Page 9 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Listen–”
Before I can finish, she pulls me down a narrow side street, her hand tight on my wrist. It’s darker here, quiet, the buzz of streetlights fading behind us. She spins, presses me back against the brick wall. She’s so tall. Confident. Then her hot, soft lips are against mine, and she kisses me like she’s trying to erase everything else–like she’s starving and I’m the only thing left to eat.
It knocks the goddamn breath out of me, and Jesus, I want more.
When she finally pulls back, I’m blinking like I forgot how to use my eyes.
“What was that for?” I ask, voice low and hoarse. My cock twitches on my thigh.
She licks her lips, thumb brushing my jaw like she’s memorizing the shape of me. “Because I wanted to.”
Then she steps back like she didn’t just short-circuit every working part of my body. And I swear–if she turns around and walks into that hotel like nothing happened, I might actually pass out right here in this alley.
She smirks like she’s got the upper hand–and fucking hell, she does. “Just a kiss goodnight,” she says. “You know… the end to a really fun, unexpected night.”
My eyebrows lift. “‘Fun’ is one word for it. Doesn’t have to end here, you know.”
She doesn’t take the bait, just smooths her hoodie over those long legs and gives me that pop star smirk. That untouchable look I’ve seen her give a hundred times on stage or in magazines. Except this time it’s aimed right at me. And yeah, it does things.
“So that’s all this is,” I say, my hand trailing casually up and down her arm, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist like maybe I can flip the switch back on.
She nods once. “That’s all this is.”
There it is. No hotel invitation. No ‘wanna come up?’ Not even a suggestive wink. Just the cold, hard truth wrapped in a hot, soft package.
She steps back, already in motion. “Don’t walk me the rest of the way,” she says. “I don’t need a headline in the morning.”
Message received.
I raise both hands like I’m innocent–even though I’m very much not. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turns, but before she gets more than a step away, I grab her wrist. “One more,” I say, already leaning in and yanking that hoodie off, revealing her lavender hair.
The first kiss was hers, but this one is mine. I take it slow and cocky, like I’m trying to brand it in her memory. My hand cups the side of her neck, fingers in her hair, body lined up with hers like I’ve got nothing to lose–which I don’t. We’re in overtime, the clock is winding down, and like I’ve practiced for years, I’m taking the goddamn shot.
Thank Christ, she kisses me back, just enough tongue and teeth to make it sting when she finally pulls away with a soft exhale. That feeling in my pants? It’s way more than a twitch. We’ve gone full hard-on.
“Thanks for the night out, Jefferson,” she says, fingers slipping away from mine. “And good luck.”
Then she’s gone. Hood up, back across the street, slipping into the lobby of her fancy-ass hotel like we didn’t just make out in an alley like two drunk college kids.
I watch her go, not even pretending to look away.
Yeah, when I reached out to her, I was hoping I’d end the night with a little more than a kiss. Thought maybe I’d get to notch the infamous Ingrid Flockton off my very short, very exclusive list. But weirdly, I’m not that pissed.
She was fun. Hot. Smart as hell. And even though I didn’t get the ending I wanted, I still feel like I won something, even if I didn’t win the game.
By the timewe pull up to the team hotel in Chicago, I’m in the final three songs of Ingrid’s last concert. Her fans record them in full and then upload them on socials so that everyone who wasn’t there can watch the spectacle. And fuck me if she isn’t a firecracker in those sequined thigh-high boots and sweeping dresses strutting across the stage.
Even though I’m fully immersed in the woman, I do successfully push every intrusive-ass thought about last night out of my head. How I hadoneshot and blew it.
Sure, I got to meet her and spend a little time with her, but I didn’t seal the deal on the one thing I wanted most of all: crossing her off my list.
Turning off the video, I let Emerson, crammed in the seat across from mine, chirp about strategy for our first game tomorrow. I even allow Pete to fall asleep on my shoulder without elbowing him in the face.
Axel stretches as we unload, his shirt riding up to reveal the dark ink all over his lower abdomen. He looks around like we’reabout to hit the town for a night out instead of checking into a basic-ass hotel set up by the league. “Man, Chicago’s got that energy,” he says, inhaling deep.
“I feel like anywhere has more energy than the Texas suburbs,” I say, reminding him of where he’s from. His father is the preacher of a mega-church called Kingdom. He was set up to be the next in line before he finally told his controlling, dominating father to fuck the hell off.
