Page 5 of Force Play

It’s not like dancing is a gateway drug to ending up bent over the bathroom sink.

His calloused hand closes over mine when I place it in his palm. Despite the roughness, it’s warm and welcoming, putting me at ease. It’s the self-assured smirk he gives me as he pulls me to my feet that makes me wish I would’ve stuck to my guns. Slightly crooked in a seemingly endearing way, it annoys me and sparks the desire to do something incredibly reckless at the same time.

Every brain cell I’ve got is screaming at me to flee; hyperaware of the situation I’m putting myself in. Consider it instinct. After years of avoiding athletes, or really anyone who reminds me of my ex and the worst time in my life, I can’t help it.

My body, on the other hand, is begging me to stay and dance with him. It’s dying to feel him pressed against me. I’m a weak bitch. Two full nights of fighting this tether that tugs me to him has worn me down, so I let him lead me to an empty corner of the dance floor.

Dom pulls me close, moving to the music and lining our bodies up perfectly. It feels good—too good. My eyes flutter closed and I focus on how all-encompassing it feels to be held by him.

There’s no escaping him when he’s this close, the corded muscles of his arms flexing and popping through this thin shirt as his hands find my waist, gripping me tight, like I might run. He’s not wrong to hold me that way, because this is all too real with his cut muscles pressed against me giving me a good idea of what he’s working with under those clothes.

My hands have no place to go but around his neck or on his chest. Choosing what I think is the safer option, I thread my fingers together behind his head, only to find the hair at his nape is unfairly soft—it’s like a magnet for my hands. I can’t stop them from exploring; my nails drag over his scalp, eliciting a deep rumble from his chest that cuts all the way through my weakened walls.

Goosebumps climb up my stomach when his fingers brush over my hip bone as we move together, our bodies working as one to the deep bass. “Fuck, Baby, you’re killing me.”

It’s a throwaway term of endearment coming from most people, but the raspy way he says it, the unwavering certainty in his voice as he tugs me closer yet, makes it feel like honey melting against my heated skin. I can’t brush it off. It’s so damn sweet and I’m greedy to lap it up, getting drunk off the sugar and him.

His pretty words and the hardness of his body pressed up against me are a potent mix. They do nothing to dissuade the desire currently pleading with me to break all my rules about not hooking up with athletes.

I pull away when the song ends, determined to go back to the VIP area where Dean waits and get myself under control.

Or maybe control is the last thing I need. Maybe doing something reckless and stupid is just the thing that will break this spell he has me under.

Dom reaches for me, but I twist away, heading straight for his friend. Looking over my shoulder at him I wiggle my fingers. He says he wants me . . . just how far will he go to get me?

There’s nothing he can offer me that his friend can’t. The club and the lights are just messing with me, making this thing between us feel like more than just a physical attraction.

Dean looks like a king, his legs spread, one arm draped over the back of the couch, a whiskey tumbler resting on his knees. He’s got the sexy, damaged thing going on that most girls are suckers for; a contrast to his best friend, who I can sense is hot on my heels as I cross the club.

The man tracking me is the boy next door . . . if your neighbor’s a full-grown man, with a grin that melts panties, perfectly messy hair, and an ass that fills out baseball pants in a way that should be illegal. Everything he wants seems to appear at the snap of his fingers and he’s never going to turn it down.

He’s everything eighteen-year-old me thought she wanted, until I had it and realized that shiny things still tarnish.

Walking right up to Dean, I step between his legs, grabbing the whiskey dangling from his fingers and bringing it to my lips, draining the glass. Leaning in close, I kiss him hard and fast. And holy shit, the man can kiss. I lose track of everything around me, including the reason I started this in the first place until his hand comes up to my face for a moment before he pulls away and looks at me with skeptical eyes.

The kiss was impulsive, but the question I ask is not. I don’t want to be here anymore. After dancing, I’m feeling overwhelmed, overheated, and overdressed. This will almost definitely blow up in my face, but damn, it would be a fun way to go. “It’s crowded here. Why don’t you two take me somewhere a little more . . . private?”

Carefree, flirtatious Dom is long gone, replaced by a possessive man whose grip on my hip sends a full-body shudder skating down my spine. My skin flushes hot when a growl vibrates along my neck from the man hovering behind me. “What the hell are you doing?” His tone makes my pulse jump and with how close he is, I’m sure he doesn’t miss it.

“Having fun. Seems like it would be right up your alley, playboy. You want me? This is how you get me.” Miraculously, I keep my voice steady even though I feel anything but. Bending so I’m floating precariously between the two of them, I find his friend’s green eyes filled with uncertain curiosity. “What do you say, Dean, want to play? We could have so much fun.”

“I don’t think I’m the one you really want,” Dean says, looking over my shoulder.

Teeth scrape across my pulse point. “Game’s over. Let’s go, Firecracker.”

Dom’s lips seal over the stinging skin, making my back arch involuntarily. “And what if I’m not done playing?”

“Then you can play with me,” he says, turning me around in his arms. His fingers thread into my hair. “And only me.” That playful boy-next-door is nowhere to be found right now. Those caramel eyes are stormy with desire that has me pushing up on my toes and doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t do with him: give in to the whirlwind of feelings he brings out in me.

Hope, lightness, longing for something easy.

Soft lips welcome mine. The man kisses like it’s his favorite pastime, and damn it, I can’t even be mad about it because it’s that perfect.

It sparks a fire deep down that has nothing to do with the music or how he moves. It’s all him. All us. And when he teases the seam of my lips and I open for him, it only gets better.

Our lips are still fused as he walks us backward. My feet tangle, but his hold on me is sure. He doesn’t let it stop him from putting space between me and his friend, sending both of us a clear message.

Mine.

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