Page 50 of The Trouble with Players

“Let me in, Peyton,” he ordered, and I hated the way my name rolled off of his tongue so smoothly.

“I’m not alone,” I lied, not out of immaturity but out of self-preservation.

“Bullshit.”

“He plays for the Stingrays.”

He dropped his hands and tried the handle again to no avail. “I know you’re alone.”

“You can have my room. We’re good in here.”

He lowered his voice. “Open the damn door, Peyton.”

“If you think demanding me to do anything is the way to go, you definitely don’t know me.”

He groaned in frustration. “Will you please open the door. I need a towel.”

Shit.

Now I was embarrassed.

He wasn’t even looking for me.

I tucked the baseball under the cushion and stood up, grabbing a beach towel from the pile on a nearby shelf. I unlocked the door, cracked it open, and pushed the towel toward him. Crew grabbed the towel with one hand and pushed open the door with the other so that I stumbled back but didn’t fall. He closed the door and looked around at the empty pool house.

His eyes slid to mine, and he stalked toward me. I backpedaled until I hit the wall behind me. He tossed the towel aside and lifted his wet hands to my cheeks. His blue eyes locked on mine as pool water dripped down his face. “I’m done.”

“What’s wrong? Upset I didn’t fall for the this-ball’s-from-the-shortstop routine?”

He shook his head and drops of water from his hair dripped onto my face. “I’m done waiting for you to figure your shit out.”

“Great. Then go.”

He moved closer, his lips a mere whisper from mine. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“Don’t.”

“Because you don’t want me to?” he asked, his breath tickling my lips. “Or because you know as well as I do that we won’t be able to stop once we start?”

A ripple rolled through my belly.

“Well?” he prompted, his nose grazing mine. “Which is it?”

My heartbeat thrashed against my chest.

“I would never force myself on someone,” he said, his lips almost brushing mine.

My words were a garbled mess in my head. Had he asked me another question? Had I answered his first?

“But know this. I want you, Peyton. You challenge me and turn me the fuck on. And even with this stupid pink wig on, I can’t see anything but your pretty eyes. And the way you—”

I crashed my lips to his, my tongue pushing between his lips. He dropped his hands to my hips and urged me closer. I slid my arms over his shoulders, arching into him as his tongue melded with mine in an eager dance. Both of us groaned, our pent-up frustration culminating in this one intoxicating kiss. He lifted me right off my feet, and I wrapped my legs around his hips. He carried me to the sofa and lay me down, covering me with his soaking wet body. His elbows bent at my head as he devoured my lips, his erection pressing through his swim trunks and into my thigh.

He pulled out of the kiss and stared down at me, his chest heaving in tandem with mine. “Did someone drink tonight?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“This was not how I envisioned this playing out.”

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