Page 8 of Not My Coach

Her mouth falls open, and her cheeks blush an intense burning shade of red from my words.

Standing up, I push my chair in and walk around to her side of the table. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I sweep the dark brown locks to one side of her neck. My fingertips graze the base of her neck, and she physically shivers as goose bumps break out from my touch.

“I didn’t want your hair to get caught in the chair,” I explain as I place a hand on each side of her chair and pull it back with her sitting on it.

She gasps, shocked that I moved her back about a foot from where she was sitting. It’s easy enough. I could throw her across the room like a rag doll if I wanted to.

I hold my hand out, and she slides her hand in mine and stands up.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“You’re welcome. Where are you parked?” I ask her, interlocking my fingers with hers.

If it’s just for one night, we might as well play the part.

As we approach the crowd near the front of the restaurant, I release her hand and slide it along her lower back, guiding us through the chaos.

“I’m right out front. What about you?” She turns her head slightly, and for the first time, I really get the chance to breathe her in.

Fuck, she smells so good. Hints of crisp apple, honey, and sin invade my veins, coursing through every cell in my body.

“Is that your car there?” I ask, pointing to the white Honda Civic parked in front of me.

She nods, and I slide my hand around her waist and open the restaurant door, holding it for her to pass through.

She steps forward, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “That’s my girl.”

She hits a button on her key fob, and the lights flash without sound. I do the same with mine, the Audi lights spotlighting the trunk of her car.

“This is mine,” I say as she pulls away from me and stars to walk to her car. I scoff. “What are you doing?”

She turns back to me, embarrassed and flushed. “Getting into my car to follow you?”

“How do you get into your car?” I ask her playfully.

As she starts to answer me with a smart-ass smirk, it clicks. “The door?—”

“Which you are not opening for yourself tonight,” I remind her and walk in front of her and around to the driver’s door, pulling it open.

She is fighting a losing battle as she tries to suppress her smile. “Oh, of course.” She laughs. “Not really used to this on dates.”

“Then, hopefully, tonight, I can set a new bar for you. You shouldn’t settle for anything less,” I say to her as I hold my hand out to help her into her car.

Once she is safely inside, I shut the door and walk back to my own vehicle. Sitting down on my seat, I unzip my pants to give myself some breathing room. Adjusting myself, I find a comfortable position before pulling out of the spot, ensuring she is right behind me.

Carefully, I lead us back to my house, which is an excruciating ten-minute drive. I’m so fucking hard right now. But I don’t allow that to distract me from ensuring she is always directly behind me, and I make sure that I don’t go through a stoplight unless I’m certain she’ll make it too.

We drive down my street to the very end, and pull into the private driveway. She pulls up beside me and shuts her car off. Opening my door, I look over at her. She is sitting in her seat, waiting for me—exactly how I want her. I walk over and pull her door open for her.

God, she is so pretty. I don’t want to stop staring at her. Her eyes, her tan skin, her lips that are begging to be kissed. Fuck, I can’t get enough of her.

She steps out of the car, and I notice she kicked her heels off. They lay on the floor mat of the driver’s seat. I raise my eyebrows at her feet, and she laughs.

“They were so uncomfortable. Plus, I figured if you turned out to be a serial killer, I would be faster running without them anyway.”

She’s even shorter than I realized. I’m six foot, and she can’t be taller than five foot three, if I had to guess.

“Fair point,” I say before taking her by surprise. Bending down, I slide a hand behind her knees and around her back and lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. “But I’m not a serial killer, so you won’t have to worry about that.” I chuckle.

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