Page 37 of Dirty Pucking Player

“You don’t have to do that.”

He waves me off. “Hi. Yes, can I get two Wagyu ribeyes medium rare with fries and a bottle of Sea Smoke Ten? Thanks.”

Uh…what?

I glare at him as he sets the phone down.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “What’s that look for?”

“Did you just order for me?”

A smile plays at his lips as he stalks over to the couch. He leans down and rests his hands on the back, so he has me caged in. “I did. Are you going to complain about me ordering you a hundred-dollar steak?”

Truth be told, a steak sounds amazing, but admitting that to him would make him think it’s okay for him to decide what I’m going to eat and how I like my meat cooked. Dad taught me better than to let a man make decisions for me about anything. It’s a policy that’s served me well over the last thirty-plus years.

“It’s pretty fucking presumptuous.”

He dips his head lower, shifting his hands on the back of the couch until the heat from his arms warms my shoulders and his hot breath flutters over me. “Can’t you just let me do something nice for you, Coach?”

I bite back my retort. I’ve spent so many years fighting against men who thought I didn’t belong in this world that I can’t even see that Bash may be trying to do something nice for me instead of just exerting control.

Then again…it’s Bash. Mixed motives are definitely possible.

Probable even.

He may not even know he’s doing it and might not be capable of turning it off. This is just who he is—bossy, arrogant, and so fucking hot.

With his hard, lean body only inches from mine, his arms caging me in and preventing me from moving away, it’s like being trapped in the direct path of a tornado and being unable to find shelter.

He inches closer until his lips brush against mine. It’s unexpectedly sweet compared to the other kisses I’ve experienced from him. This one is slow. Light. Almost toying.

Butterflies dance in my stomach, the kind that are beautiful and could be very, very dangerous.

He pulls back and grins.

He knows.

Sebastian Fury knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he loves it. He loves playing with me, knowing I can’t stay away. He wants me to beg and thinks he’s so damn cute keeping me off-balance. And he is. Because what’s going on between us is overpowering the looming risk of whatever this is being discovered.

This is where I want to be.

Which is absolutely terrifying.

He pushes away from the couch and makes his way to the bar set up across the room. “Do you want anything to drink while we wait for the food?”

I eye the bottle of scotch sitting in the corner. Hard liquor around Bash might be a bad idea, but I need something to calm my nerves. This is worse than my pre-Olympic jitters. And I despise the fact that it’s Bash doing it to me.

Only a few weeks ago, I despised him. Wanted nothing to do with him and was intent on keeping him hundreds of miles away from me and my team. Yet, here I am…

He follows my line of vision and nods toward the bottle. “You want some? A good friend of mine sent this over.”

“I guess, if you’re having some.”

It sounds better than begging for alcohol in order to form some control over myself.

His strong, deft hands pull the cork, and he pours the amber liquid into two tumblers. “I don’t meet very many women who drink Islay scotch.”

I try to relax back on the couch. “My mom died when I was very young. I was raised by my dad. He never had any sons, so I ended up doing a lot of father-son things with him.”

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