Page 43 of Shot Taker

I’m still deciding whether to lift my knuckles and rap on the wood when the door swings open.

“You gonna stand there all night?” Clay drawls from the other side.

He’s wearing a pair of grey sweats resting low on his hips and nothing else. Black ink curls around his muscled arms, over his pecs and abs. His feet are bare. His hair sticks up in every direction in a way that’s sexy and messy, and he looks as if he just rolled out of bed.

My throat dries.

How did he…?

There’s a lens in the peephole. A camera.

Of course Clay would have security.

Music drifting into the hall has me snapping to attention. It didn’t occur to me he was here with someone, but seeing his state of semi-clothedness, a ribbon that feels suspiciously like jealousy snakes up my spine and curls in my stomach.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Clay leans against the door frame, folding those bulging arms. “I’m alone.”

Satisfaction edges in around the sharp needles, but I play it cool. “I meant you jerking off.”

His eyes dance. “You offering to relieve me?”

Heat blooms between my thighs. My body responds whether I want it to or not. He has a direct line to my arousal, a silky rope he tugs on with every smirk, every tilt of his dark head, every rough word from his filthy mouth.

“I came to return this.” I hold up the picture.

“That all you came for?” His voice lowers with innuendo, and my attention drags down to the bulge in his pants without warning.

I force my eyes up to meet his.

Clay turns and heads inside, leaving me staring after him, my jaw on the floor, the picture still in my hands.

I follow him inside, the door clicking closed smoothly at my back.

He pads barefoot across the carpet to the living room, where he’s watching basketball. I lean the picture carefully against the wall opposite him.

“We need to talk,” he says solemnly.

I’m suddenly on guard. “About what happened between us?”

“No. About how much you’re getting paid by the Kodiaks.”

I frown. “It’s none of your business.”

“Show me your contract.”

He’s being bossy, but I'll get out of here faster if I do it. I pull out my phone and open the contract.

He takes my phone and crosses to the living room, sinking onto the huge couch. I follow him, perching on the edge just far enough away we’re not touching.

Watching him read all that fine print as if he’s ready to shred it is strangely sexy.

“There’s nothing about merchandise,” he notes when he’s done.

“Merchandise? I’m painting a wall. There’s not going to be a mascot.” I inch closer, trying to read upside down. I give up and shift next to him, peering over his shoulder.

“James will sell this work with the team’s name on it.”

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