Scoring the Player's Baby (WAGs Series)

by Naima Simone

  Then he’d glanced at Kim, and in that moment, she’d been impossibly even more beautiful to him, and as nice as Dr. Pruitt was, he’d wanted her gone. Gone so he could touch Kim, kiss her, hold her with his hand cupping her still-flat belly.

  The reaction had shaken him to his core.

  Still did.

  The intensity of it had him pulling back. The pregnancy—that’s why this…connection with her seemed so strong. This was new territory for him, and he was wading in it—no, treading water. Trying to keep his neck above it before he drowned. He couldn’t confuse this sexual attraction that resulted in a relationship of co-parenting with anything deeper. The only thing that waited at the end of that path was pain.

  He took in the sitting area with its elegant, dark brown leather couch, matching arm chairs, and coffee table. Then he surveyed the big, cherry wood desk with its ruthlessly clean surface. Folders, a phone, computer monitor, and a couple small stacks of paper were aligned like soldiers in a highly disciplined regiment.

  “Where should I put this?” He lifted the bag. “I would say the desk, but damn, hala, that has to be the cleanest one I’ve ever seen in my life. I feel like if I go near it, you might tackle me to the ground. Not that I wouldn’t like that, mind you.”

  “Funny,” she drawled. “The table is fine.” She waved toward the piece of furniture. “You’re a football player who makes seven figures, and you can’t afford to take me to a restaurant?”

  He grinned. Damn, he loved her mouth. And not just when it was doing mind-bending things to his cock.

  He pressed a palm over his chest, fingers splayed wide. “I’m wounded. I truly am. And here I was concerned over how eating in a restaurant with all those different smells coming at you would affect your delicate sensibilities. How is Peanut, anyway? He giving you any grief?”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, the other hand propped on her hip. “Good God, I don’t know which of those ridiculous statements to address first,” she muttered. “Oh, wait, yes, I do.” She held up a finger. “One. No baby of mine will be referred to as Peanut. Big bucket of nope. Two.” Another finger joined the first. “How do you figure it’s a boy? I have a niece, and from the number of your sisters, girls obviously run in your family, so the odds are high that he is a she. Three.” She popped up another finger. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I appreciate you thinking of me and my…delicate sensibilities.”

  He smiled, lifting his hand to run it down her hair, to savor the silken feel of the thick strands under his palm. But at the last moment, he lowered his arm. His gut tightened, and through sheer will, he curled his fingers into a fist, preventing them from tangling in the dark brown mass and hauling her up on her toes so he could devour her mouth. Reacquaint himself with the taste and flavor that his memories insisted was pure sex and everything sweet.

  Distance. Keep it platonic.

  She cleared her throat. “So, what did you bring for dinner?”

  The huskiness of her voice and the slashes of color over her cheekbones taunted him like a red flag that had “I want you but am too stubborn to give in” stitched all over it in blinking Christmas lights.

  Focusing, he started removing items from the bag. “Roasted butternut squash and ginger soup and watermelon mojito salad,” he said, placing two large, cardboard containers on the table. “Baked chicken with a yogurt dressing and rice pilaf.” He set two more beside the others. “For dessert, freshly baked ginger and oatmeal cookies.” And he placed the smallest and lightest of the containers on the far side.

  When he straightened and glanced at her, she blinked at the food that blanketed the table. “Wow.” She lifted her gaze to him. “All of it sounds delicious. And random.”

  He snorted, removing plates, plastic silverware, napkins. “I had to go to about three different restaurants and delis to amass all of this, so yeah, random’s a good word for it.”

  “But why?”

  The patch of skin between her eyebrows was wrinkled in genuine confusion, and he wondered if she meant why the particular selection of food, or why had he gone to all the trouble. The answers to both would be the same.

  You.

  Because she’s having my kid, he corrected himself. His child was more than worth a little extra driving.

  “All of these foods are great to ease morning sickness,” he explained, choosing to address the easiest and less emotionally messy inference. “Here, sit.” He clasped her elbow and guided her to the couch. “I’ll fix your plate. Tell me what you want and don’t want.”

  “Everything,” she admitted with a small smile but with astonishment still coloring her tone. “I haven’t eaten much today.”

  “Because I don’t want my balls handed to me in a Dixie cup, I’ll refrain from commenting on that,” he grumbled.

  Damn. Who watched out for her? As an executive in this place, she probably put out fires, handled everyone else’s problems. But who took care of her? Made sure she didn’t push herself too hard? Asking her those questions would no doubt earn him a severe tongue lashing. And not the good kind either. So, instead, he scooped salad onto a plate and soup into a bowl. While she dug into the salad with an enthusiasm that was strangely sexy as hell, he set the bowl in front of her and fixed another plate with chicken and rice.

  After preparing a huge serving for himself, he lowered himself to the couch beside her.

  “How do you know about these foods?” she asked, sipping from the Styrofoam cup of freshly squeezed lemonade.

  “My mom,” he replied, forking another piece of chicken into his mouth. Huh. Who would’ve thought yogurt and chicken together would be so good?

  Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “You told your mom…”

  He shook his head. “No, I haven’t told her about the baby yet.” At the doctor’s office earlier, she’d asked him to wait for two more weeks, and he wouldn’t break that promise. Although, it was tough not to share with his family, especially his mom.

  But given the reason why she’d probably asked him to wait, he couldn’t be upset. Not many people credited him with strong brain power, but he’d figured it out. Sixteen weeks was as random as the meal selection in front of them. Then there was the unspoken communication between the doctor and Kim when Dr. Pruitt had mentioned the sonogram. And the almost fervent need in Kim’s dove gray gaze when she’d requested he remain silent a little longer.

  His mother had suffered a miscarriage between Malia and Natia, his youngest sister. She’d been devastated. And when she’d discovered she was pregnant with Natia, she’d been overly cautious and reticent until thirteen weeks had passed—the number of weeks at which she’d lost her previous child.

  His chest ached a little at the thought of Kim experiencing that kind of loss. The forthright, often-too-blunt-for-his-own-good part of him almost asked her about it. But another part kept his mouth shut. The part that whispered Kim didn’t trust him enough to share that information. That same section abhorred hurting her by making her talk about it.

  So, he shoveled more chicken and rice in his mouth before explaining further. “My mother is a bit of a…” He scrunched up his face. Hell, how did he describe his carefree, high-spirited, strong, one-with-nature mother? “Hippie.” He snickered. God, his mother hated when they called her that.

  She coughed, covering her mouth. Holding up a hand, she sipped from her lemonade. “What?” she rasped.

  He nodded. “Yep. Oh, she’ll deny it. But she totally is. When bell bottoms came back in style, she was all ready for it because she’d never stopped wearing them. She’s all about chakras, meditation, spirituality, and ‘do you.’ A more peace-loving, laid-back person you won’t find. But if you dare hurt her menagerie of animals or commit a social injustice, she turns feral. Oh, and did I mention she grows weed along with her vegetables?”

  “Shut up,” Kim breathed, sounding thoroughly scandalized—and impressed. The impressed part had him liking her even more. His mother might be, uh, different,
but he’d put any bear with their cubs to shame with how protective he was of her.

  “For medicinal purposes, of course.” He smirked. “Of course, she was growing it even before it became legal. But anyway, when anyone in our community was pregnant, my mom insisted on cooking natural, homegrown meals for them, including my oldest sister. Some were hits, and some were godawful misses. But I remembered the successes since my sister was sick her entire second pregnancy, very vocal about what she liked, and could eat like the zombie apocalypse had hit and food rations were scarce. And if you ever tell her I said that, I will deny, deny, deny.” He glared, jabbing a finger at her.

  But as soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. That wasn’t what they were—a couple who would meet each other’s families. He covertly scrutinized her reaction to his statement but didn’t glimpse that wall of reserve slam down, and some of the tension that had invaded him eased. Hell, not only did he talk about his family all the time, but Kim had actually met Hana. Kim had mentioned a niece, so that meant she had to have a sibling out there…somewhere. Not that she’d ever talked about them.

  An insane and totally insatiable need to know more about her suddenly swelled within him, and unlike most of his urges with her, he didn’t shove this one aside.

  “What about your family?” he asked, though the odds of her shutting him down were high. “Are you close?”

  She remained silent for several seconds, concentrating on her food. Just when he believed she wouldn’t answer, she looked up, that cool mask back in place. Except for the eyes. Those pretty, startling eyes were anything but cool. The vulnerability there… Fuck. He tightened his grip on his fork until the plastic almost snapped in his grip. It was either strangle the hell out of the utensil or grab her and drag her on his lap to comfort whatever had caused that dent in her aloof armor.

  Distance. Keep it platonic. The mantra echoed in his head a second time.

  “I don’t have as big a family as you do. Just my mom, brother, his wife, and their baby. And I didn’t have my brother in my life until I turned fifteen,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone that belied the softness in her gaze. “He didn’t know about me until then, and when he found out, he flew to Chicago to meet me.”

  He didn’t know about me… The wealth of things left unsaid in those five words was weighty.

  “So, you knew about him,” Ronin said with the same straightforwardness she’d used. Intuition warned that if he betrayed the sympathy curling inside him, she would shut down. And he refused to question why he didn’t want that.

  She nodded. “My mother never hid anything about my father or his family from me. She was a model on her first visit to the United States from London, where she was born and raised, when she met my father. They had an affair, and only after several months did she find out he was engaged to be married. From there, it’s the usual story. He wanted her to get an abortion, but she refused, so he dropped her and, other than a monthly check, pretended neither of us existed. See, he belonged to a prominent New York family, and he couldn’t have it known that he’d fathered a bastard.”

  Disgust whipped through him. For both the “men” who’d been his and Kim’s sperm donors, not dads. They appeared to be cut from the same useless cloth. “What a fucker.”

  A ghost of a smile whispered across her mouth. “I’ve overheard him being called that more than once.”

  “You see him?”

  That same faint smile played with her lips, but with a touch of sadness. “Not if he can help it.”

  “Seems like we have more in common than we both thought, hala. My father left when I was ten, when my mom was pregnant with my youngest sister. The next time I saw him was when the Warriors drafted me. Somehow, he managed to find me after ten years of being MIA, proud to claim me as his son. And with his hand out.” He shook his head, the disbelief and hurt from that time still a faded pulse in his chest.

  “What did you do?” she asked softly, with the understanding and the sympathy he didn’t dare show her.

  “I told him to roll the fuck on. He hadn’t been there when I needed him most; he didn’t get to come around then because I’d landed a professional football contract.” Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that. To reveal that. He didn’t talk about his father with anyone. Turning away from her, he picked up the carton of cookies and removed a couple from them. “Here.” He handed her a ginger oatmeal cookie and held up his own. “A toast. Here’s to being the shit because of mothers who were complete bosses.”

  A real smile lit up her face, and she tapped her cookie against his before biting into it. “Holy hell, these are delicious.” She popped the rest of the dessert in her mouth with a low, greedy moan.

  Leaving him with a hard-on that could pound bricks to dust. A hard-on she would get an eyeful of if she glanced down at his thighs.

  She’d made that same wicked, hot sound when she’d been kneeling in front of him, sucking his dick like he was the best thing she’d ever put in her mouth. And when he’d pushed inside her for the first time. Hell, scratch that. Every time.

  Maybe he uttered a noise himself because her gaze narrowed on him, then dropped to his lap. Her soft, swift intake of breath didn’t ease the situation going on below his belt. If anything, it made him harder, hotter. He hungered to hear that hushed, startled catch against his mouth as he buried himself in her sweet, tight pussy.

  As if in slow motion, she lifted her head and met his eyes.

  A thick tension invaded the office. Lust replaced the air, and damn if he didn’t breathe it in with every inhale. It filled his lungs, saturated his organs, coursed through his veins. And that same need was reflected in her hooded stare. He’d bet his favorite He-Man T-shirt that the same memories of that night in the hotel rolled through her head, too. Yeah, she might cry “platonic,” and “co-parents,” but she wanted him just as much as he did her.

  Slowly, so she had time to avoid him, he cupped her jaw. Pressed his thumb to her sinfully full bottom lip. Groaned as the ridge of her teeth grazed his flesh.

  Maybe it was the intimacy they’d created sharing stories about family. Or maybe she’d decided to give in to the desire crackling between them like a live wire. Maybe both. He didn’t particularly care. Not while her warm puffs of breath bathed his thumb. Not when she didn’t move away from him or knock his hand from her but just stared up at him, those beautiful eyes gone molten silver.

  And when the tip of her tongue brushed his skin, he stopped thinking at all.

  Distance. Keep it—

  Oh, fuck it.

  Shifting closer, he replaced his thumb with his mouth. The hunger for her rode him too hard for him to go slow. For him to be gentle. Fuck that. Not when it’d been months since he’d done anything but hug a woman. Not when it’d been months since he’d touched her. He thrust his tongue past her parted lips, claiming. He gorged on her like a man coming off a long, torturous fast. She met him, stroke for stroke, lick for lick, groan for groan.

  Goddamn, this kiss.

  He stood, placing a knee on the cushion next to her and a palm on the back of the couch. He bowed his body over her, his other hand sliding from her jaw to clutch her hair like he’d wanted to earlier. From this angle, he could dive deeper, take more. Her fingers curled in his T-shirt as if hanging on. Good. Because he felt like he was fucking plummeting into a sexual abyss. And damn if he wanted to free-fall alone.

  Dimly, a firm knocking penetrated the thick, erotic fog laying siege to his brain. He lifted his head to glare at her office door, the direction from which the sound had originated. Ignore it, his animal brain snarled. They’ll go away. Because he wanted to obey the demand, he lowered his head again.

  But that interruption had apparently granted Kim enough time to think. She blinked up at him, the haze of desire that had clouded her eyes clearing. Damn it.

  “I need to…” She scooted back on the cushion, and Ronin, interpreting the unspoken request for space, straightened and moved. She smoot
hed her hair down with hands that trembled as she stood. A fierce blast of satisfaction rushed through him at the tell-tale sign of how much he’d affected her. “I need to get that.”

  She crossed the room, her steps hurried. Probably afraid he was on her heels. Smart woman. The way his cock throbbed and ached, stalking after her wasn’t crossed off his list yet. Not when he could still taste her kiss and feel the press of her mouth against his.

  Maybe as soon as she got rid of the person at the door, he could get her under him again. Have her soft moans filling the air again. She wanted him; she might not want to want him, but she did. It was in her eyes, the hot flush in her face, the greedy demand of her kiss, the quick rise and fall of her chest, in the almost desperate grip of his now wrinkled shirt.

  But shit, maybe the interruption had been for the best. Things had been about to get out of control fast and in a hurry…

  “Malcolm,” Kim said to the person on the other side of the door.

  Ronin’s head jerked up at the cold, flat tone of the greeting. No, that couldn’t be called a greeting. Even at her most reserved and polite, she still possessed an undertone of warmth. He’d never heard this positively…frigid note in her voice.

  He moved closer, something in him whispering she might need him to face this “Malcolm.”

  “Kimberly.” The older man who stood in the doorway nodded at her, formal and just as icy. Tall, with dark hair as neat as if it were eight o’clock in the morning instead of in the evening, he didn’t smile, nor did his angular face with its sharp cheekbones and solid jaw reveal a flicker of emotion. Something about him seemed familiar, though. “I saw the light under your door. I didn’t realize anyone would be here this late…working.” The not-so-subtle pause and quick glance at Ronin imbued “working” with a wealth of meaning. And none of it flattering.

  Who was this asshole? Because he should probably know the guy’s name before he punched his face into his neck.

  “I am working. As much as you probably were.” Her voice didn’t change in inflection, but from the tightening of the other man’s mouth, she struck a direct hit. “What are you doing in Seattle? I thought you were in the New York office.”