Men in Shorts: An Erotic Anthology (13 page)

by Lexi Ryan

Roxanna Montane had officially found heaven on earth in the view from her temporary office window. With one hand, she held her cell phone; with the other, she pressed her fingertips against the glass, as if she could touch the men on the field below.

"You're telling me that at this very moment you have a prime time view of Tyson Friday's ass?" her friend Kerri asked.

Roxanna's eyes found number thirty-four without a problem. "Right now, some redheaded trainer is practically lying on him, stretching his hamstring, I think."

"Lucky bitch," Kerri mumbled.

"It's a guy."

"Either way."

Roxanna laughed and fingered the long vertical blinds she had used daily during her first week here. She should really use them again. In these long slats of white plastic lay her only hope of getting any real work done.

Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to bring herself to close them since the St. Louis Savages football players arrived at their training camp two days ago.

"Tell me what you see now," Kerri demanded.

"You'll be able to see for yourself in a few hours."

Kerri groaned. "I feel like a kid on the night before Christmas."

Roxanna knew what she meant. She herself felt like a junk food junkie in Wonka World. Except instead of junk food, she had a weakness for delectable male ass. And there it was, an all-you-can-lust-over buffet of prime, grade-A ass, stretching before her on the practice field.

"Well, if you're a good girl, and don't complain too much," she told Kerri, "I'll let you eat in the cafeteria with the team." Not that Roxanna ever ate there. When Tyson Friday was within her line of sight, she tended to display her jaw-dropping grace by walking into walls.

She preferred to avoid that kind of embarrassment.

"In that case," Kerri said, "I'd better go. I don't want to ruin my chances."

Roxanna laughed. "See you soon."

"See you soon, Roxy," Kerri said before disconnecting.

No one but Kerri called Roxanna "Roxy." But she liked it. She wanted to be the woman she thought of when she'd heard that name.

Roxanna had run into Tyson Friday in the parking lot this morning. Since then, "Roxy" had been begging to come out and play. She'd been itching with sexy words, forbidden images. They came to her so clearly, and this one was especially hot.

She wanted to write it down, wanted to get lost in a fantasy world of Tyson, his red Mustang, and the kind of moves they don't teach at training camp. She pulled open her desk drawer to grab her notebook.

It wasn't there.

Her eyes widened. No, she couldn't have lost it. It was too private, too…
mortifying
to misplace something like that. She shuffled through the files, desperate for the small, spiral-bound black notebook to suddenly appear.

She'd started the diary as a defense mechanism. Seeing Tyson Friday, three-time Pro Bowl running back and Most Beautiful Man on the Planet, run around right outside her office in those tight little football pants – it was more than any healthy woman could handle. The diary, she'd reasoned, would give her a release, an outlet for all that pent-up sexual energy.

"Hey, sweetheart, how are you doing this morning?"

With the speed of a last second snap, Roxanna's head popped up at the sound of her father's voice. She slid the drawer closed, ceasing her frantic search. "Hi, Daddy," she said.

"How's my girl doing this morning?" he asked, taking a moment to observe his players on the field below.

"Just fine."

He turned, eyed her cautiously. "You always feel a bit out-of-place this time of year, don't you?"

She shook her head. Yes, when she was an awkward teenager of fifteen, she'd felt terribly out-of-place following her father to summer training camp. But at twenty-six, her discomfort came from something else altogether.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"That's my Anna Banana," he said. "Always with a positive attitude."

She flashed her very best dutiful daughter smile before he left her office.

Anna Banana
.

The only remotely sexy thing Fiana Truman had given her daughter was the name Roxanna. Frankly, Roxanna would have rather had Fiana's showgirl legs, or her make-men-gape breasts. She would have even taken her lyrical laugh or her come-hither smile. But she hadn't gotten any of those things from her mother. The only thing the ex-Cowboys cheerleader had given Roxanna before dumping her for a more exotic, baby-free life was a name with some potential toward sexy. Potential her father chipped at by finding the most innocuous, schoolgirl nickname possible.
Anna.

She knew it was no mistake that in her sloppily scribbled fantasies, her dream man had called her
Roxy
and not
Anna.
Because
Anna
was Coach Montane's daughter, the prim, proper, daddy-pleasing do-gooder. Had there been a category for it at her high school,
Anna
would have been voted Most Likely to Die a Virgin.
Anna
would never have a professional football player – or any man, for that matter –make a move on her in a public elevator.

That kind of behavior belonged to Roxy, and Roxy only existed on paper.

Paper that was currently MIA.

Had she taken the notebook home last night? She distinctly remembered tucking it in her bag. Maybe she'd left it in her car.

She snatched her keys and ran to the parking lot, desperate for some piece of mind, if not another glimpse of this morning's fantasy.

* * * *

"Roxy" had Tyson hotter than a teenager with his first issue of
Playboy
. As he toweled off, his eyes kept returning to the little black notebook he'd stuck in his locker before practice. Too bad its contents were already so seared on his brain he'd hardly been able to focus on the new plays they were running.

He'd found the thing sitting in the gravel parking lot that morning, a notebook that chronicled a series of escapes between some hot-to-trot Roxy and
him.
Whoever this Roxy was, she had them screwing everywhere. She'd written about him hiking her skirt up and driving into her in the elevator, on the practice field, under the bleachers. Her imagination was vivid and unapologetically graphic.

With a quick glance in either direction to confirm that he was the last player in the locker room, he snatched the notebook from his locker and sat on the bench, turning to the page where he'd left off.

Like all the entries, this one was titled. The feminine script at the top of the page simply said, "The Locker Room."

The team wasn't supposed to arrive for another twenty-four hours. I went into their locker room for some privacy. I didn't want to hear the giggles of the other female staff as they swapped fantasies during their post-workout showers. I wanted to be alone with my own fantasies, and since the players' locker room was off limits to all staff, I knew this was the place to do it.

I stripped from my yoga pants and tank top, then stepped under the hot spray of the shower and began to work the soap in my hands. Every muscle in my body was tense with longing for Tyson, and as the hot spray rained over me, I reminded myself he'd be here soon enough. Soon enough he'd be inside me.

My soapy hands trailed a path down my body to the source of my tension. I let my fingers slip between my legs where my clit was swollen, pulsing…

I sensed him before I even registered the sound of his steps.

I opened my eyes and my hands stilled. "Tyson."

He was nude and sweaty, as if he, too, just finished a workout. He was massive in the way only a professional athlete can be – broad shoulders that reminded me of a time when men's shoulders were used to carry more than a football and an ego. He was Neanderthal in his strength, in the sheer space he ate up in a room.

He stepped behind me, pressing his hard body against mine. "Don't stop on my account," he whispered, his lips already at my neck.

"Why settle for the fantasy when I can have the real thing?" I murmured.

I turned around and he didn't hesitate before pressing me against the cold, slick wall. I shivered, but it wasn't the cool tile at my back that brought on the chill so much as the fiery heat in his eyes.

I wrapped my legs around him and dug my fingers into his thick, dark hair.

His big hands cupped my ass, his fingers digging into the plump flesh.

His erection was solid and insistent between my legs as his lips devoured mine, his tongue explored. His fingers matched his tongue step for step.

"Roxy," he whispered, his breath at my ear.

His fingertip traced the curve of my ass, the crease of me, until sliding under and dipping into my silky heat.

His moan against my mouth was guttural, and his erection grew harder, stronger. I wanted him inside me.

The sound of a locker door slamming bounced across the walls. Someone walked into the shower room. I didn't know who. I couldn't pay attention with his mouth on mine, his finger moving slowly, rhythmically inside of me.

Our visitor cleared his throat.

Tyson pulled away but never tore his eyes from mine as he spoke. "Go away."

Suddenly, I was frantic. "Now," I pleaded.

"What, baby?"

"I want you inside me. Now."

Tyson complied, wasting no time adjusting our bodies, and then—dear God—then he was filling me, filling me and murmuring my name in my ear. "Roxy . . ."

"Ty?"

The sound of his name startled him back to the reality of the empty locker room.

"You comin' to lunch?" Phillip, a lineman, called from the door.

"Yeah." Ty took a breath before grabbing his jeans. He glanced down at what Roxy's words had done to him. "Give me a minute. I'll meet you there."

And he would. He'd go to the cafeteria where the staff and players all ate during training camp, and he'd go and find out who on the staff was named Roxy.

* * * *

As his teammates kept busy razzing the rookie cornerback, Ty scanned the cafeteria. He didn't know the names of all the staff members, but he figured he could find the notebook's author by process of elimination, if nothing else. He wouldn't be able to focus on his game until the mystery was solved.

"Hey," Phillip said, hushing the guys and nudging the lineman beside him who was in the middle of a raunchy strip club story. Phillip nodded to the coach's daughter, who was approaching their table with a woman Ty didn't recognize.

The men all straightened, Coach Montane having terrified them all of acting like anything but complete gentlemen around "his Anna."

Ty squirmed a little, but not for the reason his teammates would have guessed.

Ty figured everyone had a weakness. Some of his teammates had a weakness for beer, others for loose women. Hell, he knew a few linemen who needed to work on their weakness for doughnuts. But Ty? Ty had a weakness for prim, proper, studious, librarian-waiting-to-happen women. Not that he indulged the weakness much, since those didn't tend to be the women who waited outside the locker room after games.

But Anna Montane was every bit that kind of woman – from the chestnut hair she kept pulled into a no-nonsense clip at the base of her neck to the way she always kept herself covered from neck to knee. She kept to herself. She didn't eat with the players the way the other staff did or try to take advantage of her easy access to them.

She was also the coach's daughter.

All of it made him want her more. He never understood why other guys didn't share his fascination. What titillation was offered by a woman whose breasts were already spilling from her top? Maybe it all came back to the forbidden, but women like Anna, they had secrets.

On more than one occasion, Ty had mentally undressed the coach's daughter, and his mind's eye always found something enticing underneath. Once, she'd shown up to a playoff game in a red Savages turtleneck and dark Levis. During warm-ups, his eyes should have been straying to the Savages cheerleaders or the near-bare breasts in the stands, but he couldn't keep his eyes off Anna. He'd mentally undressed her at least twenty times during that game. And no matter how hard he'd tried to imagine something less enticing, he saw a black lace teddy under that suburban soccer-mom outfit every time.

Another time, she'd worn a long-sleeved, floor-length black dress to a Savages formal event. All night long, he hadn't heard a word his date said because he hadn't been able to get his mind off the idea that she was nude beneath that simple dress.

It was absurd. The other players didn't have to worry about being attracted to the coach's daughter. They didn't have to worry about what would happen to their careers if they seduced the coach's baby. It wasn't that they didn't think she was attractive. She simply didn't register on their radars.

Lucky bastards.

It was uncharacteristic of her to approach the players for anything other than PR talk. Even then, she usually worked directly with their agents.

But, now, Anna and her friend were standing nervously at the end of the long table, and, thanks to coach's overprotectiveness, the men were all too damn nervous of offending her to even open their mouths and say "hi."

Ty shook his head at his teammates and flashed her a grin. "Hey, Anna."

The redhead beside Anna squeaked a little, and Anna shook her head.

"I'm sorry to bother you guys," Anna said. "But this is my friend Kerri, and I promised her I'd introduce her to the best offense in the NFL."

Ty watched the men as they appraised Kerri, running their eyes over her pretty face and curves before flashing her their dumb jock grins and welcoming her to training camp.

Anna fidgeted, not bothering to hide her hurry to get away. "Well, we don't want to interrupt your lunch, so we'll be going."