the same roof for that momentous occasion.”
I pause and consider. There’s no way I’d want to hear Samaria conceiving. “I see your point. Yet another reason for you to stay the night.”
Harlow leans back in her seat and sips her drink. “Back to the sex thing, huh?”
“You brought it up,” I remind her.
“So I did.” She shrugs, and I get the feeling she’s used to saying whatever’s on her mind. “Did I surprise you?”
“A little bit. But in a good way.”
“Aren’t you pro athletes used to women throwing themselves at you?”
“It happens.” A lot. And I’ve grown more discerning over the years. But I still haven’t run across one like Harlow in the last dozen years. Maybe ever. Most of the women looking to collect a “trophy” by sleeping with a celebrity sports figure lure the guy with her body, not her personality. Harlow seems to have tons of both. “I don’t often say yes these days.”
She raises a dark brow at me as she lifts a forkful of meat. “But you once did?”
I think about dodging, but she’s pretty straightforward. This likely won’t be a long-term relationship, so there’s no reason for jealousy or accusations. “I admit that I was once twenty-two and stupid.”
“We all were.” She rolls her eyes, seemingly poking fun at herself, too. “I did a lot of ridiculous things as an undergrad. Thankfully, I outgrew it. I’m guessing you did, too.”
“I like to think so.” Though when it comes to Harlow, I suspect some parts of me are smarter than others. My brain is trying to keep up…but most of the blood in my body is flooding to my cock. The two heads don’t always work simultaneously, and right now I’m having trouble keeping up with the conversation. First, Harlow has boobs. Great boobs. And I’m just a man with an oral fixation. Second, the time difference is catching up with me. It may only be seven p.m. in Hawaii, but my body is still on Dallas time, where it’s midnight. I don’t want to think about why being tired distresses me so much.
And right on cue, my head up north starts a dull throb. After all, why should the one down south be miserable all alone?
“If you’re all enlightened and mature now, why didn’t you ever tie the knot?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself more than once. A lot of my teammates started out wild and have since settled down. “Maybe I never met the right person. You?”
She hesitates. “I thought I might get hitched once but it didn’t work out and splitting up was for the best. I’m not really cut out for attachments and commitments.”
I frown. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person, either.”
Harlow looks as if she might argue, then she wipes the expression from her face and gives me an easy-breezy shrug I don’t believe for a minute. “Maybe so. Seconds
?”
I don’t argue. What’s the point?
When I glance at my plate, I’m surprised to see it empty. Ditto for my bright plastic cup. “I think I’m good for now.”
She stands and heads to the kitchen counter she’s turned into a makeshift bar, then proceeds to pour herself another drink. “Sure thing, lightweight.”
At her teasing, I lounge back in my chair, arm slung over the back, and watch her. “When I haven’t spent all day traveling and I’m not feeling like I’m in the wrong time zone, I’ll prove you wrong.”
“You’re on. I’ll cut you a little slack tonight since you’ve been on a plane.” She stirs her drink, then sits back in her chair. When she lifts her lashes and pins me with a flirty gaze, I know I’m in trouble. “Does that mean you’re too tired for sex?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been too tired for that.” I refrain from mentioning the marathon with the blonde bombshell after my last Super Bowl win. All I needed after one of the hardest games of my career was a shower. Then I was good to go. Don’t see why tonight will be any different…
As long as we don’t have to talk.
She sends me a sultry glance. “Good to hear.”
“You’re serious.” About the sex. About us having it. I don’t ask her because it’s not a question.
She lifts a shoulder in an offhanded shrug. “I’m single. You’re single. We have this damn nice place to ourselves. I’m attracted, I admit. I think you’d only block my sun to gawk at me if you liked what you saw. So why not?”
Honestly, she isn’t using rationale I haven’t used myself. It seems logical. Obvious, even. But something about the way she’s coolly propositioning me gives me pause. I want to get to know her more. Spend time with her. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe because she’s not my same old-same old. But I have a nagging suspicion that if I take her upstairs and give her a very personal tour of my master suite, she might well be gone by morning.
Normally, that would seem like a great outcome. So why am I not down with her vacating the house I bought for my private retreat? No idea, but there it is. I’m rolling with it.
“Why don’t we swim first? I never got to test the pool before you fed me this amazing meal.”
“Sure.” She stands as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, but suddenly she won’t look at me as she lifts our plates to clear them from the table.
As Harlow bustles to the sink, I follow her, wrapping my fingers around her arm. “Hey.”
Somehow, she manages to ease out of my grip yet still set the plates in the sink. “If you’re not interested, it’s no big deal. I’ve heard no before.”
From a blind man? “Baby, I’m not saying no. I’m just saying that I’d rather not rush this. We have all night.”
Some of the ice melts from her chilly posture. “All right.”
“And not to sound like a fainting Victorian belle or anything, but I have a bitch of a headache.”
Concern creases her face. “Do you want something for that?”
I wish a good, old-fashioned orgasm would cure it…but probably not. “Ibuprofen and a cup of strong coffee?”
“Sure. I’ll start the pot. Tablets are in the pantry over there.” She points me in the right direction.
“Thanks,” I call over my shoulder as I walk into the enormous closet off the kitchen that Harlow has stocked with a few spices and canned goods. I shake out withdraw a couple of pills before putting the bottle back on the shelf.
When I emerge from the pantry, Harlow is staring at the coffee brewer, watching it drip. “How do you like it?”
Then it happens, just like before. One minute I’m in the moment. The next…nothing. And I know what’s coming. I start to sweat. Still, I try to open my mouth and form words.
I know if I push the sounds through, nothing coherent will come out. I’ll blurt some sound that can’t even pass as a “huh?” or “what?” I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and try again to remember the conversation. What did she ask me?
“You okay?”
Since there’s nothing wrong with my motor skills, I merely nod.
“Want your coffee black? Or do you just want to call it a night?”
I still can’t find my words, but at least I know she was asking me about coffee before I spaced out. Fuck. Why is this still happening to me?
I shake my head and try to snag the cup from the brewer. If I whip it up to my lips, maybe she won’t notice the silence. Black coffee is my preference. Why can’t I say that right now? I know the words. They’re in my head. I just can’t seem to get them to my mouth.
“Sit down.” She smooths out a frown. “I’ll wash the dishes and clean the kitchen.”
I’m afraid to look at Harlow again. Confusion on her face would be bad, pity way worse. I grip my mug and stare down into the dark brew, wondering how long the episode will last this time. I know sleep will help, but damn it, I don’t want to give up tonight with this woman. I’m not sure the chance will ever come again. Until this shit, I didn’t have much in the scintillating conversation department anyway, but to have zero? How can I get naked with her if I can’t even talk to her, ask her what pleases her?
Stubbornly, I shake my head.
She frowns. “Really. I’ve got this. Why don’t you hang on the sofa and I’ll join you when I’m done. It will only take ten minutes.”
I want to argue, but without words, how? Then Harlow makes everything easier when she leads me to the living room and fluffs a cushion on the island-casual couch, then gives me a saucy wink. “When I’m done, if you still want to have your wicked way with me, I’m totally game.”
Finally, I look her way. Really look. I don’t see pity. I see concern. Weirdly, that turns me on.
Unfortunately, I can’t seem to summon the verbal skills to thank her. I promise myself I’ll show her my appreciation in bed later.
When I hear water running in the kitchen sink behind me and the pop of the dishwasher opening, I close my eyes. Maybe a ten-minute power nap will resurrect my verbal agility. If not, I’ll simply have to show her that I’m really good with my tongue.
CHAPTER TWO
I jolt awake. The kitchen is dark, as is the living room. I look around and find the place empty.
“Harlow?”
Thank fuck my ability to speak is back. The sleep must have restored me. It usually does.
I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time. My eyes nearly pop from my head. I conked out for three hours?
What. The. Fuck?
Worse, she didn’t answer. Did she decide I’m a deadbeat who can’t put out and catch a ride to one of her brothers’ pads? Or worse, decide she was better off finding someone else more capable of scratching whatever itch she has? Normally, if a hookup was too horny to wait and didn’t care who she dropped her panties for, then she would be more than welcome to find some douchebag to cozy up to for the night.
Thinking that Harlow might be on the prowl both angers me and fills me with a dread that makes zero sense.
Seriously, what is wrong with me tonight?
Stomping up the stairs, I call her name again. No answer.
Quickly, I figure out which bedroom she occupies. It’s the one that smells like her, island vanilla and gardenia. It’s the one with lacy panties folded on the dresser next to a strappy bra. A pair of red wedges are strewn around the room as if she kicked them off the second she walked in. Her suitcase peeks out from a luggage rack in the closet, visible through the cracked door.
At least if she left, she hasn’t left for good.
On her nightstand, I see her tablet, a thick biography about Elizabeth Blackwell. I have no idea who that was or what she accomplished. But after I find Harlow, I’ll Google it and figure out what fascinates the woman who’s beginning to fascinate me.
Right now, I just want to know where the hell Harlow has gone.
A check of the other seven bedrooms in this place, including mine, proves pointless. I stomp b
ack downstairs and look from room to room—office, formal living, formal dining, exercise room—empty. I rake a hand through my hair. Where has she gone?
Then I hear splashing outside, along with the distinct sounds of Evanescence.
Darting for the pool, I see Harlow’s little red bikini lying on a lounger. She’s skinny-dipping? I glance around for confirmation and find the woman herself clutching a pool noodle with one hand and a glass of wine with the other.
“Hi, Sleeping Beauty.” She grins my way.
“Sorry about that. I can’t remember the last time I just fell off.”
“You obviously needed it. Feel better?”
“Tons. Thanks. How about you?”
“Great. I love drinking alone.” Her smirk says she’s poking harmlessly at me again. “But you gave me time to finish the dishes, do some laundry, read War and Peace…”
“Stop,” I groan. “Three hours is a long nap. I admit it. You going to ease up now?”
“When teasing you is so fun?” She raises a brow. “What do you think are the odds?”
Shitty. “How can I make it up to you? If you want to hop out of the pool and come to my bedroom, I’ll do my best to put a big smile on your face.”
“I’m intrigued,” she admits. “But in between chapters of the sad Russian saga, I Googled you. You’re, um…a big deal.”
I feel heat rush to my face. I’m used to people talking about me, but I’ve never been completely comfortable with it. “I’m told I was. But like I said, I’m retired now.”
“Hall of Famer, for sure.”
“So my agent assures me.” I shrug. “I’m trying not to linger in the past. I still have a lot of life to live.”
She splashes around a little more. “I don’t know. You’re practically ancient compared to me.”
Is this woman going to rib me about everything? Probably. And I still think it’s oddly adorable. It’s way more entertaining than the bowing, scraping, and yes-sirring I’ve been hearing for years. “How much older?”
“Almost nine years. When you were graduating from high school, I was starting junior high. These days, do you need vitamins before sex or a little blue pill?”