Page 58 of Not Before Game Night
That was my attempt to make sure he got some sleep.
“Vanessa, come on, let’s just get in my car and drive back to mine,” he said, placing kisses all along my neckline.
This was us a month later. We were in the middle of the football season, and while everyone else was going crazy for the game, we were like this. Crazy with each other. On this endless sex cycle. Doing it every chance we got.
I pulled away again, and he frowned.
“Cole, I’m serious. You looked so sad after the last game.” Because they’d lost. I knew he never said as much, but he blamed himself for being tired. And why was he tired?
Because he’d spent the night before with me.
He pretended to look hurt and gave a wicked smile when he came for me again.
I giggled, swatting his hands away when he reached for me.
“Cole, I’m very serious. Don’t let me feel guilty for keeping you away from what you should be doing.” Now I held up my hands, pressing against the solid wall of his chest.
“Okay, fine. But for future reference, you never have to feel guilty about stuff like that. Also, for future reference, don’t wear that color if you want me to resist you. It’s too damn sexy.”
I rolled my eyes at him and shook my head. “I’m wearing full black, Cole.”
I had on a black business dress and black heels. I couldn’t have looked more professional if I’d tried.
“Exactly. Like I said, too damn sexy.” He took a step backward and narrowed his eyes at me. I just looked at him trying to figure him out.
I was surprised that I still couldn’t. Sometimes he’d throw me off what I thought I might have figured out by making some kind of face at me, or looking serious when he was messing around.
I’d mentioned something along those lines in the article I did on him. The people loved it, and I loved that there was such a great response. I was currently working on the magazine, and while it was great thinking about all the players I’d get to include in it, I wished I could do something more on him. And not because he’d had me trapped in this bubble of bliss for the last four weeks.
“What now?” I asked. Better to ask than to try and guess.
“I’m wondering if she’ll say yes.” He nodded.
“Okay, whichsheare we talking about? The girl who tattooed your name on her breasts, or the model who claimed you keep her underwear in a glass case?” I had to give myself credit for my award-winning act of cool as a cucumber. The woman who didn’t care that the man she was sleeping with every day had a whole world of admiring fans. Just now when I spoke, I almost believed I didn’t care. We could have been two friends talking about fries.
The tattoo girl and the model were both in yesterday’s celeb gossip. The week before was definitely my personal favorite.Not.
Fashion model Brittany Tate gaveThe National Enquirera very juicy sauce of a story when she told them about her Coleridge Buchanan sexcapades.Eight Orgasms in One Hourwas the title, and of course she went on to explain herself.
I would have thought it was a load of bullshit and trash, like most people, if I didn’t know he could actually do that. The man was one of talent.
He smirked as I looked at him, but there was something in his eyes that dimmed. “Neither. The she is you.”
I pulled in a mental sigh and continued to stare at him. “What might I say yes to?”
As if I’d managed to tell him no since we got together. It was always a yes, and I was certain that with the speed I was going at with my feelings for him, I’d end up following this man over the edge of a cliff if he asked me to.
“Dinner with me tonight.” He nodded.
“Ohhh, I like dinner. I saw this amazing recipe for Spanish chicken. It reminded me of that Mediterranean chicken you made last week.”
He chuckled and put out his hand to stroke my cheek. “Dinner with me tonight at The Verge.”
My heart stilled. He wanted to go out, as in out with me. Outside. We’d never been outside like we were a couple. All I ever saw was the bedroom or wherever a person could have sex. If he was seriously talking about what sounded like a date, then this would be very back to front. But us going to dinner would be a date.Normal. As in the thing two people did who liked each other.
“Like a date?” I was nervous to ask.
“Yeah, goddess. A date. We get dressed up, I stare at you all night and try to make you laugh. We eat, I take you home and fall asleep with you in my arms. Date.” His smile widened turning from sensual to reflective.
