Page 23 of The Shake Off

A blonde, no taller than five four, was standing in front of me, wearing a pair of the shortest shorts I’d ever seen and a bra that one might say was several sizes too small. Her abs were almost as impressive as mine, along with a pair of tits that had definitely been helped along the way. But I was an equal opportunities boob man, real or fake, they were all great to me. Better yet if I could slide my dick between them.

He twitched at the thought.

“Hello, yourself.”

“Hey,” she repeated, only this time, I swear her voice dropped in the way that made it sound like she was panting. “Good luck for the game tomorrow.”

“Thanks, babe. I appreciate that.”

“If you wanna meet up after, here’s my number.” She pulled out a business card from her sports bra and passed it to me. “Sorry, it’s a little sweaty.”

She giggled bashfully as she batted her eyelashes at me, which was all the more impressive considering she was full of shit. There was nothing bashful about her at all, and I couldn’t give a fuck.

“All good,” I laughed, leaning in closer. “I love a bit of sweat.”

“Me too. And I get really hot and sweaty.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Anyway,” she sunk her teeth into her lip, “call me.”

I watched her jog away, her tight little ass swaying with each stride. I looked down at the card she’d given me. Britnee. I could definitely have a good time with her.

Except the second that thought played out, another one followed almost immediately. One with Payton’s face on it saying I was shit in bed, or whatever it had been.

Fuck.

Fuuuck.

Fucking Payton.

Parker was right; she’d not only got into my head, she was making a house there.

I kicked at the grass verge.

Oh, this would not do.

I had twenty-four hours to shake myself out of it before we flew to Philadelphia.

I took off in a sprint.

If I couldn’t shake it off, maybe I could sweat it out, because one way or another, Payton Lopez was getting the fuck out of my head.

FIVE

PAYTON

“Alrighty.” Kit kicked the door to my apartment shut behind her as she balanced the pizza box on one hand, and held onto the bottle of wine with the other. “I have a large double cheese pizza from Lucky’s, a bottle of pinot, and you have the wine glasses.”

“And the cork screw,” I held them both up, “arguably the most important element.”

The aroma of herbs and melted mozzarella filled my tiny kitchen as Kit put everything down onto the counter and opened the box.

“I’m starving.”

“Me too,” I replied, grabbing the bottle to open. The cork squeaked its way out, ending in a loud pop, then the only noise to be heard was the glug of wine leaving the bottle. Kit reached for a glass almost before I’d finished pouring.

“Mmm,” she moaned through the first large sip.

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