Page 4 of Pucking Dirty

"Jealous of my size now, huh?" I ask, my voice breathy as he looms over me, caging me in against the wall. I'm not a small girl. I never have been. I'm five six and wear size twenty on a good day. But next to him, I might as well be four feet and ninety pounds. He's just that freaking big.

"Jealous I don't know what that fucking mouth tastes like yet," he grunts, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "Your size is part of the reason I might just be jerking my cock in the locker room today—for the first time, I might add. And no, I won't have an audience."

"Your team will be disappointed to hear that."

"It's not a team sport, princess."

"Pity," I whisper, licking my lips. "Seems like it'd be way more fun if it were."

"Fucking minx," he groans, his hands sinking into my hips as he leans toward me. My stomach bottoms out, my heart racing at the way he grips me so possessively.

This is it. Nash Whatley is going to kiss me.

He leans closer.

"Whatley! Why the fuck do you have your hands on my daughter?"

I hate my life. It's a cruel, vicious Shakespearean farce. And my father is the Bard himself, penning gosh damn tragedies right through the middle of the good parts.

Nash's eyes whip to mine like lightning striking, his hands falling from my hips. "Daughter?"

"Did I forget to mention that?"

"Yeah, princess," he growls, storm clouds roiling in his eyes. "You definitely forgot to mention that."

"Whoops. My bad."

I should probably feel guilty for not making sure he knew, but I don't. It's been the same story my whole life. As soon as someone finds out who my dad is, suddenly, I'm untouchable. Even on the other side of the freaking country, as soon as people knew, my dating life dried up faster than the Sahara. The only candidates left were the guys hoping to get in good with him…and that was absolutely not happening.

Being the only virgin left alive never really bothered me before. No one ever interested me enough to get worked up about it when toys do the trick just fine. But I really, really wanted this man to do some touching.

There's no way that's happening now.

I slide out from under his arm, disappointment coursing through me.

His lips brush my ear, sending a jolt through me. "If you think being Lariat's kid is going to save you, you're wrong," he growls.

I whip my head in his direction, my eyes wide.

"This isn't over."

"Whatley!" my dad growls. "Don't piss me off, kid."

Damn. I almost forgot he was charging toward us like a raging bull. His timing, for lack of a more apt descriptor, sucks sweaty hockey balls.

"Found her in the locker room, Coach," Nash says casually, turning to glance at my dad, who is staring at us with suspicion stamped all over his rugged face. "I just escorted her out and was making sure she's okay." He winks at me, stepping away to create some respectable distance. "She's a little upset about what she saw in there. I believe she called it a sausagefest."

Oh, he's good. Evil, but good.

"Fuck." My dad stops midstep, glancing toward the locker room door with furrowed brows. "She walked in there?"

"She is right here," I complain. Being talked around is so aggravating! I'm twenty-four, not four.

"You walked in on them changing?"

"Yes."

"Son of a bitch," my dad mutters.

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