Page 1 of Irresistibly Risky

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My forehead lands with a muted thud, smashing against my forearm that’s pressed into the tile wall of the bathroom. Everything spins and I need a second to get my bearings as the room slows a little, bringing a buzzed, tingly warm smile to my lips. I can’t remember the last time I got drunk, and I wonder if I shouldn’t have taken the second muscle relaxant after taking that last shot.

Inhaling a deep breath, I force myself to stand upright, unzip my jeans, and do my thing, humming a song that’s been going through my head on repeat all night. My best friend, Greyson Monroe, a world-famous rock star, wrote it for our team when we made it to the playoffs. It’s been our anthem since, and tonight, I like to think it helped lead us to a Super Bowl victory.

It’s also one of those songs you can’t get out of your head no matter what you do.

Absently, the fingers not wrapped around my favorite guy tap out the rhythm against my thigh. My head joins in, moving along to a mixture of the song and the heavy house beat just outside the bathroom door. Once I’m done, I zip myself back up, unlock the stall door, and head to the sink, groaning when I get a look at myself in the mirror against the blue-tinted light of the bathroom.

My hair is scraggly and long, and my beard is itchy as fuck. I can’t wait to get rid of both of them tomorrow. Then again, they represent the weeks and months that got me here, and I practically whoop into the air as a total shit-eating grin spreads across my face.

I won the fucking Super Bowl tonight.

Me. The guy who everyone counted out because instead of living, breathing, and dying football for all four years of college, I toured the world with my best friends as part of the hugely successful rock band, Central Square. I didn’t make it to in-person college until my junior year, and then I had to go as a walk-on at the University of Alabama despite my family legacy both there and on the field.

But fuck all the assholes who bet against me and said it could never be done. Drafted in the sixth round, I showed them all.

I snicker a bit drunkenly to myself and then wash my hands. Just as I dry off on the cloth napkins they have in this club, a woman comes stumbling into the bathroom. Her eyes catch mine, first in the reflection in the mirror, and then snap over to face me directly.

And once I get a good look at her…

Hell.

I’m shocked my tongue isn’t hanging out of my mouth.

She’s tall, with long, toned legs on full display beneath the short hem of her dress. Her large tits, curvy hips, and ass I can’t fully see but can already tell would fill up my hands perfectly, have me doing a double and then a triple blink. Her short, white, tight-as-all-sin dress has a few spots of something pink trickling down it. Could be her drink, could be part of the couture—no way to know for sure. Her ink-black hair flows down her back in thick, bouncy waves, and her eyes are a vibrant green that only appears to be accentuated by the pink of her pillowy lips.

She looks like that hot Victoria’s Secret model whose name is eluding me because, who cares when this woman is standing before me?

“H-hi,” I stutter, amused that she has me tripping over my words. Well, that’s a new one.

“Hi,” she squawks, startled to find me here. “Um—” She shifts to her other foot. Looks around. And when she realizes we’re completely alone in here, she says, “I thought this was the ladies’ room.”

I grin, tossing the used towel in the bin but making no move to leave. “It is. The men’s room had a line.”

She snorts, shuffling three steps in my direction in her five-inch black platform heels that nearly put her at eye level with me. “That’s a first.”

“I have no doubt it is. Your bathrooms are nicer than ours.”

“That I definitely believe.” She cocks her head playfully. “First time in the ladies’ room then?”

“First time. I’m a ladies’ room virgin.”

She emits a breathy laugh. “Glad I could be here for your cherry popping. I did notice it was mostly a sausage fest up here.” She holds up a hand, redirecting herself. “Not that I’m complaining. The only men I see are the ones I work with, and no

thank you there. Is this some sort of work or corporate event?”

“Something like that.” I don’t bother following up that this floor is filled with Boston Rebels’ team members only. That means players, coaches, trainers, staff, their families, and my friends. That’s it, and about eighty-five percent of us are dudes, hence the line for the men’s room and none for the ladies.

It’s also a private event, which means if she doesn’t know that, she snuck up here, which makes me curious if she’s trying to play me or if she truly doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Do you plan to stay in here while I pee?” she challenges, folding her arms and giving me a raised eyebrow.

I wipe my smirk with my fingertips. “Someone has to make sure you’re safe in here. It’s an empty bathroom in a club. That has risky written all over it.”

Another step and her eyes do that slow, sexy sweep thing women do when they’re interested. My cock gives a languid jerk in my jeans.

“Risky?” She tests the word on her tongue. “I don’t know about that. If anything, I think a solo guy in a ladies’ room while I pee is far sketchier.”

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