Out of Bounds (7 page)

“Drew,” I say gasping his name as I lift my hips, my body seeking him. “It’s so good.”

He drags a finger down me slowly, then brings it to his lips and draws it between them. My eyes widen as I watch him suck hard, like he’s savoring my taste. “Fucking delicious,” he murmurs, then returns his finger to me. I nearly sing out in pleasure as he reconnects.

“If we weren’t stuck in traffic, I’d go down on you,” he says, his voice husky. “Licking your sweetness. Tasting your desire.”

As he paints a picture, I slide into a realm of pure lust. His words, his touch, my own sheer, unadulterated need—they’re all I feel right now, and they thrum inside me, like a hot vibration.

“Oh God, I want that so much,” I say on a broken pant as I thrust up against his finger. He’s not even penetrating me. He doesn’t have to. He’s simply stroking me and that’s enough right now. Just the right pressure, just the right speed. My body consists solely of nerve endings. All he has to do is keep this pace, and he’ll ignite me, like a rocket taking off for the stratosphere.

He bends his head closer to my neck. “I’d bury my face between those pretty legs of yours. You’d wrap your heels nice and tight around my neck, and I’d fucking devour you,” he says in a low, dirty growl in my ear.

“Oh God,” I moan, and I’m lost. I’m absolutely lost in pleasure as he strokes me, faster and impossibly faster still. “I’m close. So close,” I say, panting. I’m vaguely aware of the car moving slowly forward, and maybe the traffic has picked up or maybe not, but then my brain turns to a blur as he trips a switch inside me.

Every
muscle tenses blissfully as an orgasm charges through me, my legs quivering, pleasure quaking in my body as I rock into his hand, grinding against his fingers. My world turns white-hot. Bursts of electric pleasure pulse in me, and a wild sensation of pure erotic bliss radiates from my center all the way through to my toes, to my hair. Hell, my eyelashes might even be turned on.

I cry out as I come undone in his car, bucking into his hand, panting like a wild woman. That’s who I’ve become with this captivating man. My eyes are squeezed shut, and as the orgasm subsides, I blink them open, getting my bearings again, coming down from a high.

“Guess that’s the first time I’ve ever been glad to be stuck in traffic,” he says, then gestures ahead of us. The snarl of stalled cars is finally breaking and he hits the gas.

“Yes, that was the best use of traffic I’ve ever experienced.”

He glances at me, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. “By the way,” he says, his tone both full of pride and happiness, “you were
blissfully
orgasmic.”

“And I bet you’re immensely hard,” I say, and then he wiggles his eyebrow. “Can I find out?”

He eyes his crotch, then me, then the freeway. “Let’s just make sure we don’t crash, because that would be
incredibly
bad for the team,” he says with a wink.

Right. The team. The reason we aren’t supposed to be messing around.

But as I drop my hand on his hard-on I’m not thinking about the team. I’m thinking about his cock. How much I want to touch him, feel him, taste him.

I’m dying to wrap my lips around him, but I just don’t know that there’s room in the front seat for me to go down on him while he drives. Plus, you know, it’s a bit dangerous. But I can
stroke
him, even as he drives. I work open the zipper, slide my hand inside and run my palm over the outline of his hard cock. He’s so big, and so hard, and I want to touch him, flesh to flesh.

“Fuck, Dani, that feels good,” he says in a throaty rumble as I run my hand over the outline of his erection. His very thick erection.

“It would be better if it were hands-on.”

“Then get your hands on me,” he says, as he drives.

I dip my hand inside his briefs, wrap my palm around Drew Erickson’s cock, and it’s fucking fabulous. It suits this man. It fits his build, his size, his strength, his skill. Everything about him is bigger than average, and thank the Lord, that includes his dick.

I run my hand up and down the length of him as he accelerates. Touching him like this sends a deliciously dirty thrill through me.

He groans, gripping the wheel harder as I stroke. My thumb slides over the head, and I swipe off a drop of his arousal, then bring it to my mouth. Briefly, his eyes flick away from the freeway as I lick the taste of him off my thumb.

“Oh fuck, that’s so fucking hot.”

“You taste so good,” I say, and I fist his cock for the next several minutes while he drives as slowly as he can get away with. His jaw is tense, concentration etched in his eyes, as he tries to focus on the road even as I stroke his dick. As I lower my hand to cup his balls, he hisses. Then, before I know it, he switches lanes, hopping right, then right once more. A determined man, he pulls onto the exit ramp, speeds down it, brakes right into a 7-Eleven parking lot, and cuts the engine.

He turns his face to me. His eyes are dark, shining with desire.

But I’m the first to speak. “Can I get you off like this? Just my hand?”

“
Why would you ask now? You were halfway there on the freeway, honey. Time to get this one all the way downfield.” He opens his pants more, pushing them lower, and gives me full access to his beautiful cock. I grip him tighter, pumping and tugging on his shaft, and he groans.

And then he does the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced when it comes to hand jobs.

He threads a hand in my hair and whispers against my lips, “Kiss me hard. I want to come while you’re kissing me.”

Electricity flares in me. Spreads through every vein. Kissing while coming might be the hottest request ever. My body agrees, since I’ve never been wetter.

Which I realize is quite convenient since hand jobs require lubrication. Fortunately, I’ve got the best kind of lube. The all-natural variety. As I kiss him hard, I dip my hand between my legs, bring some of my own wetness to my fingertips, and return my wet hand to his cock. He moans in my mouth when he realizes what I’ve done.

“Your hand is fucking magic,” he says, and then I grip harder, my palm flying up and down his length, slick with my own orgasm, until he’s thrusting hard, fucking my hand, and kissing my lips like he’s going to devour me. He bites down, and groans long and loud. When he releases my lips, he groans against my mouth, “Gonna come.”

But there’s no need to get his beautiful pants messy or his gorgeous car. Nor my hand for that matter. In an instant, I take him in my mouth as he comes, wrapping my lips tight around him. He grunts and grabs my hair, rocking up into my mouth, and the combination of his noises and thrusts is so fucking sexy that I swear I almost come again just from him climaxing. He pulses in my mouth, his dick hot and throbbing, and I can’t help but think how amazing it would be to feel him move inside me.

When
I release him from my mouth, he cups my cheek, looks in my eyes, and says, “Why the fuck are there unwritten rules against this?”

I can’t help but smile. “You’re supposed to like rules. Isn’t that what your job is? That’s what the game is.
Rules
.”

“And finding a way to get around them. As you should know, Miss Lawyer. Isn’t that what your job is?”

“Touché,” I say with a small smile.

Then he presses a tender kiss to my lips. “Stupid rules,” he mumbles when he breaks the kiss.

“But we have to follow them,” I say softly, my voice a little sadder than I expected. “It’s too risky. I just don’t want to be the person who brings more scandalous attention. The front-office personnel dallying with the new star player. I’m sure the press would find a million ways to make this look like the next Chuck-and-Bambi. They’d probably have a field day with the fact that I’m older than you.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “I know I’m having a field day with it.”

I laugh. “So you’ve got a thing for this
huge
four-year age difference?”

“Absolutely,” he says, his eyes drifting down to his crotch. “A
huge
thing.” He zips up his pants. “So was that our last hurrah?”

I laugh. “More like first hurrah and last hurrah. Technically, we would need more hurrahs for it to be the last.”

He laughs too. “Damn shame we didn’t have more. I sure liked hurrahing with you.”

“The only thing better would have been a full hurrah.”

“
That would have been fantastic, I bet,” he says, as I straighten my skirt while he starts the car to drive me home.

Soon enough, we arrive at my house. Cutting the engine, he takes a breath and stares out the window into the dark of the night. I don’t make a move to go, though I know I should.

Without looking at me, he says, “I don’t feel friendly toward you, Dani.” He turns to meet my eyes. I can see the heat in his. “Fact is, I’m even more turned on than before. Didn’t think that was possible.”

“Me too,” I say, my voice feathery.

He tips his forehead to my home. “You better get inside then, before I try something like making you come so fucking hard on my lips that you’ll be whistling a happy tune when you walk into work tomorrow.”

“Just so you know, I’m about to get in bed and enjoy that image you just planted.”

He grins. “Just so you know, you’ll be on all fours on my bed in a few minutes.”

And that image does the trick quite nicely for me too.

But some other part of me, the saner part, the professional part, knows I must erase these thoughts of him going forward. We had our first and last hurrah, and no matter how far and fantastically the aftereffects of the traffic jam spread through my body, it’s time to let it go.

Chapter Seven

Drew

Resisting her is easy for the next two weeks. The season starts and I’m in the zone.

The first game is at home and we play like a well-oiled machine. I put the team ahead in the second quarter with a forty-yard pass to Elkins, who turns that into an absolutely beautiful touchdown.

The crowd goes wild, and the sound of their cheers is such a high. When Elkins chest-bumps me on the sidelines, we’re both grinning like fools. It’s early in the game, but it feels so fucking good.

“Nice work, man,” I say, and he does a little dance, then flexes his arms.

“Told you I’d get it in the end zone. You get it to me, and I’ll bust my ass to put that ball where it belongs.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He points to his socks. “Lucky socks.”

Maybe he’s right about the footwear. He nails another catch in the third, and our top running back drives it home on first down.

We finish with a twenty-four–fourteen victory, and it’s both a thrill and a relief. After Los Angeles’s topsy-turvy record last year, and its slew of off-season problems, the tight game play is all anyone could ask for, the coach included.

The next week, we travel to Arizona, and we’re on fire in the desert too. When we win our second game with a running touchdown in the fourth quarter, Coach pulls me aside on the way to the locker room.

“
You’re looking good, Erickson. Keep up the streak,” he says, his voice gruff, because it’s always gruff.

“Do my best, sir.”

After a light workout the next day and some game tape review, I catch up with Jason in Santa Monica for dinner. There’s a new taco truck he’s been raving about, and tacos sound damn good to me.

“Two in a row, man. That’s the way to do it.” He claps me on the back when I join him in line at the red and yellow truck named Flipper’s Tacos.

I give him the side-eye. “How the fuck is
that
the name of a taco truck?”

Jason takes off his aviator shades. They complete the look he has working—the pressed pants, the polished shoes, the tailored white shirt. By contrast, I’m in jeans, a T-shirt, and ball cap, thank you very much. He flashes me a grin as he tips his forehead to the vehicle. “The guy who runs the truck has a Chihuahua named Flipper.”

“Ah, well. That makes perfect sense to name a truck after a dog.”

Jason points past the window to the illustration of said canine. “There’s the main man.” He lowers his voice. “By the way, Flipper’s owner is a big fan of yours. He’ll probably want a selfie with you. You cool with that?”

I nod, as I roll my neck side to side, trying to work out the kinks. “Absolutely. I’m all about smiling for the camera these days.”

“Excellent. I figured the team would be happy too, since they love your good-guy-about-town image. They released some shots of you from that charity thing you did a few weeks ago.”

I arch an eyebrow as we move up in line. I don’t follow that stuff too closely, but I’m glad Jason does. “They did?”

“
Don’t worry. It’s all good. The team loves you. They love this happy, shiny face you have going on in public,” he says, clasping my chin and squeezing my cheeks like a grandma.

I smack his hand away. “Dude.”

He cracks up. “Little do they know you’re a sourpuss off the field.”

“I’m not sour. I’m sweet,” I say, with a wink.

“Anyway, keep this shit up and we can tie up some deals left and right, make some of the donations you’ve wanted to,” he says, since part of my goal with Jason is not just financial security or smart business; it’s also making sure I give back to some of the organizations I leaned on when I was a kid playing sports. It’s good to be in a position to return the love, and in a big way.

“Awesome. That’s what I like to hear.”

“And that was a nice shot of you and the hot chick from the front office.”

My spine straightens, and a dose of worry zips through me. Shit. A swirl of images of the team’s troubles rushes before my eyes—the crashed cars, the pregnant teens, the drug-using players. I don’t want to tarnish the good rep I’ve had for years, or the one I’ve managed in just a few weeks here in Los Angeles. Or hers. And I certainly don’t want to risk anything bigger—like my job. “What do you mean?”

“I saw it online. You and the blond babe. There was a shot of the two of you in front of the banner. Good stuff,” he says, then turns away from me when we reach the window.