Page 33 of Not Just a Trick Play

You’re going to be a zombie if you don’t get some sleep.

I expect her to agree, for our digital back-and-forth to tuck itself in for the night. I turn on my side, preparing for another futile attempt at some Zs. Our conversation has done zilch to help with the hard-on situation raging under the sheets.

Sweets

I’m getting ready to go out.

That has me bolting upright, my drowsy haze evaporating. Is she serious? She can’t be walking around on her own at this time of the night. I mean, it’s safe. Very safe. But she’s from small-town England. Who knows what kind of trouble she’ll stumble into?

Maybe more just like you?

Exactly what I’m afraid of.

Me

It’s midnight.

Sweets

In the city that never sleeps.

Before I even finish reading her message, I’ve sprung out of bed and hauling on my jeans from earlier, tugging them on single-handedly as my fingers fly across the keyboard.

Me

What if you get attacked by giant roaches?

I snatch the first sweater from the neatly folded pile in my closet, grab the jacket I’d thrown over the chair by the door, thankful to find a Yankees cap sticking out of one pocket.

Sweets

I’ll be fine. I can look after myself, remember? Besides, I’m sure I can handle a roach or two.

Fuck it. What’s a little more self-inflicted torture?

Me

Stay put. I’m coming to get you. And I’m bringing roach repellant.

Only in thesubterranean gloom of my building’s parking does it hit me—keys are upstairs. Uber claims a driver is three minutes from me—a quick fix. Amelia won’t stick around forever, and I can’t risk her slipping away.

In twenty, I exit the car to find her waiting a few steps above me, framed by the hotel’s sliding doors.

The sight of her sends a jolt straight to my chest, my heart pounding as if I’ve sprinted every block here, instead of rolling up in a trusty Toyota Camry.

A flirty gray skirt flutters around her knees, and the edges of her denim jacket flaps open over a purple top that highlights the elegance of her collarbones. And that’s when I know I’m in real trouble, because who the fuck thinks of sexy collarbones?

Her makeup is more dramatic than I’ve seen before, her lashes darker, highlighting shimmery lids. The deep pink that stains her lips ignites a sudden primal urge to see that color on my cock.

My hands clench and unclench, desperate to touch but knowing I can’t. My pulse quickens, each beat echoing in me like a drum as my skin prickles with anticipation.

Awareness crackles between us. I’m at a loss for words. “I want to yank off that jacket and lick your neck” probably wouldn’t be welcome. Or wise.

Before I can spit something out to lighten the mood, she beats me to it. “You’re making quite the habit of popping up at the most unusual times,” she quips, crossing her arms, a glimmer of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s a gift,” I respond, relieved the words I finally choke out sound playful.

A slight breeze flirts with her hair, and she gathers the lapels of her jacket, pulling them together. The dim light catches the coppery buttons, and my attention. Jesus, her tits. I barely suppress a groan as another wave of heat surges through me.

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