Page 11 of The Good Guy Challenge

Her stocking wasn’t what I wanted to fill. I’d balled my hands into fists, resisting my mom’s friend’s daughter and the urge to wipe off all that lipstick with a hard, punishing kiss.

Especially when she waited, chin tipped up, under the mistletoe.

I swallowed down the surge of lust. She was in college, for fuck’s sake.

Then she smiled, bright and big. Sweet as cherry pie.

I relaxed, seeing again the sweet girl next door. She wasn’t the Christmas vixen on the naughty list.

“And to all a good night,” I said, then she rose onto her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss to my cheek.

Then, thoroughly innocent, she walked straight to the eggnog bar and chatted with her mom.

Innocent. Sweet. Friendly.

That was who she was.

That’s probably who she still is.

Even though those words—naughty list—echo in my mind years later. Along with the way she flirted with me.

She’s probably the consummate good girl. But…what if she’s not? What if her naughty list comment was a hint?

The possibility is too enticing. I’ve got to know if that was even her last night. Shewaswalking a dog, after all. You don’t usually walk a dog when you’re just visiting. Has she moved to Los Angeles from New York?

No harm, no foul in finding out, right?

I let go of the lat-raise bar, climb off the machine, and grab my water bottle. As I take a glug, I glance around. Drew’s lifting free weights, so I can snag a moment to check her out. I slip my phone from my shorts pocket, unlock it, and search for Ellie Snow.

Her social media feed, full of pics, pops up right away.

And so does my dick.

Just look at those tits. Those lips. That stomach.

She’s no longer the off-limits teenage girl down the street. She’s not the college beauty either. She’s all woman, and she has filled the fuck out in the rack department.

Hips too.

I could grip those hips hard. Grab a fistful of that chestnut hair. Devour those candy lips.

Like a detective cracking the case, I tap the screen with a satisfied grin. Yup. She’s got a little blond dog, just like the gal strutting past The Happiest Hours.

“I knew it,” I mutter, victorious.

“Knew what?”

Busted. Drew’s behind me, peering over my shoulder. I stuff my phone into my pocket right away. He stares as if he caught me red-handed, which he did. “So, it seems youaren’tso worried about non-football injuries,” he teases.

I huff, rolling my eyes. “Just looking someone up. No big deal.” I nod to the StairMaster. “I need to hit the steps.”

“Is that the only thing you need to hit?”

I flip him the bird.

No matter how appealing the idea of hot rebound sex is, I’m still reeling from thehere’s your handcuffsmoment.

Sure, Ellie flirted her sweet ass off with me at a Christmas party a few years ago. But no way do I want to screen Ellie, or anyone, with questions like—so, want it rough, dirty and, maybe, bound?

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