Page 71 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 19
Eleanor
BUSY REPLAYINGTHE PRESS CONFERENCE in my head, I don’t pay much attention to the road. Only when he pulls into his condo parking lot, do I realize where we are.
“What are we doing here? Shouldn’t you be dropping me off first?”
He turns off the ignition key and leans back in his seat. “We need to talk.”
There’s no shortage of subjects. The press conference. Our wedding plans. But there’s no time. At least not now. “I need to go home, Brock. Kaylee will be there soon.”
“Your mom’s at your house, isn’t she?”
“Yes, of course.” She’s supervising Butch who’s become ultra-protective. If anybody so much as rings our doorbell, he goes nuts. “But she’ll leave as soon as Kaylee arrives.” Of course, Mama will stay if the paparazzi are still hanging out, but I’d just as soon not impose upon her more than I already have.
“The press still camped at your door?”
“Some.” I fetch my cell from my purse. “Should I call an Uber?”
“No need. I’ll drive you home. Let me grab a few things first.”
“What things?”
“Clothes, toiletries, my shaving gear.”
Clueless, I ask, “Why?”
“Because I’ll be staying with you.”
“What?!!!” I’m not ready to have him move in this instant. I need time to prepare, to come to terms with the reality of Brock in my house. “You can’t do that. Not today.”
“Ellie”—he cradles my jaw in that big hand of his—“now that we’ve announced our engagement everyone will expect us to live together. And going by the strong media presence at the press conference, they won’t stop camping out at your door. At least, not until our wedding. So I need to be there, living with you. If I don’t, it’ll be all over the tabloids.”
I only have two bedrooms. “Where would you sleep?” Silly question, I know.
“With you, of course.”
Brock in my bed holding me, kissing me, making love to me every night. I’m not ready for this. “No.”
“Ellie, be reasonable.”
I can’t imagine how Kaylee will react to Brock in our home. I’ve never, ever brought a man to the house. “It’s not right. I have a daughter.”
“Wehave a daughter.”
“We’re not married.”
“Yet.”
“But. But.”
“It’ll be fine, sweetheart, you’ll see.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
“Yes. You are.” Crooking a finger, he lifts my chin and brushes his lips against mine. He nibbles the corners of my mouth, suckles my lower lip, and everything in me goes liquid. Our mouths, tongues, teeth tangle in a frenzy of lust. His hand climbs down to the hem of my skirt. Before I know it, his fingers are brushing my thighs, pushing my panties aside, teasing my pussy. Silently begging for more, I push against his fingers, until he thrusts one inside. I ride him until another finger and a third join the first. I want to come. I need to come.
“I want to taste you.”
