Page 76 of Imperfect Player

Everly: Bent over your lap – for what?

Me: To punish you.

Everly: Punish me?

Me: Tell the driver to bring you here.

She texts again. Again, asking questions I don’t want to answer. Things like what I’m punishing her for – nothing. If everything is okay – fuck no it isn’t.

Instead of answering her, I set the phone down and pick up the bottle of whiskey at my side and wait.

Chapter 21

Everly

Filled with trepidation, I knock on Ethan’s door.

The concert with Chelle tonight had been amazing. The limo Ethan conjured up for us last minute was beyond thoughtful. The texts I got from him moments ago . . . not the same man I left earlier today.

They were demanding. Needy. They screamed that something was wrong.

Immediately, I pulled up the stats from the game today. Not his best game, but not close to his worst, either. On top of that, they won.

So if it’s not the game, then what changed since I saw him?

The door opens. Ethan stands before me, eyes dark and heavy. His hands grip my hips, hard, and pull me into the condo.

Lips crash over mine, hard and intense. The taste of whiskey on his breath is strong enough that I could very well get drunk off this kiss alone.

“Have you been drinking?” I ask as his lips move to my neck.

In all the time I’ve known Ethan, I’ve never seen him touch a drop of alcohol. I hadn’t thought much of it. Maybe it’s a during season thing, like many athletes I know. Maybe it’s just not his thing.

Now, tasting the whiskey, feeling the pain radiating off him, I start to wonder if maybe this is his demon. One of the ones that he warned me about.

“So what if I have?” he says, nipping at the skin near my collarbone.

“I’m just surprised is all. You don’t really seem like a drinker,” I say.

Ethan chuckles. It’s unlike any other laugh I’ve heard from him. It’s dark, brooding, sarcastic.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do, sunshine,” he says.

“I want to. Tell me,” I say as I pull back to look him in his eyes.

I want him to see that I’m here—not just for the amazing sex we have, but for him. All of him. Even the pained part that while he is trying his damndest to hide, I can clearly see through.

“Is that what you came here for? To talk?”

I came here because his texts were fun and flirty and turning me on in ways that I can’t even comprehend.

The minute he opened the door, I became less turned on and more worried.

“No, but that was before . . . ”

“Nothing’s changed,” he tells me.

“Yes, it has. Something’s wrong.”

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