Page 6 of Full Tilt
It’s just a shame his bed game didn’t quite match up to all the promises he’d repeated in the bar.
On a groan that vibrates in my eardrum, he finally finishes and pulls out, sitting back on his heels as he snaps the condom off and tosses it into a trash can by his bed.
He turns back to face me, a smirk pulling at his top lip. I’ve seen that look before—one that leaves no doubt that he’s already thinking about round two.
I sit up and pull the duvet over my body, trying to send a message that I’m done. In fact, I’m likely leaving in the next thirty minutes.
He drops his head between his shoulders and shakes it slowly. “I was going to ask if you wanted to stay the night …” His smirk is gone when he lifts his head, running a hand through disheveled sandy-blond hair. “But by the way you just recoiled up the bed, I’m guessing a repeat performance is out of the question.”
At least he’s perceptive.
I look over at my bag and clothes hanging from a chair on the far side of his bedroom. I’ve got no idea who I went home with. All I know is, he drives a fast car and owns his own legal practice. He reminded me often enough. For all I know, he could be a serial killer with a dozen women locked in his basement.
I push down the thoughts and smile sweetly. “Staying over isn’t my usual MO. Plus, I have practice first thing in the morning.”
His blue eyes flare wide, and now I’m internally scolding myself for giving away information. I never offer guys more than my first name. It’s easy to stay under the radar since female soccer players aren’t exactly famous.
“Now it all makes sense.”
He points to my covered body, and I quirk a brow.
“What do you mean?”
He edges closer, and I’d back away further if I wouldn’t fall off the bed.
“Your body is so tight. Toned to fuck. Your muscle-to-fat ratio is basically zero. Since you wouldn’t tell me anything about yourself earlier, I figured you just worked out a lot, but you being an athlete makes way more sense.”
My raised brow rises further. “I only said that I had practice. I could be a musician.”
His confident headshake isn’t buying it. “Nah. What sport do you play?”
“I’m a swimmer,” I blurt out a little too quickly.
He shrugs and joins me under the duvet, resting an arm along the headboard behind me. He’s getting comfortable, and I just want to get out of here.
Why is it so fucking hard to find a boyfriend in this town? I’m twenty-seven, hardly retired. My last boyfriend, Lee, started off so promisingly until the relationship fizzled to nothing.
I just want a man to make me feel alive. Excited.
“You don’t have the build of a swimmer.” His eyes scan me beneath the duvet again. “You’ve got the height, but your shoulders aren’t screaming swimmer to me.”
I fight back an eye roll. “For a lawyer, you sure as shit seem to know a lot about physiology.”
Shame you didn’t pay closer attention in sex ed.
“My ex-girlfriend was a physical trainer. You remind me of her a lot actually.”
Annnd get me out of here immediately.
“Lovely,” I deadpan. “I play ice hockey.”
He pulls back, examining my face for a lie. “You have the feisty attitude. What position?”
“Goalie.” At least that part is truthful.
Nodding once, he reaches over and passes me a glass of water. I study it for a few beats, checking for any residue at the bottom.
“You can sniff it, too, if you’d like. I promise I haven’t spiked it.” He chuckles. “I spend my life prosecuting criminals. I don’t plan on becoming one.”
