Page 84 of Dirty Player

I had fallen for it. I had craved the security his financial situation could provide someday, not to live a life of luxury, but to know with certainty that I’d never eat a week of bologna and cheese sandwiches again, and even then only eat twice a day.

But had I ever craved his touch the way I already craved Oliver’s? Had I ever responded to him physically so quickly? So deeply? Did I miss him when we were apart, waiting for the minute I could see him again?

If they ever existed, they’d evaporated a long time ago.

Regardless of the passion we could have had in the beginning, it had long since burned out by the time he proposed. I had chalked it up to that’s what happened when you moved in with someone. When you knew them so well after so many years that it was easy to settle into roommates with lackluster sex lives where you knew every move that would come before it happened.

We’d been stale. I hadn’t even been bothered by it.

Already I knew that if that passion with Oliver waned, I’d fight tooth and nail to get it back, hanging onto it with everything I had to keep from losing it again.

“I didn’t love him,” I whispered.

The babbling voice on the other end of the phone went silent. “Jensen Ackles?” Melissa finally asked, confusion thick in her voice. “Because I was talking about—”

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening, and I’ll let you rant aboutSupernaturallater, but I think I just had an epiphany.”

“About Patrick?” Any other friend might have been offended by admitting they’d been talking and you’d totally drifted off. Not Melissa. Of course, her obsession withSupernaturalrivaled mine withSons of Anarchy—something she never understood.

“Yes. I didn’t love him. Or if I did, I stopped a long time ago.”

I didn’t have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. “Well, duh. I could have told you that.”

I finished my glass of wine in one large swallow. “I love you. You know that, right, Pissy Missy?”

She snorted. “Sure, hooker. I know that.”

***

My palms went clammy as soon as I saw Oliver’s name flash on my phone.

I was tipsy, having drunk more wine after Melissa and I hung up. Then more wine while I watched Raleigh cream Miami. For two guys who had seemed to think the game was going to be close, they had played a game that the sports announcers were declaring “prophetic of the rest of their Super Bowl-bound season.”

I’d been so excited that I’d finished the bottle of wine while I cheered for every completed pass, every touchdown, every dodged sack and tackle.

Now, I was about to have a heart attack. If it was possible, the butt plug on my nightstand had grown throughout the day.

It wasn’t even just a phone call that made me nervous. It was the small white video camera inside a green circle.

FaceTime?Oh God.

My stomach sank to my gut as I hit the Answer button. When we connected and I saw his eyes crinkle behind those sexy as hell eyeglass frames when he smiled, I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

“Hey, you. Good game tonight.” I cringed as my voice cracked.

Oliver’s smile disappeared as he noticed. “You okay?”

“I’m good. I promise. Maybe had a bit too much to drink tonight, excited to see you. You played great.”

His eyes softened. His smile was a bit tremulous, as if he wasn’t used to the praise. It was that vulnerability that made my heart skip a beat. “Thank you. Everything about the game was good, like we’re figuring out our shit on the field.”

“It looked like it.” There was an awkward pause and heat crept up my neck to my cheeks.

“You’re nervous,” he said, adjusting in his seat. He leaned back, and that was when I noticed he wasn’t wearing a shirt. All I saw on the small screen in my hand was tanned and firm muscles, slight bruises blooming on his ribcage, but I knew enough not to ask. Bruises and injuries were part of the game. “Would you care to tell me why?”

I blinked harshly and forced myself to look him in the eye. He smirked and ran his tongue along his teeth. Slowly.

Teasingly.

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