Page 39 of The Playmaker
Then she hangs up.
Poor thing.
But then I feel a tall, masculine presence beside me.
Lucky me.
I bite my bottom lip to keep that giddy little tilt of my lips under control. And then I turn and face him.
Hello, Handsome, are you busy tonight?my body says to him.
"Jax," I actually say. "Do you always sneak in and out of back alley parking lots?"
He surveys me with one smooth glance, his eyes looking a little brighter than they did seconds ago. "Only when it counts, it would seem." He raises his eyebrows.
Oh. Right. I should explain why I'm here in high heels and a dress with way too much cleavage showing, even after the alterations. But part of me wonders if I should mention that I saw him with Riley. Would he panic? Shut down? Run? The knowledge sits heavy between us, unspoken.
He opens the door for me, one hand on the small of my back. The perfect gentleman. I feel a shiver rush through me at his touch, my nipples hardening instinctively at the mere nearness of him.
"Chilly," he says dryly, though it's anything but.
"You men have it easy, in your suits and comfy shoes." It's just something to say while I gather my bearings.
"Why are you here, Avery?" His voice is melted chocolate and I want more than anything to be his strawberry, covered in all that sex appeal.
Which is dumb, since the last time I saw him he shut me out hardcore. His eyes search mine, sobering my emotions real quick.
Is he curious about my social calendar or is he really wanting to know if I saw his sister outside? I pretend ignorance onthattopic. Some secrets deserve to be kept, even by a journalist.
"My best friend is a food blogger and restaurant critic. Her name is Pen. She really wanted to come tonight, eat all the good food, and then," I step away from him just inside the main area of the restaurant, breaking contact, "well, food poisoning slowed her down a bit."
He whistles, checking his phone. "Sounds rough. Hope she feels better..." His lips press together in annoyance. "Well. Looks like I'm riding solo tonight, too. Hawk," he looks at me to see if I remember his teammate; I nod, "was supposed to attend this with me tonight. We, uh," he glances at me, "are going to invest in a restaurant chain together. But looks like he's held up."
A beat of silence hangs between us, both capable of inviting the other to stay together for the event. But the first to ask is the one who will look eager, and it appears he doesn't want that any more than I do. A wicked idea crosses my mind as my ego remembers how he dismissed me on the jet a week ago.
I look him dead in the eye and extend my hand formally. He just looks at it.
"I should let you get going, and I," I take back the hand he's ignoring and grab a tiny pencil and notebook on the entry table for guests to personally rate their favorites for tonight, "need to start tasting the delicacies on display for tonight. For Pen, of course."
To my great and utter surprise, he lets his gaze drop to my lips and further down to my bouncy breasts that seem to have taken on a life of their own in this dress.
"I love tasting...delicacies." His gaze rakes up my body to meet mine. "I'll join you."
My mouth goes dry at the hungry look in his eyes, but then I remember that I'm mad at him. I should be walking away, maintaining my professional distance. Instead, I shrug, the girls pressing together, then turn and move from one table to the next with speed. Every touch, every look sets my heartaflutter. And then when he feeds me a tasting size of chocolate lava cake, I feel my thighs quiver. Arousal and need war against my better sense. I flip the little notebook shut, check the photos and videos I took for Pen of each good dish, and slip both in my clutch, turning to announce that I'm ready to go.
Oh hell no.
I find myself chest to chest with him. He did this. Not me. So I can't be held accountable for what could happen next.
I feel my breaths coming in short pants, and when his hand closes around mine—not my waist, not my back, but holding my hand—I know exactly what is going to happen next. There's an intimacy in the gesture that's more powerful than any of our previous encounters. This isn't just about physical release anymore.
"Let's get my stole," I whisper breathily.
He squeezes my hand then leads me to the coat check located down a hallway by the entrance. I feel my hip rub against his crotch when we arrive and I step across from him to look inside. No one is there.
His groan sounds primal, his length hard and long against my hip.
"Fuck, I want you," he growls out.
