by Nikki Ash
I’ve seen and heard the tabloid stories on Tate. He’s a playboy, an arrogant bachelor with a black book list of phone numbers longer than the Chicagoland phonebook. He never goes anywhere without a piece of arm candy at his side and is photographed constantly with the most beautiful women in the world.
I, on the other hand, prefer quiet evenings in. I don’t even have cable. Not Netflix or whatever streaming sites are available. My best friend is a teacher at the school district I work for, and as far as my social calendar goes, it’s usually filled up with long nights of reading Jane Austen, Harper Lee, and the Bronte sisters.
We’re so far apart on the social circle scale we might as well be on different planets.
“I have an idea,” he says, clapping his hands together and getting up. Before he tells me what’s on his mind, he bends and stretches his knee. “How about we celebrate? Since I’m supposed to be laying low for a few days, we can order food and have it delivered.”
My heart literally can’t decide if it wants to stop beating all together or pirouette in my chest. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I insist, jumping up and backing toward the front door. Suddenly, I’m all too aware of the fact I’m alone with an incredibly sexy man and I look like I’ve been scrubbing baseboards and behind my kitchen appliances all day.
“No, I insist. Your brother would definitely want to celebrate, right? So, let’s celebrate, Ashtyn.” There’s something in his warm hazel eyes that says I can trust him, which is crazy, considering I’ve really only met him a handful of times.
“Um, I’m not sure I’m celebration ready,” I state, glancing back down at my way too casual, way too exposed outfit.
Tate’s eyes drop to my chest before returning to meet mine. “You look great, Ash. And we’re staying in, remember?”
“Oh, uh,” I start but struggle to find another excuse as to why I need to go home.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. We can get to know each other better. You’re my friend’s twin sister, and I barely know you,” he insists.
That’s because we have nothing in common, and his eyes were usually too focused on some cheerleader or blonde with double Ds to pay any attention to anyone else in the room.
“I guess we can call The Tap and order something,” I reply as if the words fly from my mouth entirely on their own.
“Great.” Tate pulls up the menu on his phone and starts tapping away. Suddenly, he’s thrusting it at my face, an indication it’s my turn to enter what I want.
I scan the menu for my favorite entrée and toss in an order of fried cheese curds for good measure. I mean, it’s a celebration, right?
When I hand him back the phone, our fingers touch. A jolt of electricity bolts up my arm, causing me to jump back and put a little more separation between us. Tate doesn’t seem to notice, which makes me feel like one of those silly football groupies who swoon whenever he walks into a room.
“We have forty minutes,” he replies, finishing up our order and slipping his phone into his shorts before disappearing into my brother’s kitchen. A few minutes later, he comes back with two glasses of wine. “I hope you like white. It was all your brother has besides a bottle of scotch, and you don’t strike me as a scotch drinker.”
“The wine is actually mine, so this is perfect,” I reply, taking the offered glass.
Before I can take a sip, he holds up his glass. “To Ashtyn and her new job at the library. May your new position bring you happiness and continued passion,” he states. There’s a flash of something in his eyes when he speaks that one word.
Passion.
Suddenly, the room is entirely too small, and I’m desperate for a little liquid to cool and soothe my dry throat.
By the time ten o’clock rolls around, I am nurturing a healthy buzz and my side hurts from laughing. Who knew Tate Steele was so funny? Not me, but after spending the evening with him, eating, drinking, and talking, I’m pleasantly surprised by how laid-back and witty he truly is. Plus, I could be way off base, but there’s something else there. An underlying desire I feel every time he looks at me. My body has been strung so tight the last hour, I’m afraid he can tell I’m practically crawling out of my skin with need.
“I think I’m going to bed,” I mumble, getting up out of the chair and stumbling a little as the room sways.
Strong arms wrap around my shoulders. The swaying stops but only because I’m pressed firmly against a hard chest. A nice, warm chest. The rich scent of sandalwood fills my entire being, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I have my nose buried in the material stretched across his pecs.
My face burns with mortification.
I really just sniffed my brother’s best friend.
Cheese and rice, I’ve had too much to drink.
“I’m going,” I start, pointing a thumb over my shoulder toward the bedrooms.
But Tate doesn’t let me go. He walks with me, even though I have my footing enough now. It’s only when we reach the guest room I occasionally sleep in that I realize the problem. Tate’s stuff is there. His suitcase thrown on the floor and a pile of clothes strewn on the chair.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you were staying here too. I’ll just bunk with my brother. As long as he’s not bringing home anyone, he won’t mind if I’m there. Or he can just sleep on the couch. It’s not that uncomfortable. I’ve crashed there before too. I just wouldn’t recommend the chair because your neck will hurt and—”
I’m cut off by his hot mouth. It slams into mine with urgency, one I reciprocate willingly as if kissing him is a necessity. Like air. His tongue pressing into my mouth at the same time he lifts me and pushes my back against the wall. My legs wrap around his lean hips and his erection presses firmly against my core. Holy hell, this man is…wow.
I rip my lips from his and suck in a greedy breath of air. Tate’s mouth trails along my jaw and moves to my earlobe. I gasp and rock my hips into him as he sucks on my lobe before sliding those amazing lips down the side of my neck. “Oh God,” I groan, my panties so wet, I’m certain he can feel them through my shorts.
His hazy eyes meet mine. “Do you want me to stop?”
Well, if that isn’t a loaded question. My brain says yes, definitely stop. This shouldn’t go any further. Tate Steele is an egotistical bad boy, and even though I’m sure the sex will be great, that’s all it will ever be. I’ll be a notch on his infamous bedpost. Something I’ve never wanted to be. Plus, there’s the fact he’s linked to my brother, and the chances are I’ll see him again at some point soon. This has bad idea written all over it with a big black Sharpie marker.
Yet, my gut—and maybe a little bit of white wine—is telling me to do it. Have fun. Enjoy what is sure to be a good time and then leave it all behind. Move on and forward, ready to start my new job with a smile on my face and the memory of a few orgasms. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, a man like Tate is good for at least two, maybe three. So why not?
“No, don’t stop,” I whisper.
My response seems to take him by surprise. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
That’s all it takes. Like a can of gas thrown on a smoldering fire, we ignite spectacularly. Clothes fly, hands are everywhere, and mouths taste and suck on every piece of exposed skin possible.
When I’m completely naked, his eyes greedily consume me from head to toe. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and gravelly.
Part of me wants to cover myself. I’m not one to completely undress in front of a man, especially one I’m not dating, but I hold fast. It allows me to take in the man before me once again. He’s completely hard, from head to toe. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. Dark hair is sprinkled across his chest, with a line below his belly button that leads to his erection. It’s large—larger than I’ve ever seen in person—and frankly, I’m equal parts nervous and excited.
Tate goes over to his suitcase and digs a condom out of the pocket before returning to where I sta
nd. I watch as he rolls it on and tosses the wrapper on the floor. Then, his eyes are set on me like I’m the prey he’s about to devour.
He threads his fingers in my hair as he slowly kisses me. My hands glide up his chest and wrap around his neck. There’s a major height difference between him and my mere five foot five frame, but the way our bodies line up, it’s almost comfortable and natural.
Tate wraps his hands around my rear and lifts again, my legs instantly locking around his lower back. The position puts his erection right where I want it, where I need it. His eyes meet mine once more as if he’s giving me one more chance to stop, but when I kiss him, I practically feel all his restraint and control melt away.
He presses forward, stretching and filling me completely in one thrust. I gasp and close my eyes, savoring the sweet burn that disappears as quickly as it started. Tate doesn’t move, just holds still for a few long seconds. “Good?”
“God, yes. So good. Do it again,” I beg.
He glides his lips along my neck and whispers, “Hold on, Sweetness. This is going to be one hell of a ride.”
And it is.
He starts to move, his thrust hard and long and filling me so completely, I’m not sure where he ends and I begin. Each time he moves, it’s pure ecstasy, and I feel myself climbing higher and higher. My body starts to tighten as he swivels his hips, touching that magical place deep inside of me. The result is like an explosion, and I cry out as blinding white lights fill my vision. I can feel his fingers grip my ass as he thrusts harder, chasing his own release. When he finally let’s go, it triggers a second orgasm I didn’t even know was brewing.
I’m pretty sure the result causes me to blackout a little.
Suddenly, we’re moving. Tate lays me down on the guest bed and curls up around me. My body feels completely boneless and weightless as sleep threatens to pull me under. I feel him shift against me, his softening erection slipping from my body. He places a kiss against my shoulder and pulls a blanket over my body. “You’re going?” I whisper, my eyes cracking open to take him in.
He’s gloriously naked and gives me a small smile. “I figured since Alex will be home any time, it’s probably best if I’m not in here.”
The mention of my brother is like a cold shower. I start to move, but he crawls on the bed and kisses me soundly on the lips. “This is your room,” I reply when I’m breathless once more.
Tate grins and pushes my hair over my shoulder. “I’ll take the couch. Sleep.”
My eyes close as he runs his hand down my arm. His touch is so soothing and helps lull me toward sleep. His hand moves, gliding over every inch of exposed skin. For someone with rough, calloused hands, his touch is pure magic.
I feel the bed shift and hear the squeak as the door starts to close. “Goodnight, Sweetness.” It’s the last thing I remember before the blackness finally pulls me under.
Chapter One
Tate
Present Day
“That’s perfect, Tate. Give me more of that smile,” Reggie says, his camera shutter clicking in fast succession.
I’m shooting for a sports drink today, both television and print ads. My agent worked out a sweet two-year deal with the company, and all I have to do is be seen during practice and after the game drinking the product. Since training camp doesn’t start for another month, they figured now is the perfect time to shoot a handful of ads for their fall and winter campaigns.
“Yeah, more of that smirk. Cocky. You’ve got women lined up for miles waiting to spend just a little time with the infamous Tate Steele,” Reggie shouts, not taking a break from pressing the shutter button.
I give him what he wants, but inside, I’m rolling my eyes and groaning. But I know this is what’s expected of me. It’s the image I’ve spent a decade perfecting. From the moment I stepped onto the field at Notre Dame, I’ve been this guy. Arrogant, sure, but I can back that shit up. Both on the field and off.
We move through the shoot with two more outfit changes before I’m finally shirtless, wearing cleats and football pants. The makeup artist adds a little touch of dirt-like makeup to my face and chest, and I’m pretty sure she got off when she rubbed the cream across my abs. When she finally finishes, I throw her a smirk and wink and watch as she practically orgasms without me touching her.
Reggie puts me in front of a brick wall, and his assistant hands me a football. She giggles as she steps out of the frame, and I’m pretty sure I could have her against the wall in my dressing room if I asked. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even need to take her to the private room. The way all these women are virtually drooling on themselves and fighting to get close to me, I could probably have them all in one big fucked-up orgy. Hell, Reggie would probably shoot the whole thing and tell me how great I did at the end.
As we move through the different poses and looks, I spy Todd, the man in charge of PR for my agent, standing in the back of the room. He’s on the phone, like always, but keeps one eye on me. He’s wearing a suit, even on a Friday afternoon, and looks like he’s ready to crawl through the phone and strangle whoever’s on the other end.
I’ve been a client of Professional Athlete Sports Management since the league came sniffing around my senior year of college. My agent, Richard Porter, signed me right before I entered the draft six years ago. We have a good working relationship and I trust him explicitly. Todd joined the team about two years ago, and I’ll admit, he’s had his hands full. His job is to fix any of the bullshit I find myself in, some of it seems like on a regular basis.
The moment the shoot is over, I make my way toward him. He clicks off his phone and smiles. “Tate, good job up there,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Thanks, Todd. What brings you here today?” I ask, taking the towel offered to me by one of the guys who manages the lighting. I nod my head in appreciation and start to wipe off the dirt-like shit spread all over my chest.
“Well, we had another woman come forward, claiming she’s carrying your love child,” Todd states like he’s reading a newspaper article.
I snort and shake my head. “Another one?”
“Third one this year,” he confirms.
“Do I know her?” I ask, wondering where these women come from.
Todd raises an eyebrow and gives me a pointed look. “Do you ever really know any of them, Tate?”
His implication grates on my nerves.
“It’s bullshit,” I tell him, pissed to have yet another damn paternity suit to deal with.
These women are all the same. They reach out, claiming to be carrying my spawn, and threatening to go public with the details of how I refuse to take care of my child. A few of the pregnancy claims worried me, I’ll admit, but most of the claims I know are bogus. Women I’ve never met. Crazy fangirls who think I’ll fall in love with them.
The ones who did make it to my bed would usually just go for the payout for the details of our night together. Most tabloids in the country will pay big money for those specifics, even if they’re not entirely accurate. It’s not like they come and get my side of the story.
This new one is just another in a long list of fake accusations against me. Like the ones from earlier this year, I know it’s pure bullshit. It can’t be true, because I haven’t been with anyone in nine months.
Not since Ashtyn.
Just thinking of the woman I left back in South Bend nearly a year ago has my blood traveling southbound. Long, thick brown hair and rich, dark eyes, topped with a hard-on-inducing smile that still wakes me up in the dead of night. The sexy librarian could very well have been the best thing to happen to me and my greatest mistake, all in one.
I push Ashtyn out of my mind and focus on the man in front of me. “Take care of it, Todd. Make it go away,” I tell him, frustrated, yet I’m not sure if it’s because of the pregnancy shit or because the woman I still dream about has popped into my head yet again.
“I will,” he confirms, pulling out his phone and typing out a message. “Are you sur
e you’ve never met her?” he asks, flipping the screen in front of my face and showing me the picture of a stacked blonde in a string bikini. Her boobs are as fake as the collagen-filled lips on her face, and I’m pretty sure she’s had some work done on her eyes too. Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s hot, and maybe when I was a rookie in the league, I would definitely have fucked her, but now I can’t even seem to sport some wood when I look at her photo.
“Definitely. I’m sure I’d remember her,” I say honestly, just leaving out the part about my nine-month dry spell.
Todd snorts. “Oh, I’m sure you would. She looks…bendy.” He types for a few more seconds before sending off whatever notes he was taking and slips his phone back into his trouser pants. “I’ll let you go get changed and ready to go. Big plans this weekend?” he asks politely, though I can tell it’s more of a fishing expedition. Like he’s trying to find out how much work he’s going to have tomorrow morning.
“Old college friend coming into town tonight for dinner. Hopefully something low-key.”
He laughs. “Right, low-key. I’ve seen your low-key, friend. I’ll have my phone on later. Call if you need me,” he says before slapping me on the shoulder and taking off toward the exit.
I sigh and stand there long after Todd has left. The playboy image I’ve created and nurtured for the last handful of years has done wonders for my career, but it’s also done plenty of damage. The paparazzi follow me around, all jonesing to get a photo, a video, or a comment about me. I’ve had a fake wife who went on national television with doctored photos of our supposed Las Vegas wedding. And if every false baby daddy claim was true, I’d have about two dozen kids by now.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve earned this persona. I partied when I could and was usually photographed doing it. I’ve dated starlets, models, and artists at the top of every chart in the world. The camera loves me and has this uncanny ability to find me anytime, anywhere, any place.