Page 8 of Not Just a Trick Play

Not that his grip is threatening. Quite the opposite—oddly comforting, in fact, sending an unexpected warmth spiraling through me. I find myself leaning inexplicably closer. Goodness, I must be truly starved for affection to seek solace in a man shackled to my bed.

After a reassuring squeeze, he releases me. “Hey. It’s cool. Just try again,” he murmurs, his voice deep, soothing. I swallow past the knot in my throat and respond with a tiny nod.

On my next attempt, there’s the blessed click of the catch releasing. One of the rings pops open. I carefully draw it off his wrist, wincing as chafed, scratched skin is revealed. I hurriedly unlock his other hand.

The moment he’s free, I leap off him and watch as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and rises in one fluid motion, nothing suggesting that he’d been supine for hours. He’s enormous, far more imposing than I’d anticipated. What in the name of sinful temptations possessed me to release him?

He pivots, giving me his back, but not before I catch another glimpse of his front and a healthy dose of tight, perfectly sculpted arse.

He snatches a pair of underpants and his jeans off the ground and dashes outside for the loo, tossing a “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back” over his shoulder.

Logic dictates I run, sprint for safety with Olympic-level speed. But, oh no, not me. I'm rooted to the spot, utterly bewitched by a man who's as magnetic as he might be mad.

It's as if my sense of self-preservation went on holiday, leaving me to stew in a simmering cauldron of what will surely be scorching regret.

CHAPTER FOUR

JAKE

I domy business and wash up before tugging on my boxers—any more full-frontal action might scare Amelia comatose. Also, I’d prefer to stay in the not-a-creeper zone. Though the half-mast situation I’m wrestling with isn’t helping my cause. I mean, shewasbasically sitting on my face. Creeper status? Confirmed. Good thing I’d never act on it—but another guy in my position?

I shake my head. What was she thinking, freeing me like that? Sure, I’m grateful and all, but seriously, this is New York City. No one in their right mind runs around releasing randos. She should’ve called the cops as she’d suggested.

I yank on my jeans, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Shit, I’m easily double Amelia’s weight and a foot taller. Even if she’d recognized that I was a famous athlete, it wouldn’t have made me a safe bet. And she just arrived in the country, too. How long before anyone would’ve noticed if she had gone missing?

When I step out, she’s perched on the edge of the couch, phone to her ear. “…Nothing? Are you absolutely sure?” A pause. “Very well. Please get back to me soon as possible. Thank you.”

She hangs up and peers at me, dejected. “I’ve tried to reach the owner of the flat but can’t get through,” Exhaustion is in her voice. “I managed to speak with Airbnb customer support and explained everything. They’re going to look into the situation,” she adds, letting out a heavy sigh before scanning around the room again. “Have you seen anything to eat? The host said she’d left me a welcome present.”

“Muffins, by any chance?”

She shrugs.

“Errr… I think I know what happened to them,” I say, recalling how Stella was munching on one when she took the fucking photo.

We both glance outside. It’s still dark. The microwave mounted over a two-burner stove boasts a neon green 3:14 a.m. The colon between the digits blinks ominously.

Amelia worries her lip then glances at me through lowered lashes. “So…” She draws out the word, clearly at a loss.

“We should probably call the police,” I say, walking back into the room.

“I could have saved you the trouble,” she responds dryly. I turn to find her silhouetted in the doorway.

I chuckle ruefully. “You wouldn’t have wanted to deal with that situation, I promise.”

I scoop my phone off the ground. As expected, an explosion of missed calls and messages awaits. I rake my fingers through my hair, groaning as I sift through the barrage, pausing at a text from Dan, my agent. It reads, “What. The. Fuck?” and includes a link to Extreme Exposé’s website. Sure enough, there it is—the photo Psycho Stella took, featuring me, cuffed and naked, dick barely covered by a teddy bear emoji that, tragically, resembles the Titans’ mascot.

My expression? Mouth open and glazed eyes, as if I’ve spotted a really yummy sandwich…or I’m high as a kite.Objectively, it’s not the worst I’ve ever looked, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to punch myself. The headline screams, “Tied Down Titan: The Bear Necessities of a Football Star.”

I ignore the messages from Titans management—of course, their PR radars have picked up on the photo—and dial 911 instead. I roll my shoulders. Yeah, explaining this to the boys in blue is going to be real fun. After an extremely awkward conversation with the dispatcher, who is clearly trying not to laugh, I’m assured the police are on their way.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” I grab my shirt off the floor, slide it on and do up the buttons, then shrug on my jacket before slumping against the wall. “Cops will be here soon.”

We wait in awkward silence. I take another glance around. “So how long are you planning to stay?”

“I’m not sure. A while. I was looking for unique experiences, but this is perhaps more than I was expecting.”

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