Dirty Player: A Rough Riders Novel (13 page)

“I’d like that,” I found myself saying. “The game, at least. Oliver and I…we’re just…” Heat bloomed on my chest as I tried to find the words. “Having fun. Friends.”

“Right.” She winked. “Of course you are.”

The doors burst open then. Lights flashed and media personnel shouted their questions to players as they began exiting the locker room. All wet-headed and dressed in suits, you could tell they’d celebrated and showered quickly before leaving.

Beaux came out early and was instantly surrounded by the reporters. I stayed back, next to Jillian. Beaux twisted around his Rough Riders baseball hat so the team’s logo was in front and began answering questions.

His eyes met mine and he smiled. I held his gaze, silently encouraging him and letting my pride for him shine through until a different current hit me.

Oliver exited the locker room, hat pulled lower over his eyes, covering his dirty blond hair. His head dipped and he thanked the reporters clamoring for his attention, but he seemed to pay them no mind while he pushed past the small, congregated crowd before making his way to me.

“Yeah. If you two are just having fun, I’ll eat my husband’s hat.” Jillian nudged me again, playfully. 

I didn’t turn to look at her, but my lips lifted into a smile.

Whether it was because I liked her and found her funny or because Oliver didn’t stop moving until he was directly in front of me, I didn’t know.

“Ready to get out of here?” he asked, his voice rough and thick.

I was sure I answered.

Certain I tried to. 

It felt like a handful of cotton balls were lodged in my throat as my mouth opened and closed.

His hand gripped mine and he tugged me toward him and whispered, “I told Beaux where we’d be. He said he’ll see you in the morning.”

I caught Beaux’s gaze, his eyes tightening as he saw me leaving, and then I was pulled through the maze of hallways, unable to gather my thoughts while Oliver guided me toward his car.

***

“You guys had a great game,” I said once we were settled into his car.

We’d made a brief stop at Beaux’s car, where I’d left an overnight bag earlier, and then a strange silence had permeated the fancy vehicle while Oliver guided us out of the underground parking garage for players and season ticket holders and onto the packed streets of downtown Raleigh.

His hands flexed on the wheel.

“You don’t think so?” I asked when he didn’t answer.

“I never think we play as great as we should.”

It didn’t surprise me. Oliver was intense and focused off the field just as much as he was on it.

“It was still a great touchdown you made in the third.”

His lips went from a pressed line to a hint of a smile. Shaking his head, he looked at me. His expression softened a bit. “You love the game.”

“Well, yeah, it was either find a way to love it growing up or hate all the hours I spent at the fields and driving Beaux around. I could have either become bitter and jealous of his success or been a part of it. I chose the latter.”

“Yeah, but you still didn’t have to like the game. You could have supported him without it.”

I grinned then. “It’s more fun this way.”

He fell silent after that, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

After several blocks where he seemed to be twisting his car around the streets of downtown instead of heading out to his place, when he spoke again, he surprised me.

“I have to admit—that catch was awesome.”

“Soft fingers,” I whispered. “It was incredible to watch. Everyone around me went insane when you hurdled the defender.”

He pulled up to a building and shoved the gearshift into park. We idled at the curb, and I looked at where he’d stopped us. A hotel.

Disappointment uncurled in my stomach.

I closed my eyes and let a soft breath fall from my lips.

“Trust me,” he said, reaching out to open his door. “When I get you to my room, my fingers will be anything but soft.”

The desire that was there before sparked, but fizzled quickly as I realized what we were doing.

What I was doing with him.

A hotel. A one-night stand.

Was I really prepared for all of this? For the whispers and the gossips and being treated like his latest fling?

I had never been one to live so recklessly.

Yet hadn’t I earned it? Didn’t I deserve a month of hot sex and fun and no strings and everything else single people experienced all through their twenties?

It was that realization that made me force down my disappointment and the increasing unease as my door was opened.

“Good evening, Mr. Powell. Good game earlier.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Oliver said, lifting his hand toward me as he stood next to the bellhop who had opened my door.

Frank was old, his hands speckled with liver spots, leathered skin telling me that when he was younger he spent too much time in the sun and used too little sunscreen. His eyes met mine with a kind smile. “Good evening, miss.”

“Shannon,” Oliver said, pulling me out of the car. He’d already grabbed my overnight bag and it was thrown over his shoulder. “She’ll be here frequently.”

A glimmer of excitement hit Oliver’s eyes as he made his intent clear.

“Very well, sir,” Frank said and closed the door behind me. He took the keys from Oliver and gripped them in his palm. “Straight to the garage tonight?”

“You have a break coming up?”

“Always plan on it when I know you’re coming.”

“Then take it for a spin, but be kind to her.”

“Will do, sir.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Call me Oliver, for the love of God, Frank.”

Frank winked at me before shaking his head. “Can’t cross all the lines with my job. You know that.”

Oliver smiled at him—the first genuine smile I’d seen on him all night. I had watched the entire conversation slack-jawed. When he slid that grin in my direction, my mouth snapped closed.

“Just don’t crash her.”

“Never do,” Frank said as he opened the driver’s door and slid inside. He peeled out onto the street so fast I wondered if he’d looked for traffic first.

As the lights disappeared around the first corner and the sound of screeching tires evaporated, the smell of burned rubber remained.

“Come on.” Oliver tugged on my hand, and I stumbled on my feet, trying to catch up to him.

I’d assumed he’d brought me to the hotel for a random hookup, treating me like any random woman he’d picked up off the streets. His conversation and obvious affection for Frank told me something different was happening.

We didn’t stop as we walked through the lobby. Oliver moved quickly and with purpose, and when we reached the bank of six elevators, he pulled me toward the farthest one and slid a key through a reader before pressing the button.

The door opened immediately and we stepped inside, my mind still whirling with the quickness of how everything had happened. Had he checked into the room earlier? 

“Frank’s been the doorman at this place for almost twenty years. Lost his wife to cancer shortly after I met him. From what I’ve been able to figure out about him, he doesn’t have much in his life, so when I stay here he drives my car for a few minutes before parking it in the valet.”

It was a really long explanation that didn’t answer any of my questions. Like, what made Oliver begin speaking to him in the first place? How did he take the time to learn all of that, and what had happened that made them seem so close?

It all contradicted his assurances of being an asshole.

I stared at Oliver through the mirrored reflection of the elevator door, too nervous to face him, too scared of what he’d see on my face. Yet as everything began clicking into place, I couldn’t stop the smile.

“Asshole,” I teased. “Right. You’re such a prick.”

His eyes widened and he stepped in front of me, pushing me to the back of the elevator without touching me.

His strength and his size made him immoveable in front of me and I couldn’t see around him to see the look of surprise I knew was on my face.

“Have I told you tonight how sexy you look in my team’s jersey?”

I was in jeans and sandals and an oversized jersey with Beaux’s number on it. My hair was pulled back so the wild curls stayed out of my face during the game.

There was nothing sexy about how I was dressed, yet when Oliver began trailing a finger along the length of my jaw, I felt like I was in a ball gown.

“You might have forgotten that part.”

He leaned forward. His hand on my jaw tightened and held me in place. “Forgive me.”

His lips pressed to mine, stealing my breath, and I clung to him immediately. It’d been days. My body ached for him immediately.

He held me against the wall with the frame of his body, and the kiss changed from soft and seeking until he devoured me. His tongue slid along the seam of my mouth and pushed through before I could receive him, but I met him then, kissing him back and raising my hands to his shoulders so I could get closer. Deeper.

A thud sounded on the floor and then his hand was at my waist, pulling me toward him, ripping my shirt from my waistband until his hand was pressing against the small of my back.

The chime of the door and the sudden stop of the elevator made him jump and we separated, both of us breathless, his dark hazel eyes more tawny than green. Mine were just as wild as he looked down at me, his gaze tracing every feature in my face.

“When we get inside my place, we’re going straight to my room where I’m going to spread you out all over my bed, taste every inch of your skin, and eat you until you’re screaming my name and begging for more.”

My mouth went dry and wetness seeped into my panties. Everything he said did that to me. He had a way of looking at me like I was the only woman he’d ever seen. Like stripping me naked and making me bare for him was his highest priority.

“You say such filthy things,” I whispered as he bent to grab the bag he’d dropped earlier.

“You fucking like it.”

I did. I didn’t argue with him about it. I wanted sex with him and his filthy words more than I cared to admit. Even when my sex life with Patrick had been at the pinnacle, we were always more of a one-and-done couple when it came to sex and orgasms.

Multiples in one night had been rare.

With Oliver, I knew the opposite with him would hold true. He wasn’t the kind of man to stop until he’d gotten everything he wanted. Lucky me that he seemed to want me.

At the very least, he wanted my body. My heart could take it. I had gone into this eyes wide open, understanding everything that was happening between us.

So I would take my screaming orgasms whether they happened in a hotel or a house, and hopefully I’d be able to deliver some of my own to him.

Chapter TEN

OLIVER

Her hand in mine, my hand on her skin, the buzzing of the door behind us, I was only thinking one thing.

Bringing her to the hotel room I kept during the season was as big of a mistake as taking her to my home. When this was over, I wasn’t going to be able to go anywhere to escape the memory of her flushed cheeks, wild hair, and her body splayed out wherever and however I wanted.

“You want that?” I asked, when she didn’t answer me the first time. I pulled her out of the elevator, walking backward so we stayed pressed together. Fuck. I couldn’t get enough of her. Seeing her at the game, cheering on her feet, her smile wide and unrestrained when I scored a touchdown had twisted something inside me. 

The only thing I didn’t like was that she’d done all of that with Beaux’s number plastered to her generous breasts instead of mine.

“You want me eating you, sucking and licking your pussy until you come, over and over again? Until you’re so sore you think you can’t take any more?”

She nodded frantically, unable to hide her lust for me, and fuck if it wasn’t perfection. She had no motives. No hidden agenda. She wanted my dick and my body, and I didn’t give one shit if I was using her.

She was using me, too.

“Yes. Yes, I want that.”

I dropped my hand from her back only long enough to dig my keycard out of my pocket and slide it through the door. There were only two rooms on this floor and I knew the other owner. 

A country singer whose visits to The Mayfield Tower were as sporadic as mine. We’d actually gotten drunk together one night in the bar downstairs and then, like jackasses, autographed our names onto each other’s skin with permanent marker.

My team had just lost the AFC Championship game earlier that night and Bethany had been plastered all over the gossip rags for screwing another country singer—a married one. She swore she had thought they were already divorced. The fact that they were legally separated never made it into the papers or the gossip columns, so Bethany and I had bonded over failed nights and shitty decisions.