The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  “Where are you rushing off to?” Kat asks, mouth full of shrimp.

  “Home! Duh. We won!”

  That means one thing: sweet, sweet victory sex.

  At the start of the season, I assumed Logan would be utterly knackered after a game. I expected he’d arrive home and face-plant down onto our bed, not stirring until morning, but boy was I wrong.

  When he wins, when he plays a good game or throws a great pass, it’s like he’s got more energy than he knows what to do with. He’s positively brimming with endorphins and pheromones and whatever else it is that makes a woman want a man. I’ve learned now: after a win, be prepared.

  I rush out of the private suite. Out there, in the hall, I meet up with Ryan. He’s always here for home games—watching in another suite with a group of bodyguards—just in case the fans get a little rowdy, not that I see many of them. Sure, there are a few with private suites up on this level too, but they mostly mind their own business.

  “Good game,” Ryan says.

  I beam. “Great game.”

  “Logan will be happy.”

  You bet your arse he will be. I’m positively overflowing with giddy excitement as the lift sweeps us down to the ground level of the car park underneath the stadium. From there, Ryan leads me to where he has the SUV parked, and we move along in the queue of cars toward the exit. There’s no point in waiting for Logan to join me before I leave the stadium. He’ll have to do postgame press on the field then have a shower in the locker room. Sometimes he has to do more interviews after that as well. Still, it’ll only be about an hour or so before he gets back to the flat.

  An hour! Hardly any time, really.

  Once Ryan drops me in front of our building, I dash off toward the lifts, waving at the doorman and receptionist. They congratulate me on the good game and I thank them without stopping. I officially moved in with Logan only a few weeks after we started dating. Kat had a wild change of heart about the whole living together situation after she and Jay had their shotgun wedding, and it’s not like she could keep me from moving out once she had. We offered to cover our portion of the rent for Yasmine, but she could easily afford the entire thing, and she was happy to convert our bedroom into a home office for herself. It all worked out really well, actually. No need to burn anyone’s bras!

  Speaking of bras, right when I make it up to our flat, I head for our bedroom. Decisions, decisions. I’ve got quite a bit of lingerie in here. Logan’s got a sweet spot for it. He says it makes it so I’m a present he gets to unwrap slowly. Ooh la la. I pass over the red set he got me for Valentine’s Day, and the black set I wore for him the night he proposed. I settle on a pale blue lacy bra and panties. There are matching stockings and a garter belt too.

  With an indulgent smile, I lay the lingerie out on the little bench in the closet and then head for the kitchen. I couldn’t eat dinner earlier—nervous stomach—so I grab a protein bar and chow down, knowing I’ll need my strength for the night ahead. I check my mobile while I eat, scrolling through photos of the game that have already been posted. I linger too long, staring at each one, studying them while I chew slowly. There’s this one close-up shot of Logan on the field, about to throw a pass. His arm is cocked back and his body is stretched taut. In spite of the helmet and pads and uniform (or maybe because of them), he looks absolutely mouthwatering. I love when he’s in his element, all intense. He completely zones out. I could be standing on the sidelines in a cheerleading costume, waving pom-poms, and he wouldn’t even notice. I could strip off the cheerleading costume on the sidelines and wave around my ta-tas, and still, nothing. He only has one goal while he’s on that field, and it’s to win at all costs.

  I get a little hot just thinking about it. All that severe, determined concentration…it’s the same way he gets in the bedroom.

  I’m forced to use the empty protein bar wrapper to fan my face, but it doesn’t do the trick. Oh well, I need a shower anyway. Just a quick rinse. I got quite sweaty when I was leaping up and down back at the stadium, shouting at our team and their team—anyone, really—and getting a little carried away. It’s a wonder I still have a voice.

  In our bathroom, I wrap my hair up in a bun so it doesn’t get wet and step under the hot water in the shower. I use my floral-scented body wash to lather up my arms. There’s nervous energy humming inside me, like I’m a little kid waiting for Santa to leave me presents on Christmas Eve. I exfoliate my arms and legs until my skin is silky smooth. It gets quite steamy in there because the water feels so good and I’m in no rush to get out.

  Then, I hear a noise.

  The bathroom door opens.

  I scream and splay out against the cold marble wall behind me, reaching for anything within my grasp—a loofah. Oh good, that’ll really hurt a robber. Nice going, Candace.

  “It’s just me,” Logan says, strolling into the bathroom all cocksure and pleased with himself. He’s wearing athletic shorts and his team’s t-shirt. His hair is still damp with sweat, so it looks inky black.

  “What are you doing home already?!” I ask, stepping forward and wiping the glass so I can get a proper look at him.

  He reaches back to tug off his t-shirt. “No postgame interviews, just a quick conversation on the field with that ESPN correspondent you like then I hopped in my car.”

  “No shower?” I ask as my mouth drops open. Getting a good look at his naked chest will never not stop me in my tracks, even now, when there’s a fresh bruise on his ribs and a red line across his abs. Marks of war.

  “No shower,” he replies, pushing his shorts down along with his boxer briefs and stepping out of them. My jaw drops farther.

  “Well I’m just about to get out,” I say, like a total git who hasn’t got a clue.

  He glances up and locks eyes with me through the glass. “I’ll just join you.”

  My heart kicks up as if sending out a signal to my body: Full steam ahead, lads!

  “But, I’ve pulled out lingerie,” I say weakly, pointing toward our shared closet.

  He doesn’t reply. He moves toward the shower, swings open the glass door, and steps inside. It’s like he’s just sucked all the air out with a vacuum. I struggle to breathe as he comes closer. I think he’s headed for me, but he stops under the stream, letting it soak him from head to toe. He watches me while he does it, or rather, he devours me while he does it. There’s no hiding his true intent as his eyes glide down my body, pausing at my chest and the shadow between my legs.

  I know it’s Logan, my fiancé, my best mate, for heaven’s sake! But my body doesn’t seem to catch on. It’s pumping adrenaline through my veins like I need to prepare to escape. I take a step back so I can put a bit more space between us, and in a flash, his hand reaches out and he grasps me by the neck.

  I yelp, and he loves it. He tugs me toward him until I’m under the stream too, but there’s no water in my eyes. He’s blocking it with his head so that it rolls down our shoulders and stomach. We’re not touching, but we’re a hair’s breadth away. His soft grip stays on my neck, and his thumb brushes back and forth over my quickening pulse.

  “Maybe I’ll let you put the lingerie on later,” he says.

  His dark eyes are so hot I feel charred.

  He’s looking down at me like he’s concocting all sorts of wicked ideas in his head.

  “But first, I need to clean off.”

  He nods to the side of the shower, toward the niche where we keep our shampoo and soap bottles.

  “Get me some body wash.”

  No politeness in his tone. How rude! I shouldn’t listen, but I do, because…well, look at the man.

  I get some soap and don’t wait for him to tell me what to do. I know what he wants. I start at his broad shoulders, dragging my hands over his arms. At times, it feels like there’s so much of him compared to me, like I’ll be here for days washing him off. With arms that size, sheesh. I get some more soap and move to his chest. He winces gently when I brush my hand over the bruise at his
ribs and then I bend down to kiss the skin, letting him know I’m sorry he’s hurt.

  I know he likes my lips on him. I can see it for myself, the way he starts to harden the farther I go down. The soap slides down his rippling abs, coating his skin as I bend lower. I kiss a trail down to his hips, and then gently, I touch him, soaping up his hardness, pretending to clean him off.

  It’s really a guise. I don’t need to be nearly this thorough. After two passes, one could argue that he’s properly clean down there, but I have no plans on stopping. He doesn’t say a word as he watches me continue. I look up and he eclipses the shower light, casting me in shadow. He looks like the devil.

  I pause for a moment, and his mouth twitches.

  “Keep going,” he instructs brusquely.

  Oh, tsk tsk. Someone needs to learn a little patience.

  I stand up and pump more soap into my hands, then I bend back down to wash his thighs and calves. His muscles stiffen under my soft touch and I know he’s growing antsy. I’m not doing what he wants me to do, but he needs to be clean, doesn’t he? I wash his feet and his toes, and this is really a fun little game I’m playing. I’m even smiling to myself when suddenly he bends down to grip me under my arms and hauls me up against the marble wall.

  I go completely still as he pushes himself between my legs—not so nicely, I might add—leaving me no choice but to wrap them around his hips.

  “I don’t have the patience for you sometimes,” he says, bending to kiss my neck. He’s in a frenzy as he moves lower, taking the tip of my breast between his teeth.

  Ow!

  Punishment, I see.

  In return, I drag my nails down his back. No more gentle caresses for the man who’s had a hard night on the field. If he wants to play rough, so will I.

  It feels like a sauna in our shower with him pushed up against me, but the cool marble balances it out. My head falls back as his mouth moves to my other breast, and then his hands seem to be everywhere—neck, breasts, waist, hips—before they move lower. He touches me between my legs, swirling circles and working me up, but just like I did to him, he doesn’t continue nearly long enough before he takes himself in his hands and guides his length inside me.

  I’m a little too tight, not quite ready for him, especially at this angle, but I know we’re still playing the punishment game because he doesn’t ease up as my fingers tighten on his arms, warning him that he’s walking a dangerous tightrope.

  He presses into me slowly as his body crushes mine. Our mouths find each other, and we kiss rough and hard and passionately, like this might be it for us, like this shower will be the last time I feel him this way. He pushes in farther and my thighs quake.

  “I love you,” he whispers against my mouth, but it’s not a delicate confession. It’s a volatile truth: I love you and it feels like too much sometimes. I love you to an extreme.

  I know how he feels. My arms tighten around his neck as he starts to pump into me faster. I hold on for dear life, like at any moment he could be stripped away from me. Loving Logan is as painful as it is painless. He’s the anchor in my life, the partner I want by my side forever.

  “I love you too,” I whisper back.

  “Say it again,” he insists, like he’s hungry for it.

  “I love you,” I tease, kissing his cheek.

  “You’re mine,” he warns, though the softness in his gaze belies his rough tone.

  “Well, of course I am.” I laugh. “Who else would put up with me?”

  I hope you enjoyed meeting Candace, Logan, and their crazy friends! If you laughed your butt off and want more hilarity, be sure to continue reading for an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy THE FOXE & THE HOUND.

  SYNOPSIS

  When your life is a hot mess at twenty, it’s cute. At twenty-seven…well, not so much.

  It’s just that my lofty dreams—making it as a real estate agent, paying rent on time, showering daily—have stayed just that: dreams. Oh, and love? I’ve decided love might be a little ambitious for me at the moment. Instead, I’ve settled for the two guys who will never leave me: Ben & Jerry.

  That is, until Dr. Adam Foxe takes up residence as the town’s new vet.

  With his strong jaw, easy confidence, and form-fitting scrubs, it’s not long before every housewife in Hamilton is dragging neglected tomcats in for weekly checkups.

  Like everyone else, I’m intrigued. Even after I spoil my chance at a good first impression, he still offers me a proposition I can’t refuse: play his girlfriend at a family function and he’ll hire me as his real estate agent. Welcome to love in the 21st century.

  It’s too bad I underestimated Adam’s irresistible charm and the undeniable attraction that burns between us. The day he pins me to the wall and silences me with a kiss, the line between reality and ruse begins to blur. Every teasing touch brings me to my knees. Every kiss promises more.

  It looks like my hot mess of a life is about to get a little hotter.

  Chapter 1

  Madeleine

  The love between him and me isn’t right. Some would even say it’s unnatural. Wrong. All they see is his size, and it intimidates them. He is massive, too big for his own good, really, but he’s also handsome—so handsome—with chocolate brown eyes I can’t resist. I won’t sugarcoat it though—he’s not without his flaws. He’s a terrible listener, and frankly, independent to a fault. He’s a sloppy kisser, and he leaves his things everywhere. But every time I come home and run my fingers through those luscious locks, I forget all of his faults. And when that hair falls out and gets all over the couch, and the bed, and my clothes, and the rug, I don’t fret. I always know I’m just one lint-roller away from everlasting love.

  Because he’s the love of my life.

  And he’s my dog.

  Well, technically he’s my puppy.

  Barely a few months old and already he’s the size of a small horse. Apparently, he’s going to get pretty big, but I didn’t know that when I adopted him. At the shelter, I walked past a tiny black and brown fur ball sitting in a cage all alone, barely a few weeks old. He sat there quietly, not begging to be petted or whining about his accommodations. He stared up at me quietly, studying me with those deep brown semisweets and I was head over heels.

  Just like all the other schmucks filling out adoption papers, I’d walked into that shelter fully intending to leave just as dog-less as when I arrived. I’d even texted my best friend, Daisy for affirmation.

  Madeleine: I’m just going to look. That’s all.

  Daisy: Oh, sure…Text me a picture of the dog you take home because you are NOT leaving there empty-handed.

  I wanted to prove her wrong, but then I stumbled upon that little floof.

  He’s really cute, I told the shelter volunteer.

  I agree. Unfortunately, he’s too energetic, she lamented. He’s an owner surrender. The man who dropped him off yesterday—I think he was a firefighter—couldn’t handle him. I laughed and had her bring him into a little playpen so I could judge for myself. We played fetch and he acted like puppies do—energetic and happy for the attention—but then ten minutes in, he stumbled into my lap, curled up into a little ball, and promptly fell asleep. I was a goner.

  “What kind of dog is he?” I asked, already imagining where he would sleep at my apartment. I’d get a small, cushioned bed and put it right at the foot of mine. I’d try to keep him off the furniture at first, but I knew I’d inevitably cave and give him couch privileges—who can say no to those doe-eyes?

  The volunteer, who I now suspect moonlights as a used car salesman, shrugged and told me he was of mixed heritage.

  “Do you mean like, a mutt? So how big do you think he’ll get?”

  She pretended to study his front paw, on which he’d rested his adorable little snout. “Oh, with those tiny little things? He probably won’t get any bigger than a small golden retriever.”

  I chuckle thinking back on that exchange now. His paws—those “tiny little
things”—seem to double in size every night. They are now big enough to carry the both of us down the sidewalk at breakneck speeds, even as I tug on his leash, trying to get him to slow down.

  “Heel, Mouse! Heel!”

  Yes, his name is Mouse, and when people hear it, they think I’m being so funny. A massive dog named Mouse?! How clever. I smile and nod, and I definitely do not tell them I named him Mouse when he was the size of an actual field mouse.

  “Mouse, I have organic salmon treats!” I try again, and finally my voice seems to break through his thick skull. He slows his gait until he’s right beside me on the sidewalk, staring up at me with those dopey eyes. His tongue lolls around, and if dogs can smile, Mouse grins ear to ear. He really is a dapper thing.

  I feed him a treat and then hold another one in my closed palm so he knows it’s coming. I’ve discovered that while I may not be the best trainer, I am fairly adept at canine bribery. And that will have to suffice for now, considering I’m already in my work clothes.

  It’s Monday morning and we’re on our way to the vet. We’ve been multiple times in the last few months—another thing the volunteer conveniently forgot to mention. Puppies apparently need more shots than babies. I seriously think that he has better healthcare than I do.

  This morning I formulated the questionable plan of walking Mouse to his appointment before work. Ever the optimist, I dreamed of a nice leisurely stroll, in which he’d finally heed the training I’d inconsistently applied. Mouse, however, is more of a realist. He wants to sniff and tangle himself in his leash. He wants to run and fulfill his destiny as a squirrel hunter. I consider aborting the mission and turning back, but I don’t think I even could at this point. I have a crude understanding of anatomy, and wonder if it’s possible for my arm to pop out of its socket like a fought-over Barbie doll.