Quarterback: Bad Boy Sport Star Romance. (3 page)

BOOK: Quarterback: Bad Boy Sport Star Romance.
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Chapter 5.

I take a deep breath and start rehearsing my, “Hello. Mal,” in my head over and over again when I see him embraced by a beautiful woman.

The adrenaline spike I’d felt when I’d thought he was coming to talk to me drops sharply, and I’m left with an icy feeling in my gut that is too close to jealousy for my comfort.

“Are you gonna say hello or what?” Lori asks, pulling me out of my turmoil. Lori is the only person I told about that night with Action in college. I wasn’t exactly proud of it, but I felt like I needed to tell someone, and Lori had gushed instead of scolding.

“What? Why would I…? He’s not here to see me.”

“Well, he sure as hell isn’t here to see himself,” she says, giving me a nudge with her shoulder. “Anyway, you haven’t had a date in so long, your vibrator is about to propose.”

“So, what? I should just throw myself at a guy I...used once in the hopes that he wants to be used again?”

Lori shrugs. “If you don’t, one of these skanks is going to.”

“Lori!” I say sharply, and a couple nearby turns away from the photo of a wide receiver squatting half naked behind home plate, face obscured by a catcher’s mask.

Mal is standing by his own photo now with the same woman whom he had embraced moments earlier. They seem to be having a long conversation about the contour of his arms, that strong back, those hips that fit so well with mine. It’s hard to not get distracted by the flashbacks from that night. The way he lifted me so effortlessly. The way he looked into my eyes so earnestly. I couldn’t look at them long.

Get it together Kasey! That was years ago,
I tell myself.

The woman he is standing with is pointing out the shadows in the picture. I can tell by the way she points and gesticulates that she’s a buyer. I know how to spot the serious ones. Normally I would move in for the kill, or the sell, when I see this sort of fawning over one of my curated pieces, but, there he is. I look at Lori one more time. Her eyes open wide and her brows raise as if those fuzzy caterpillars could push me over to him themselves.

“Okay, okay! I’ll go!” I take a deep breath.
One foot in front of the other Kasey. One foot in front of the other. This is just like any other sell. Don’t worry that it’s your first solo and that Mal is here, right there.
Thinking about it doesn’t help, so I take Lori’s wine from her and finish the glass, straightening my blazer and skirt before walking toward them.

“The composition’s incredible on this one, don’t you think?” I ask, smile plastered on my face as I sidle up next to the woman. “You can tell the photographer has a full appreciation of his subject.”

“He’s not the only one,” she says with a laugh, laying her hand on Mal’s bicep in a way that is too familiar.

“Yes, this is a popular one,” I admit, finally letting my eyes slide over to Mal. He’s watching me carefully, something darkly intense in his gaze. I’m about to look away and introduce myself to the potential buyer when Mal’s hand covers hers for a moment and then he speaks.

“Mel, this is Kasey Jacobs. She’s curating the show.” I’m so shocked that he remembers my name that I almost don’t catch his next words. “Kasey, this is my agent, Melody.”

I should smile and shake her hand and thank her for coming. I should tell her it’s nice to meet her. I should ask if she wants a picture of her incredibly sexy client hanging in her front hall.

Instead, I say, “Malcolm and Melody?”

Mal shrugs, and there’s a guardedness to the gesture that I don’t remember from our limited interactions.

“Mal and Mel,” his agent adds. “It’s a riot at press conferences, believe me.”

“Oh, I bet,” I say, and my laugh is genuine this time.

I’m still reeling from the knowledge that Malcolm Jackson remembers my name. Is that why he’s here? Did he come because he knew I’d be here? Most of the other players milling around tonight are locals. Giants or Patriots or Eagles. There’s not another west coast player here, though several Seahawks are portrayed in the series, among other teams.

“So...did you come out here to visit your agent?” I ask, unable to resist the curiosity. They look awfully close for a professional relationship.

“Oh, I dragged Mal out here for the face time,” Mel says. “He’s got a reputation to repair.”

My eyebrows shoot up, and I look over at Mal, but he’s looking off over my left shoulder, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Oh?” I ask, turning my attention back to Mel.

“Honey, if you don’t know, you’re the only one.”

“Can we not?” Mal asks, frowning, his face contorted in a scowl that still doesn’t manage to mar his handsome features.

“No, of course,” I say, blushing again. It must be the wine. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.” I slip a card from the pocket of my blazer and offer it to Mel. “If you decide you’d like to buy it, let me know.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Mel says, and Mal’s scowl grows deeper, but I’m already hurrying off, glad to extract myself from the situation. It will already be a struggle to keep my mind on the job tonight.
I surprise myself though. After another glass of wine and a glance in the mirror to make sure the burning I felt spreading throughout my body is not translating to my face, I take off my blazer to reveal a sheer turtleneck made of black floral lace that I have layered over a black strapless camisole. It ends just at the waist of my pencil skirt. My auburn hair is up in a messy but very intentional bun with delicate wisps of hair falling diagonally across my forehead.  I look gorgeous, and I know it. My mentor once told me that the amount of effort that you put into yourself will directly result in the amount of sales you make. I think she’s right. So I always make it a point to look flawless at a big opening.

The night is mine and I kill it. I mingle and charm and impress. It’s what I’m best at. I work the crowd. The scents of cinnamon and cloves fill the air from the bar in the back of the room where a very handsome man is serving a special spiked cider cocktail available for the fall season along with wine and local beer. Lori’s hors d’oeuvres get rave reviews. You can smell the crab stuffed mushrooms in the street, and the goat cheese and olive tapenade crostini look incredible.  The browsers are buying, and the mood in the room is celebratory. I really couldn’t have asked for more to go right on my first solo job.

“Jens,” I say to the photographer when I spot him for the first time without a crowd around him, “I think we have conquered the night..”

“It does seem to be going well,” Jens answers. The always humble artist is glowing from compliments and sales, and he has every right to be. His work is exquisite, and every buyer here knows it.

“You deserve it,” I tell him before disappearing into the crowd again. I’m a little worried I don’t have enough cards on me, so I send Gen to my office to get some. She comes back with an entire box.

I don’t run into Mal again, but that is by intention rather than coincidence. I purposefully steer myself away from him whenever I spot his tall frame and broad shoulders. I have no idea, then, how I can close my eyes at the end of the night and see exactly how the seams of his sport jacket strain to hold his biceps and the way the t-shirt he wears under it hugs his chest. I’m sure I’m only imagining the tantalizing glimpse of a tattoo winding out from under his sleeve, over his hand. That was new, and though I’d seen it in the portrait, it was much more interesting in the flesh.

Slowly, the crowds disperse, thinning out until only a last few fawning collectors are offering their own cards to Jens--and a few fawning fans are getting autographs and photos with the athletes--remain. Eventually, even those few go on their way. Jens surprises me by leaving with one of the players.

Gen and Lori and I are the last ones left, and Lori is busy packing up her supplies, and she stops by to offer me the last bottle of wine and a few leftover hors d’oeuvres.

“You done well, kid,” she says, bumping shoulders with me as I usher Gen out and lock the door behind us. “Wanna go out for a celebratory drink?”

Gen perks up at the offer, and then Lori says, “Or...maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning.

Lori nods to a bench just outside the shop. Gen and I look up at the same time, and our reactions are identical: twin gasps that should be soft but are just loud enough for the figure on the bench to look up.

Malcolm Action Jackson, without his bevy of beauties, is sitting on the bench, jacket pulled tight around his broad shoulders in the cold, fall night.

“I’ll...talk to you tomorrow,” Lori says, hooking her arm through Gen’s to pull her away.

“Yeah, see you in the morning, boss,” Gen echoes, grinning as she’s half dragged down the street.

And then I’m left on the street, alone, in the middle of the night, with Mal. I’m fully aware that half the women in New York would give anything to be in my uncomfortable shoes.

Chapter 6.

“Um...hi,” I say awkwardly, shifting my weight and all too conscious of his gaze as it travels up my body.

“Hey,” he says, and then we’re both quiet for just a bit too long.

“I should…” I start at the same time as he says, “Do you wanna…”

We both laugh, and I say, “You first.”

He shrugs, pulling himself to his feet. He’s so much taller than I remember. Even in my impressive heels, he towers over me. “Do you wanna get a drink?” he asks.

I laugh and check my watch. “It’s 3 a.m.”

“Well, it seemed kinda presumptuous just to ask you back to my hotel.”

“I hear you’re all for presumption.”

He flushes but he doesn’t deny it. I have to wonder if the rumors are true. “I’m up for other suggestions,” he says.

I should say no. I should not by any means do this again. It may have been some of the best sex I have had to date, but I have so many more reasons to be practical now than I did that night. I’d been in the midst of a nasty breakup, and I’d needed nothing more than to have the campus football star take me to bed, just to prove to myself and my asshole ex that I could.

I don’t even have that flimsy excuse this time, but I still find myself saying, “I’ve got a bottle of wine in my office.”

His smile is slow and disproportionately pleased, and my whole body feels warm despite the cold air. I press my thighs together and force myself to think of anything but the way Mal is stepping closer, his frame filling up my senses.

He stands directly in front of me, bends his head down so that his mouth is all but touching my ear. “After you.” he whispers.

I control my breath as best as I can and I walk back toward the gallery. He follows me and after I unlock the door, he reaches to open it for me. His enormous hand reaching for the door brings those strong arms so close--I can remember exactly what those hands feel like on my skin, those arms around me--and I’m all but enclosed, his body and the wall flanking me. He smells like aftershave, and soap and sweat and it’s hard to not think that it is the sexiest thing to be surrounded by that smell, to be engulfed in it. I can feel him looking at me, waiting for me to walk through the door. It takes me a moment to gather my senses.

Stepping inside, I try to focus. A nice drink, a little catching up between old college friends, right? Harmless.
But he’s not exactly an old college buddy, Kase.
With a controlled breath, I lead him through the gallery again to the door in the back. I make sure to open it this time, not wanting to give him the upper hand here, especially when he’s looking like that and smelling like that and just, I can’t let myself lose control here. He follows me through the door and up the stairs to the offices on the 2nd floor, trailing along as I open the door to my office.

“Have a seat.” I say motioning to the chair that sits in front of my mahogany desk. There are a couple of wine glasses that sit on my bookshelf for late nights with Lori or Gen, and I take two, filling both, and placing one on the other side of the desk before sitting down, the heavy desk a very physical barrier between us.

His eyes widen and he says, “Thanks.” sounding amused.

I mean to ask him something innocuous, something about how he likes Seattle, with maybe a comment about how long it’s been. “Where did Mel end up?” is what comes out instead.

“She has a couple clients out here she had to meet with tonight, so she skipped out early.” His almost-smile is bemused, quirking up the corner of his mouth just slightly. It softens the fierce appearance he seems to like to portray.

“She seems like a very thorough agent,” I say, surprised by the iciness in my voice. I have no reason, no right to be upset by this. I don’t even have any cause to suspect their relationship is anything other than professional. It still makes my stomach feel heavy.

“Mel takes good care of her boys.”

“I bet she does.”

He tilts his head and regards me for a moment, then looks down at his glass, swirling the wine a bit before tossing it back in one go. A little trickle drips into the beard he’s grown. Another change since college, but it suits him, fits into the intimidating picture he strives to project. I wonder how many people buy into that. I wonder if I do.

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, and I’m almost surprised by it. Including college, we can’t have said more than fifty words to each other that weren’t directly related to sex, and I don’t think he’s about to ask how I want him. (And I do. I do so want him. I want him so badly I can’t remember why I ever would have walked out on him all those years ago.)

“Um...yes, of course,” I say, curling my fingers around the stem of my own glass just to keep them from trembling.

“How come you left?”

The question is so unexpected that I bark out a startled laugh. There goes any chance of appearing calm and unaffected here. As well as any last shred of dignity I imagined myself having. “I...what? You mean in college?”

“Yeah,” he says with a quick nod. “You just...walked out.”

I wanted to make some quip about it being a first for him or about turning the tables, but he was sitting in my office, rolling an empty glass between those strong hands, and he seemed so earnest. His voice was soft, curious, like this had been nagging him, and he just wanted to get an answer.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s true. “I just...figured it wouldn’t bother you.”

“Because I was the big man on campus?”

“Because you were used to sleeping with someone and never talking to them again.”

“I still am,” he admits.

I’m a little shocked by his honesty, more so by the way he sounds almost embarrassed to say it. “So...yeah. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah, but...that wasn’t your style.”

“How do you know?”

He sits back, looking me over slowly. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the tendrils of hair that have fallen out of my bun since the beginning of the evening, of the way my lace top leaves my skin exposed. “Because of Pliny.”

I laugh again. “Pliny?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You got all teary over Pliny. That’s...that’s not a girl who doesn’t feel things. I guess I just wanna know what you were feeling that night.”

“Has this been bothering you for years?”

He shrugs, but I can see he’s trying to hide something from me, trying not to say what he thinks. “I should go,” he says, standing and heading for the door.

“No!” I say, almost spilling my own wine as I stand as well, circling the desk to grab his arm and keep him there. “I mean...you don’t have to. I...I don’t want you to.”

“You wanna try for a repeat?” he asks, and though his eyebrow is raised in mockery, he’s got a hand curled around my hip, and his fingertips just brush under my top, sending a spike of heat all over my skin. “Nobody gets a repeat from Action Jackson. Didn’t you know?”

I did know. I’d heard he was famous for that. I’d even heard that he occasionally bragged about it. “Maybe I wanna try my luck at it,” I suggest, but there’s something more. Something that makes me want to sit back down and pour him another glass, trade stories and see what’s really going on under that beautifully inked skin. I don’t want to think about it, though, so I tell myself that Lori was right. I just need a date. Hell, I just need to get laid, and who better to do that with than a guy who was going to disappear in the morning.

“You don’t need luck,” he says, bending again, making our height difference more apparent, “you never did.” he whispers.

And then he’s kissing me.

It’s no longer unexpected, but I still make a noise of surprise as I lean into it, pushing up on my toes to put us on more even footing. He pulls me in tight, and I can feel every muscle in his chest next to mine. I can feel my legs reaching for the warmth of his through my skirt. I can feel the heat of our cores moving toward each other as his mouth presses more firmly against mine. His hands move from my jawline, where he’s cupping my face, down my neck, gently running his rough fingers over my clavicle. He moves them down, passing around my breasts and down my sides. He finds his way to the zipper at the back of my skirt and slowly tugs it down. I’m breathing heavily. It feels like he is intentionally taking as long as he can, teasing me with this slow torment until he finally pulls my skirt down, sliding it down my legs excruciatingly slowly.

He must exhaust his patience on this reverse strip tease because as soon as I step out of my skirt, his hands wrap around my hips and then he’s turning me, pressing me down against the desk, my breasts flattened against the dark surface.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice gruff and growling. That is the extent of his foreplay, it seems, and I wonder if he’s trying to punish me for the last time, trying to make this as quick and dirty as possible. I don’t want to mind that, but I do a little. I want more this time around. I want to go deeper, and not in the way he seems to.

I hardly have a moment to contemplate this possibility before he’s pulling my panties aside and pushing into me. I should mind this too, but everything in me is crying out that this is perfection, feeling him inside me is exactly where I need to be. He bends over me, his chest pressed to my back, and I can feel the hot puffs of his breath on my neck.

“Kasey,” he groans, and hearing my name in that rough gasp has me pushing back, meeting each of his thrusts with eagerness.

“Please,” I murmur, pushing up on my toes in an attempt to get closer, to feel him deeper. “Mal…”

As if his name is a switch I flipped inside him, he lets himself go, hips snapping forward hard and fast, all veneer of control wiped away until he’s thrusting deep with a gruff moan and coming with my name on his lips. I should worry about whether he put on a condom, but I can’t manage to care, not when his fingers slide between my legs to rub roughly over my clit, making me come with him still inside me.

His breath huffs across my ear, sending a shiver through me, and before I can manage to even gather my thoughts, he’s wrapping an arm around my waist, sliding to the floor and pulling me with him until I’m resting against his chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, and I have to laugh.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s...yeah.”

For a long moment, we are both so silent that all I can hear is his breath and the pounding of my own heart. And then he breaks the silence to say, “You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Why you just left. You know, before.”
His fingers tease up my shirt, sliding along my spine and making it difficult to concentrate, impossible to put up any defenses I might need against a question like that. “I...I had a bad break up, and I thought… I thought if I could get you to sleep with me, I’d prove something to my ex.”

I can feel him stiffen beneath me, and his fingers still on my back. “And did you?”

There’s no part of me that is proud of what I did to him, and if I had known at all that he might care, I never would have done it. Even when we were in college, I thought too well of him to intentionally hurt him.

“I...I never told him.”

“Hmph.” His response is breathed into my hair in an annoyed huff, but he seems satisfied with my answer. After a moment, he speaks again. “I...have to go back to Seattle tomorrow.”

He’s letting me down easy, I know. It still hurts.

“Yeah,” I respond. “I thought you might.”

“Give me your number,” he adds. “I’ll text you.”

I know he won’t, but I nod anyway. “Yeah, cool. I’d...I’d like that.”

BOOK: Quarterback: Bad Boy Sport Star Romance.
11.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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