Page 2 of Not By the Playbook

My guy? Did they come pre-assigned?

My lashes flutter upward. Blue Eyes—Logan—is staring at me, a cocky grin playing on his lips. My pulse quickens, and electricity sizzles through me.

Carrie continues, “They’re NFL. They play for the New York Titans. Connor is the running back. Jake is a linebacker. Logan is their star quarterback.”

My brain kicks in at that statement and orders my body to refuse the drink. I have no idea why someone like Logan has singled me out, not in a place littered with models and celebrities. I’m about to step back, but he is already in front of me, pressing a champagne flute into my hand. His touch is intoxicating enough; the bubbly is superfluous.

“In anticipation of good things to come.” His eyes are hot on my skin. “Very good things.”

* * *

We spoke wellinto the night. I don’t remember what about, just that there were more lingering gazes and illicit touches, and the vague sensation I was doing something I shouldn’t.

Champagne was followed by tequila shots that morphed into Fireballs, then into a series of Jager Bombs.

And now here I am. From HR candidate to ho.

Hold it together, Becs.I try to shift Logan’s arm, but it’s too heavy. What is this guy made of? He’s more Man of Steel than Dark Knight.

Do I wake him or duck out from under his arm? The sudden dryness in my throat makes me swallow. I risk option two. I press my face against his side and start to slither down, my nose grazing his skin. Logan’s scent evokes more scenes from the night before. His body tense and hard over me, his eyes blazing with every hard thrust. His face buried between my parted thighs while his fingers dug into my hips as he pushed me over the edge.

My head spins at these pictures and a low, strangled grunt escapes my lips.

Beside me, Logan shifts and makes a sound.

I freeze.Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

Throat tight, I wait. But he only lets out a soft sigh. I suck in a breath of my own and continue my journey down, one tanned mile at a time, my heart thudding the entire way. The moment my head clears his arm, I spring up and angle my frame away, covering my breasts with my hands as if his hadn’t been all over them last night. What was I thinking? Oh right. I wasn’t.

I sneak another look at Logan. Closer perusal reveals corded muscles and tight brown nipples. Mouth dry, my gaze trails down his body, inch by slow inch, only stopping at the base of his eight-pack. I know the “V” is there, but it’s covered by a thin sheet. My stomach clenches, and my eyes skid up to his face. His features are relaxed. There’s no hint that he might share the shitstorm raging inside me.

Cool air hits me, and queasiness wars with embarrassment. My clothes and his are breadcrumbs of shame from the door to the bed. I trace them back, first snapping on my blue lace bra then tugging on the rumpled mess that is my shirt. My black pencil skirt resembles a broken accordion.

Where are my panties?My eyes dart around the room, taking in the details I missed last night—floor-to-ceiling windows with views of Battery Park, dark shelves anchored to slate walls filled with books and trophies and other memorabilia. But no underwear.

Shit.I skulk back to the king-sized bed and inhale sharply. My crab pincers inch up the sheet. No panties, but I am confronted with an eyeful ofthat. I drop the cloth and squeeze my thighs together in reflex.

Oh yeah.That.

More pieces fit together. Logan’s lips hot on mine in the Uber, making out in the elevator up to his floor. Plastering me against the front door the moment we’re inside then carrying me to the kitchen counter and pressing his hard body between my thighs while fishing a condom out of his wallet.

Skirt rucked up, panties yanked down, and touchdown.

It was the quickest orgasm of my life.

I was still pulsing when we relocated to the bedroom for round two only minutes later. Football stamina is real.

Even though his wooden headboard is notch-free, I’m reasonably confident based on his—skills—that he’s done this before.

What’s the protocol now? Run? Leave him my number? Write a thank-you card for the best sex ever? My stomach picks that exact moment to rumble.I should wake him up and demand breakfast for services rendered.

The sheets rustle again, and Logan turns over.

Panties are overrated. One more trophy to his collection won’t make a difference. I grab my purse and shoes and tiptoe out into the living room.

It’s ginormous, at least twice the size of my entire apartment. Three dark leather couches frame a square coffee table in front of a large TV on one side. An eight-seater dining table separates the space from a long kitchen island—the scene of my disgrace.

I spy a blue bit of lace on the ground by the counter and I scurry over. When I bend, a cocktail of blood and booze rushes to my head. I have to squeeze my lids shut and clench my teeth together to keep from throwing up while I question my poor life choices.

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