Blindsided (17 page)

And I’m not giving her up for anything.

“What was that?” Leah breathes when I pull back.

“That was how I celebrate a win.”

“I’m afraid to see how that ends up after the preseason.”

I thread my fingers through hers and curl our arms around her back, holding her against me. “Don’t be afraid of pleasure, darlin’.” I smile against her, and as my teammates exit the stadium, she shoves at me.

“Don’t be a dick,” she says, fear lacing her voice.

“Whoa. Hey.” I step back and let her slide off the hood. “What’s wrong?

“Can we go? Please?” She snatches her hands from mine and grabs the passenger’s side door handle. Her eyes are downcast, no part of her body willing to acknowledge mine.

“If you want.” I answer her because I don’t know what else I have to do.

She’ll go to Reid’s birthday and sit next to me. She’ll sit on the hood of my fucking car waiting for me. But she won’t be recognized by my teammates?

What kind of bullshit game is she playing with me?

I slam my car door behind me and rev the engine more forcefully than necessary. What the fuck is her aversion to being seen with me? What the fuck did I ever do to her?

I don’t reply as I tear out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Leah keeps her head down and her knees up, her phone tucked into her lap. She plays on it, doing whatever it is she does when she shuts herself off from me. I drive. I just fucking drive.

Past her house.

To mine.

She looks up but doesn’t say anything. Her eyes remain fixed on the road, on our destination, on the trees that line the road that leads to my house.

And hell. I just need to touch her the right way, kiss her in the right places, and tease her until she’s on the edge and begging for more. I need to take her so close that she’s saying my name in whispered pleas, because the only thing I can think of that would be better than her screaming my name is her whispering it as she comes undone in my arms.

I park in the driveway and get out. She follows me, holding her stomach.

“Hungry?” I ask over my shoulder as I unlock the door.

She nods, her mouth forming a silent yes. Whatever the hell that was back in the parking lot has really gotten to her. I wish I knew what it was so I could soothe it, even a little.

“I’ll make dinner,” I offer.

She nods then crosses the room to my sofa. She drops back on the plush leather and swings her legs up to the back of it so casually, like she’s done it a thousand times. And fuck. She looks like she has. She looks like she should do it a thousand fucking more times.

She hums to herself across the room, her eyes fixated on the television. I know she’s trying to cancel out noise in her head. I want to silence that shit for her. Whatever it is, it’s serious if she’s gone from gripping me tight to pushing me away in seconds. Fuck.

But it’s hard to focus when she’s lying back on my sofa, her legs in the air and kicking in time to whatever tune she has in her head. She looks relaxed, and finally, a small smile is playing on her lips.

She looks like she fucking belongs there. That’s it. She looks like she’s supposed to be lying on my fucking sofa, wearing my fucking jersey, in my fucking house.

She looks like she’s supposed to be fucking mine. Like she was meant for me and me alone.

I chuck my shirt off and try to focus on the pasta I’m cooking. I try to focus on the boiling of the water and the softening of the hard pasta, but I can’t. I keep glancing over my shoulder at the blond beauty who’s lying on my sofa, distracting me.

I don’t do distraction. I don’t do anything that pulls me from the game. I don’t do anything that has the chance to become my number-one priority over throwing a pass that will make a touchdown.

Until her.

Fuck, until her. She’s more than a fucking distraction. She’s a thrill, something consuming, something all-encompassing. Every second seems to be about her. It doesn’t matter that it’s only been ten days since I spoke to her for the first time.

What matters is that it’s been ten days since she royally handed me my fucking ass and went from utterly hating me to wanting me—even just a little.

And now I look at her. She’s still relaxed across black leather, the bright red of her jersey a stark contrast to the lightness of her hair, and I walk across the room to her and lean over the sofa.

Her eyes are closed and her lashes are fanning over her cheeks. She lied before. Maybe every time she’s said it, because she does trust me. Maybe only a little, but if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be so comfortable around me. If she didn’t trust me, she wouldn’t be lying on my sofa in this position with her skirt around her hips. And she sure as shit wouldn’t be showing me a glimpse of the tiny, white lace panties she’s wearing.

I lower myself over her and softly cover her mouth with mine. “Dinner’s ready.”

She opens her eyes to mine. “Help me up.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be me saying that to you?” I ask as I take her hands and stand her up.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and smirks. “In my limited experience, you need absolutely no help getting up.”

I swear to God she adds a little extra sway in her hips as she goes to the kitchen island. That skirt sure wasn’t swishing like that earlier.

I sit opposite her and keep my eyes on her as we eat. Her gaze flickers to mine a few times, her cheeks flushing every now and then. I love knowing that I affect her. Even if it’s just a flush of her cheeks, a glow in her eyes, I know something I’m doing is getting to her.

She chews slowly as she regards me. After several long minutes of silence, she says, “You aren’t wearing a shirt.”

“I don’t usually wear one at home.”

“It’s not a complaint.”

“How can you complain about this?”

“Corey. You’re being an asshole.”

“I can’t help it, babe. It’s in my DNA.”

Leah hands me her empty plate and I put our dishes in the dishwasher. She swallows and walks over to the sofa, perching on the edge of the seat like she can feel the tension, too.

“What do you want to do?” I ask, sitting back next to her.

“Do you have any decent movies?”

“I do. Not that I have any time to watch them. They’re in the cabinet by the TV.”

She crawls across the floor and opens the doors to the unit. Fuck. Beneath the hem of her skirt, I can see her thong, which is barely covering her pussy. The soft, pink flesh peeks out, or through, the material. I don’t even know.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. She knows exactly what she’s fucking doing to me. She knows and she does it anyway. There’s no way she doesn’t want me when she’s doing this.

Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she’s torturing me just because she can. There’s no way she can crawl across the floor like that and be ignorant to the fact I can see what’s under her skirt.

My cock is rock hard and straining against my jeans when she joins me on the sofa. She glances at my crotch with a small smile on her lips but doesn’t say a thing. Fuck yes, she knows. She knows how fucking tortured I am right now.

Keeping my eyes on the movie is impossible when I can see her in my peripheral, her skirt exposing her long legs. It’s impossible when I know exactly where those legs lead to. Because fuck. What even is this shit on TV? What the hell has she put on?

She leans into my side. Her hand rests on my stomach, her fingers teasing across my abs, but all I can think about is the skin waiting for me beneath that skirt. That jersey. That fucking bra. Those fucking panties.

I want to see her come apart so fucking badly. I want her to have some idea of what I can do to her. I want to make her come so hard with my fingers that she’s actually afraid of what I could do with my mouth and my cock.

I trace my fingers up her thigh, making her shift against me, and smile into her hair. “What’s up, babe?”

“You’re pushing it, Corey.”

I flip her on top of me. She squeals, but I overpower her easily, and then I sit up.

“I’m pushing it? You think you can wear those panties then bend over right in fucking front of me and I’m not gonna be turned on by that? I’ve been thinking about what you’re wearing under that skirt since you walked out of that stadium. Since you were sitting on my fuckin’ car.”

I hook my thumbs under her skirt and push it up. My hands cup her ass perfectly. It’s tight and firm, fitting in my palms like perfection. Like it was made for me.

“What are you—ohh.”

I touch my lips to her neck and kiss my way down it. My tongue swirls around the dip in her collarbone, and I drag my mouth up to hers. Her fingers curl into my neck as mine probe her butt, bringing her closer to me.

Our tongues swipe against each other’s, and she grazes my bottom lip with her teeth. I kiss her deeply, tasting every inch of her sweet mouth, and she grinds against me. I slip one of my hands up to her back. She pushes her hips toward me, gripping me tighter. My finger slides beneath the string connecting the back of her thong to the front and travels to the front.

Her hips push even further to me, and she makes a whimpering noise into my mouth. She’s wet. Shit. She’s so fucking wet. My thumb easily grazes over her clit, pressing against the tight bud of nerves. She takes a deep breath in mid-kiss, and I smile against her mouth, knowing this is what she’s wanted. She hasn’t said it, she hasn’t forced it, but I know this is what she wants me to do.

I run my fingers along her pussy and slip one inside her. She breaks the kiss and tilts her head back, giving me perfect access to her neck as I work my fingers against her wetness. She grips my hair, tugging hard, and she moves her hips in time with the movements of my finger and thumb. At her moan, I put another finger inside her and she clenches her muscles around me.

“Thought you didn’t want me?” I whisper in her ear. “Hasn’t that been your motto for days?”

“I…don’t…” she replies breathily.

I curl my fingers inside her and push down on her clit. “Don’t give me that shit, Leah. My fingers are inside your gorgeously tight pussy right now. Don’t tell me you don’t fuckin’ want me.”

She drops her head forward onto my shoulder as I continue to work her, to rub her, to bring her closer to the edge. Before she goes, I pull my fingers from her and hold her face in front of mine.

“Corey,” she whispers. It’s deep and low, seductive and begging, and it’s music to my fucking ears.

“Tell me you want me.” I graze my teeth across her bottom lip. “Tell me you want me and I’ll give you what you need.”

“I want you.” Her breath fans over my mouth.

“Say my name.”

“Demanding bastard.” She manages a laugh, but it’s breathy and desperate. “I want you, Corey. Okay? I want you.”

My whole body goes taut, tight. Yes. Those are the words I’ve fucking wanted. I don’t care if I’ve had to tease her with my fingers and hold an orgasm for ransom to get them. What matters is that she said them, and she can’t take them back—not when she’s gyrating her hips against my hand.

“Corey,” she moans softly. “Now finish me off, for the love of fucking God.”

I move my fingers quickly inside her and rub her clit. And I look at her. I watch her lips part and her eyes close and her cheeks flush. I feel her breath quicken and her muscles tighten around me and her juices over my fingers. And finally, I hear her cry out as she comes. I hear her cry my motherfucking name into my shoulder as she comes.

My. Fucking. Name.

Her body collapses against mine, and I press kisses along her jaw to her lips. I cup the back of her head and hold her to me. Her falling apart in my arms is the most goddamn beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The glaze over her eyes, the quickening of her breathing, the moans from between those lips.

“You. Bastard,” she whispers into my neck.

“I’m going to bed.”

“I don’t—”

“And I’m carrying you in there,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m carrying you into my bed. I’m going to peel your clothing from your body and I’m going to hold you against me as I sleep, and I’m not going to let you go. Do you understand that?”

She doesn’t reply despite the heavy breath she exhales, and I grip her tighter.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I understand. Completely.”