Page 27 of The Right Player
I rolled my fingertips over my hard nipple, puckering it so that I knew he could see the outline of it against the fabric when I removed my hand.
Makoa sighed in misery, staring at my nipple like he wanted nothing more than to suck it between his teeth.
But the motherfucker resisted.
“I’ll call you,” he promised.
I sighed when he opened the door, and what was worse… I hated that I actually respected that he was leaving. Zach’s words danced in my mind, and if Makoa really did have a three-date rule, then that meant we were already more than halfway there.
And maybe waiting was half the fun.
Maybe this torture would make the payoff just that much sweeter.
“Goodnight, Mr. Kumaka,” I said when he was in the hallway.
He smirked, framing my face with his hands and a longing sigh that told me he really didn’t want to leave. He sealed his promise to call me with a long, intimate kiss that left me breathless, and then he was gone.
And I stripped down for my second date of the night.
The one with my vibrator.MakoaThe first time I held a football, I knew it would be more than a sport to me.
I was only a tyke, and still I remembered watching football games on television with wide eyes and a yearning desire to be one of those players. Was it kismet that I was wrapped in a University of Hawai’i onesie shortly after I was born, or was it the stars aligning early on, putting me right where I needed to be? Was it natural for a kid to have absolutely zero desire to play video games when he could be outside running drills, or was that a sign, too?
It seemed like everything had pointed me to the NFL from the moment I took my first breath. I felt football coursing through my veins like it was the blood and oxygen that kept me alive.
Which was part of the reason I felt a little sick shoving everything related to my football career into my guest room closet.
I’d scoured through every box I brought with me, glad that I left a lot of my high school and younger memorabilia at Mom and Dad’s on Maui. Even with just my college and after keepsakes, trophies, plaques, awards, uniforms, and gear, I’d filled three boxes, and had a bunch of stuff that couldn’t fit in a box just lined up against the wall or along the top shelves of the closet. And when I closed the doors, I jotted down a note to get a lock as soon as possible.
I’d met with Belle on Monday, two days before our second date, to go over her official design and plan of attack for the condo. She’d been ordering furniture and rugs and plants and God knows what else all week, and I knew any day now I’d start getting deliveries.
And then she’d be here with her crew, unpacking, organizing, designing the space with the elegance that only she could.
I was reaching the point where I wanted to tell her about who I really was — mostly because I loved talking to her, and I wanted her to know my true passion. Every time we turned the conversation to work, I would find a way to change the subject, because I had absolutely nothing to say about real estate.
I could talk all day long about football.
The more I spent time with Belle, the more I believed that she really didn’t know who I was. Hell, if anything, she’d had the opportunity to call me out on my shit when that guy bought me a beer at Doc’s bar Wednesday night. But she hadn’t probed at all, just changed the subject easily back to my family.
But as much as I wanted to trust her, to think I already knew her, I also realized this was part of my issue when it came to the girls I chose to date in the past.
I got swept away easily. I got caught up. I convinced myself there were no red flags until they were all waving in front of my face and it was too late to get out without getting hurt. Yes, I wanted to tell Belle about football… but the truth was that I didn’t know her well enough just yet.
The nervous part of me wondered if she’d done it on purpose, ignoring the guy at the bar, the people staring as we walked to the bar. I wondered if she was playing a game with me like so many had before. Oh, wow, you play football? I had no idea! You know what I’d really love? To interview a football player on my podcast…
I mean, why didn’t she question what had happened? I sure as hell would have if it were her in the reverse.
