Scoring Off the Field

by Naima Simone

  One second she breathed slightly dusty storage-room air, and in the next, she inhaled hot, pissed-off male. Long-fingered, large hands used to palming footballs bracketed her head. A hard, giant body loomed over her, blocking out the scenery of stacked chairs and collapsed round tables. And the most beautiful face in the world bent over hers, breath tinted with the sweet, tart flavor of champagne grazing her lips. Hooded blue eyes stared down at her, and she shivered at the intensity she could almost feel on her skin.

  If she were smart, she would shut it. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of quarterback on the edge had her caged in. Yeah, if she had the brains God gave a gnat, she’d keep quiet…

  “I bet he can go all night,” she whispered.

  His mouth crashed down on hers, silencing her with a thrust of his tongue between her lips. She wasn’t surprised; she’d understood what she’d been doing. Had understood what goading him would result in. This. So when he angled his head and stroked deeper, she opened wider, giving him the more he demanded. His tongue tangled with hers, dueling, claiming. His strong teeth tugged at her bottom lip, sucking on it, before returning to her mouth. With a low moan, she offered herself up to him, letting him have it all. Have her. Because, God, she’d waited so long, dreamed so long, for this moment. And damn if she wouldn’t wring it out for all its worth before it ended.

  He abandoned her mouth, and when she emitted a soft sound of protest, he pressed a brief, firm kiss to her lips, then trailed them down her chin and jaw to her neck. As his mouth opened over her skin, his tongue dancing over her wildly beating pulse, the disappointed whimper turned into a pleading cry.

  Desperation kept her hands pressed to the door behind her, fingers curled. The need to touch him raced through her like forest fire, but she resisted the urge, afraid one caress would yank him out of whatever lust-infused trance he’d fallen into. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to spy the regret and sadness that had twisted his face a week ago after kissing her. She’d do whatever was necessary to stave that off. Even if for just a little while longer.

  Her refusal to use her hands didn’t stop her from arching into the sensual glide of his lips over her collarbone down to her chest. He blazed a trail of pure sensation over her flesh, licking the inner curves of her breasts revealed by the deep neckline of her dress. His teeth grazed, his tongue soothed. And all the while, her nails bit into her palms as the words, please don’t stop, please don’t stop, chanted in her head.

  With a swift jerk, he dragged the dress’s wide shoulder strap down her arm, leaving it above her elbow. Another tug, and the bodice covering her breast bared her red lace bra.

  “Goddamn,” he swore, voice rough, a little ragged. Brutal satisfaction tore through her. He sounded two seconds from losing control because of her. “You shouldn’t be this fucking sexy,” he rasped. “I shouldn’t…”

  Whatever he’d been about to utter was lost as he flicked her nipple with the tip of his tongue through the almost sheer material. She shuddered, pleasure ripping down her and heading straight for her sex. She loosed a small whimper at the ache there, shifting restlessly. He gave her another lick, this one slower, more indulgent.

  “Oh Christ,” she whispered, her voice cracking. Surrendering to the roaring need to touch, she burrowed her fingers in his hair, gripping the strands much like he’d done to her during their ill-fated kiss. “Suck it, Dom. Please, don’t tease me.” She’d waited so long, she couldn’t bear his coy, playful caresses.

  Surprise flashed through the hunger in his eyes, and something darker, more wicked, entered the blue depths. Maybe a warning of being careful of what she asked for. Not breaking their visual connection, he pushed aside the lace of her bra, lowered his head to her flesh again, and slowly, so fucking slowly, drew the rigid tip between his lips. Then sucked.

  She thumped the back of her head against the door, her lips parting on a silent cry as his tongue swirled around her nipple, tugging, damn feasting. She arched so hard into him, her back nearly bowed.

  Needing more, she released her hold on him to push the other strap down, including the bra’s. Hell, she’d been fantasizing about this for years, never believing it would come true. Now that it had, she didn’t have time to be shy. Not when arousal had her in its relentless, consuming grip.

  He switched breasts, his fingers and cool air replacing his mouth. While he tweaked and pinched her damp nipple, his lips closed over the neglected one, giving it the same attention as its twin. God, every lap, every sweep and thrust of his tongue had her closing in on the blurry edges of orgasm. Just from him sucking her breasts. Shit, she’d thought that was a myth. But now, now he’d not only made her a believer but a fervent devotee.

  As if a marionette string ran from her nipples to her clit, each pull and strong suck had her hips jerking, her thighs twitching. Anything to alleviate the pressure building and building between her legs. Jesus, she needed him to touch her. Stroke. Lick. Damn it, she just needed him.

  As if reading her mind, he dropped a hand to her waist and fisted the material over her hip, bunching it so the hem of her dress rode higher and higher. Baring her legs. Allowing the cool, stale air in the storage room to graze her flesh. But she wanted more than recycled air brushing the insides of her thighs. Impatient, she grabbed the other side of the gown and dragged it up.

  Straightening, he curved his fingers under her thigh and hooked her knee over his hip, opening her wide. She shuddered, more aware than ever of the damp silk covering her sex. It wouldn’t take much to set her off. She was so aroused, so turned on, that one caress, one slide of his finger through her folds, and she would explode. Another shiver rippled through her. Because she craved that. So bad.

  Lowering his head, he clamped his teeth on the sensitive tendon running the length of her neck. And his fingers—oh Jesus, his fingers—they skimmed over her stomach, glided over her hip, and slid beneath her panties. And thrust inside her.

  The scream clawed up her throat, pushed its way into her mouth. No teasing preamble, no preparatory caresses. Just that firm, hard stroke that set her on fire…and set her off. She detonated around his finger, felt her flesh grasping at him as she tumbled helplessly into ecstasy.

  He rode her through it, his knuckles bumping her clit, dragging out the pleasure until she sank her teeth into her bottom lip and could do nothing but whimper.

  Soon, too damn soon, the storm eased. Her head cleared of the red-tinged passion-filled haze, and the world expanded to include the low click and whir of the air conditioning, her harsh breaths echoing in her head, and the pressure of his thick finger still wedged inside her.

  Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, Dom met her undoubtedly wide gaze. What in the hell had just happened? The same shock darkened his eyes, and she could do nothing but stare mutely up at him. Slowly, he eased his finger from her body, and unbidden, she gasped, her core clutched at him, as if resenting his abandonment. His full lips firmed, and a muscle ticked along his jaw.

  Arousal flagged his cheekbones, and one glance down affirmed the presence and size of an erection that left her mouth dry. She’d just exploded in the most delicious, bone-melting orgasm she’d ever experienced—even previous releases delivered courtesy of her own hand—and already need slid through her veins, prepping her for round two.

  But she didn’t need to study his expression to know there wouldn’t be another go. Already, tension invaded his big body, and his arms lowered to his side, his fingers curled into fists. He didn’t reach for her, or for his cock that pressed against his pants leg. No, he had no intention of finishing what they’d started. Or what she’d goaded him into.

  Anger sizzled under her skin. Humiliation and anguish settled in her chest like a huge boulder, bearing down, squeezing. Hell no, she refused to look into his face. Because last time, the remorse and pity had stabbed her in the heart. This time, it would obliterate the stupid, treacherous organ.

  In seconds, she jerked her dress down and tugged the dress
straps back into place. Whipping around, she snatched up her shoes, yanked open the door and tripped out in the hallway. She didn’t even glance back when Dom called her name. Cutting a direct path to the bathroom, she didn’t acknowledge him or the harsh curse he uttered as he followed her. She shoved into the bathroom and hurriedly twisted the lock in case he even thought about barging in to explain. To talk.

  To apologize.

  To explain why it shouldn’t—and couldn’t—happen again.

  Sinking onto the floral-upholstered couch, she avoided the mirror hanging on the wall opposite her. She had an idea of what she looked like. Smeared lipstick over a kiss-swollen mouth. Rumpled dress. Flushed face. In other words, like a woman who’d just been sexed and discarded.

  And she had herself to blame.

  Covering her face with her hands, she swallowed the sob that welled up in her throat. And yet, she wasn’t completely successful because the tail of it echoed in the room.

  Not again. She wouldn’t permit herself to be a fool again.

  Chapter Nine

  Dom slammed his gloved hands into the black punching bag, sending it swinging on its chain. He skipped back as it swayed toward him, and then he bobbed and weaved, throwing another fist. The impact sent a vibration singing up his arm and into his shoulder. Ordinarily, his workout didn’t include the punching bag, but today, when he needed to excise the confusion and frustration that had kept him awake all night, lifting weights wouldn’t cut it.

  An image of Tennyson last night in that temptation of a dress floated in front of him. Right on its heels, another vision of her solidified. Her, the same dress rucked up around her thighs; lips, plump from his mouth, parted; pretty brown eyes glazed with passion. Grinding his teeth together, he delivered another blow to the bag.

  Her voice, whispering, demanding. Suck it, Dom. Please, don’t tease me. Another punishing ram of his fist. And another. And another.

  By the time he finished twenty minutes later, sweat rolled off his body like little runoff streams, his shoulders and arms were tight…and he still hadn’t beaten away the memories.

  Especially the last one. When she’d bolted from him like he’d sprouted razor-sharp teeth and claws.

  Jesus Christ. Disgusted, he unlaced his gloves and wrenched them off, throwing them on the floor of his home gym. He shouldn’t have cornered her, should’ve left well enough alone.

  When he’d scoped out the storage room at the gala earlier, catching her and starting the talk they should’ve had days ago had been his only intention. A conversation about them, their friendship, and clearing the air so they could move on from this stumbling block.

  He definitely hadn’t intended to discuss her online date, Michael. Or grow angry over her contemplating out loud how good sex would be with the guy.

  Or shove his hand under her skirt and finger-fuck her pussy.

  “Shit.” His whisper reverberated off the stark white walls and mirrors in the room. He’d messed up. Badly. He’d glimpsed her face before she’d escaped the storage room. Had spotted the embarrassment and hurt in those expressive chocolate eyes. Had caught the tremble of her soft mouth.

  The person in this world he loved most, and he’d caused her pain because he’d allowed his dick to override his brain.

  Now how did he fix it? Fix them? Because losing her wasn’t an option. Yet, the last two times they’d been together, he’d committed the very sin capable of destroying their friendship.

  And now that he intimately knew how slick and tight she was, how wet she got? The hunger that should’ve been extinguished by the danger of causing harm to their relationship only burned hotter and brighter with the knowledge. He couldn’t scrub it from his mind. Couldn’t erase the sound of her cries from his brain. Couldn’t forget how she’d tasted—both her mouth and her breasts. Couldn’t wipe out how she’d come apart with just one thrust of his fingers.

  Women sought him out to get in his bed for any number of reasons. A chance at a relationship. Fifteen minutes of fame. Money they hoped to get out of him. Hell, a notch on their own belt. And they pulled out all the sexual acrobatics and stunts to make themselves memorable. But none of their wild positions or porn star–worthy performances had made him as hard, as close to losing it as Tennyson shuddering in his arms, features taut with passion, her sex sucking him deep.

  Maybe if he could find a way to demolish those memories, he could find the resolve and strength not to drive over to her apartment and finish what he started the night before.

  Because even knowing how sex would possibly fuck up their relationship, damn, he wanted to finish.

  Stripping his shirt off, he strode toward the bathroom off the gym. Minutes later, he stepped under the pounding spray of the shower water. As he scrubbed away the sweat from his workout, he wished he could as easily wash away this almost unfathomable need for his best friend.

  With a low curse, he twisted the knobs and stepped out of the glass-enclosed space that was big enough to fit about five people. He toweled off, dragged on a clean pair of black sweatpants, and padded barefoot up the stairs. His schedule was open until a ten o’clock meeting with his agent tomorrow morning. Sunday was a bye week, so he had today and Wednesday off, and then the weekend. Four free days to relax, recuperate, and drive himself nuts thinking about…

  “Tenny.” He blinked, but nope, she still stood there in his foyer as if his thoughts had conjured her. Lust, worry, relief, unease—they rushed through him like an all-out blitz. He braced under the impact.

  “Hey.” She faced him, and if not for her white-knuckled grasp on her messenger bag strap and subtle clenching of her jaw, he would’ve thought her completely composed. Unaffected. But after so many years of friendship, he knew her tells. “I thought you were downstairs, so I was just grabbing a couple of things I left last week…” She patted the front of her bag.

  “You mean, you intended to sneak in and out of here before I came upstairs,” he translated, voice flat.

  Irritation flashed across her face, and her shoulders drew back. The move thrust her breasts forward, and he couldn’t help noticing how her long-sleeved shirt molded over them. Couldn’t help wondering what color bra she wore. Since the night she’d shown up at his house three sheets to the wind, he’d formed a small obsession with her bras and underwear. Black lace. Red lace. Or maybe it was how the sexy lingerie appeared against her soft, golden skin that he’d become obsessed with.

  He yanked his hungry gaze away from her body and up to her face. And caught her eyes fixed on his bare chest. Hot arousal mixed with satisfaction swirled in his gut and lower. If she didn’t stop staring at him as if picturing herself tracing every line of his tattoos with her tongue, then his sweatpants would do a piss-pot poor job of concealing the effect of her attention. Already his cock pulsed, hardening. In another few seconds, no way could she miss what she was doing to him.

  “Tenny?” he murmured.

  “I wasn’t sneaking,” she said, a slight rasp roughening the denial. She scowled. “You were downstairs working out, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  He slowly shook his head. “You were always a shit liar.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her chin notching up in a defiant gesture that had his fingers curling into his palms in a desperate attempt to keep his hands off her. “You would be surprised at how good I am at hiding things.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  A sense of disquiet wormed its way through him. Had she been keeping something from him? She’d been the one reliable, predictable constant in his life. Her and football. But lately, he sometimes felt like he didn’t know her as well as he thought.

  “Where you off to? About to meet up with Michael?” He tried to keep the dark slick of feeling that smacked too damn close to jealousy for his comfort out of his voice. Tried to.

  Her mouth tightened, and he prepared himself for the none of your business that was all up in her expression. In
stead, after a moment, she shook her head. “No. We agreed last night to just remain friends.” She sighed. Glancing away from him, she thrust her fingers through her hair, and the phantom caress of those curls over his palms whispered over his closed fists. “Listen, Dom…”

  “I’m not sorry,” he interrupted, the words propelling from him. She blinked at him, and he commiserated with her surprise. He hadn’t meant to utter those words. But he wasn’t taking them back either.

  He couldn’t.

  Because he meant them.

  “I didn’t feel that way about twenty minutes ago,” he admitted to her and himself. “I was just downstairs beating the hell out of a punching bag because I’d again crossed a line with you I shouldn’t have. But I was also trying to forget how good you tasted. How sweet you moan when you come. How tight you squeezed my fingers…how wet you got them.” Her soft gasp of air reached him across the foyer. Her eyes widened, and the pulse at the base of her throat fluttered like a trapped butterfly’s wings. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Until I walked up here and saw you, I’d convinced myself I could stop all this in its tracks. That I needed to. But fuck,” he whispered. “I can’t pretend to be noble when all I’m thinking about is getting my mouth on you. Getting yours on me. Yeah, I’ve been having a real hard time not imagining you on your knees in front of me putting that pretty mouth to work.”

  The shock in her eyes melted away to a heat that burned through his veins, lighting him up like a stadium on Monday Night Football. Still, he forced himself to stand there, not rush her like he had the previous two times they’d kissed.

  This time, he needed her to come to him. Show him that she craved this like he did. Whatever “this” was. His view of relationships hadn’t changed, and neither had his priorities when it came to his career. The two didn’t mix. But in this instant, all he cared about was burying himself inside her.