Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (64 page)

I’m kissing him before I even know what’s happening, moaning hungrily and feverishly into his mouth as I melt against him. His arms circle me, hands sliding across my back and down to grip my ass through the fabric of the robe.

My own hands slide up over his chiseled chest, up to hold his face as I let him claim my mouth. He pushing us back, and I gasp as I feel the stone and mortar wall of the house against my back, the ivy tickling at my ankles as I whimper into his mouth.

He growls into my lips, and I gasp as I feel the throbbing thickness of him pressing against my thigh. The tie on the small bathrobe barely holds as the whole thing threatens to slip from my body. And I’m so close to just shrugging
it off, and tearing at the waistband of those pajama pants of his to feel him pulsing in my hand.

And right there, somehow, the last shred of my sanity comes clawing out from behind the mush I’ve become in his arms. And suddenly, I’m gasping for breath and shaking my head as I step back from the magnetically attractive shirtless man standing so close to me that I can feel the heat off his skin.

“We need to go to bed.” I say, stumbling over my words. “
Separate
ones,” I say quickly, blushing bright red as his eyes flash fire at mine.

His hands are still pressed against the wall on either side of me as he catches his breath mere inches from my lips. “It’s early.”

I look up, feeling my pulse racing a I meet his piercing gaze. “I’m tired.”

I can see him swallowing thickly, and for a moment, I want him to say no. For a moment, I want him to ignore everything I’m saying and just
take
me, right here against the wall.

But he doesn’t.

He gives one last piercing look before he steps back from me, his arms dropping. “If you insist,” he says evenly, his chest rising and falling.

“Uh, night.” I hastily turn and start to walk as fast as I can back down the wrap-around terrace.

“Night
wifey
.”

* * *

B
ack in my room
, I barely make it under the covers before I’m pushing my fingers deep between my legs. The raw, inescapable and desperate need is like a burn, and the touch of my fingers to my heat is the only balm.

I moan into my arm as my hands find me soaking wet and aching, my fingers dipping slowly through my slickness as I gasp and bring a pillow to my face. My hips arch off the bedsheets, my fingers curling inside of me as my thumb brushes lightly against the throbbing bud of my clit.

“I make a great mistake.”

And there in my bed, with those eyes burning into my mind, and his name on my lips, he’s my favorite mistake. I come with the taste of his lips on mine, the need for his body against mine, and the thrill of the forbidden racing through my mind.

I
’m
rock hard as I slam the door to my room shut and lean against it.

Fuck.

I swear as I bring the bottle of wine that apparently costs four times as much as my first truck to my lips and take a big slug from it. I swallow, shaking my head before taking another ludicrously expensive mouthful.

I could almost laugh at how perfectly this describes me right now. Me, the blue-collar redneck who finds himself with more money than he knows what to do with, drinking thirty-four-year-old red wine out of the bottle like a goddamn savage. I know enough to get that something as rich, and classy, and fancy as this probably deserves some sort of glass of some kind - something crystal, something that costs a small fortune.

Fuck that
, I grumble to myself as I take a third swig.

This was a huge mistake.

On the surface, Derek’s plan has merit, I’ll give him that. And I’m hardly the first professional athlete, or public figure in general, who’s tried to clean up his image with an arranged marriage. Hell, I’ve played with guys who’ve got “marital brand managers” on their fucking payroll - painted, silent, gorgeous women who trot out to smile for the cameras and the
Family Magazine
interviews and then disappear back into wherever they came from while their husband/employer signs off on another fast food commercial.

Except I fucked up, hard: you’re not supposed to fall for the fake wife.

Shit, that’s sort of the whole point of the thing: it’s
fake.
She’s the smile for the media, she’s the cover story while you go out and do the usual with groupies and cheerleaders and all the other fame-fuckers that come with being a star.

So why do I want her so bad.

This isn’t what I thought it was going to be. Well, obviously, we got
real
married - something I should probably get around to calling Derek about before he has an aneurism. But it’s more than just the piece of paper from the State of Nevada that’s still folded up inside the pocket of my jacket lying across my bed. It’s the fact that we’re barely two days into this whole thing and we’re already
way
past the boundaries we should have as employer and employee.

Because
that’s
what we are - at least, that’s what we
should
be. Not “husband and wife,” not even “friends.”

It’s just business.

Except “just business” shouldn’t get my cock this hard. “Just business” shouldn’t get my pulse roaring like a fucking stadium and my head going blank when the thought of those piercing blue eyes, and that innocent mouth, and those legs for days dance through my head.

Getting drunk and getting married I can handle. Yeah, it’s not ideal for what’s supposed to just be a cover story, but hey, at least now it’s legit in case any gossip magazine starts doing its research for once.

It’s the part that comes after that worries me.

It’s the part where I can still taste her lips against mine in the middle of that Vegas club. The part where I can still feel the heat of her body grinding against mine as her hand snakes up into my hair to pull me in.

It’s the part where we apparently stripped our clothes off and crawled into bed together.

And shit, here I am kissing her all over again, like a fucking idiot.

Because as strange as it is with a woman who’s supposed to be my wife, fucking around with her
is
what could fuck it all up. Making it more than just an arrangement is how this gets messy, and complicated, and ugly. Fast.

This whole thing needs to be platonic; we need to have an understanding. She’s got a job to do, I’ve got an employer role to fill, and that’s that.

I grimace as I pull another swig from the bottle older than me.

No more lounging around in bathrobes and pajamas drinking wine, no more letting those eyes of hers and that smooth skin of her neck beneath the wave of her hair get to me like that. I snort and glance down at the bottle in my hand. Shit, I need to never drink around this girl, ever, because I apparently lose all fucking self control around her when I do. I should make this a dry house if I want either of us to survive the next six fucking months.

I groan, still rock hard as I think about that white robe, grazing across the smooth skin of her thighs out on the veranda just now. I think about what might be under it - what it might look like dropping to the ground at her feet.

Christ, I wish I could remember more of the brief flashes from last night in Vegas. I wish I could remember if I pulled her clothes off or if she did. Was it manic and fast, or was it a slow tease? Did
I
take my pants off, or did she use those delicate fingers to pull at my belt - needing it, craving it.

I know nothing happened from the lack of open condoms and the fact that, well, that fact that you can just tell when you’ve had sex the night before.

But damn I wonder how close we got.

I can feel my pulse throbbing like an engine as I picture pushing her back into that big, hotel bed. I imagine pulling her on top of me, and dragging her up until she straddled my face. My cock strains like iron against the front of my pajama pants as I let my head fall back against the door to my room and picture using my hands to center her on my tongue. I groan as I imagine tasting her - imagine sliding my tongue deep and drinking in the sweet honeyed taste of her. My hands on her ass, making her ride my mouth.

Making her come.

Before I can stop myself, my cock is out and wrapped firmly in my hand. And I’m growling as I stroke the thick length of it, imagining flipping us over, pinning her down on the bed with her legs over my shoulders, and fucking her slow and deep. I imagine sheathing every goddamn inch I have to the hilt inside her dripping wet pussy, feeling her grip at me, watching her face crumble as the pleasure rocks through her. I picture her hands on my hips, urging me on as her lips beg for more - harder, faster, deeper.

The cry comes grunting from my lips as I come in time to the Natalie in my mind going to pieces under me. And as she claws at the sheets and shatters inside my head, I groan as the cum arcs from my pulsing cock to drop hotly across the hardwood floor of my room.

Alone.

I’m still pulling, still feeling the blood roaring through me like a fire as I catch my breath and sink down against the bedroom door, shaking my head as I eye the bottle in my hand.

Fancy, classy, elegant.

She’s like this fucking bottle of wine. Sweet, silken, and wrapped in something so elegant and priceless that a guy like me has no business putting his hands on. A girl like that - like this bottle of wine - is used to crystal glasses, and soft classical music played in the background while it’s sipped slowly with painted lips from manicured fingers.

And here I am drinking it straight from the bottle.

I chuckle as I bring the wine to my mouth, take a swig, and shake my head.

What the hell have I gotten myself into.

E
yes closed
, I reach for a towel as water trickles down my face to drip into the marble sink beneath me. I bring it to my face, patting my skin dry before I toss it away and finally have to face myself in the bathroom mirror.

The same Creedence Clearwater record blasting from downstairs that originally woke me up is still playing - a reminder that I’m not alone in this house.

As if I could forget
.

The pink blush returns to my cheeks the second I open my eyes, and I groan.

Yeah, that happened last night.

I scowl at my reflection in the mirror, silently chastising myself for my weakness and for letting Austin
get
to me like that. Yeah, definitely weakness. Weakness and months of nothing with Vince, since - clearly - he was a little worn out from banging his secretary all day at work.

So, yes, that’s what I’m blaming the fact that I kissed Austin - “kissed” being the understatement of the century. Almost worse though is that I
came
with my fingers thinking of him.

Yeah, it’s weakness, and withdrawal, and momentary insanity. All of those things.

And it might not be able to be helped that the man paying me to be his wife happens to be
absurdly
attractive with a body in perfect freaking condition. But what
can
be helped is him baiting me like that. What
can
be helped is him trying to get to me, and walking around without a damn shirt on, and whispering lines I’m sure he’s used on a hundred other girls like “I’m a great mistake.”

Please
.

I want to roll my eyes at how ridiculous it is.

Right, says the girl who ate that line up, hook and sinker last night.

If we’re
actually
going to be doing this - if he’s serious about pulling off this whole fake media show with me smiling and waving to the cameras like a good little trophy wife, we’re going to have to establish some boundaries. Boundaries like shirts, and like not whispering wholly inappropriate little lines into my ear like I’m one of his vapid little football groupies.

Boundaries like the fact that I apparently can’t even have three sips of wine with him without losing my damn head.

Which means taking a deep breath, pretending last night
never
happened, and going down there and giving him a piece of my-

I frown and shake my head.

Right, except going down there means
ideally putting clothes on, of which I still have none since going off to solve that problem last night resulted in another one entirely.

Grumbling, I pull the white terrycloth robe back on and head downstairs to face the music.

* * *

“
C
ould
we turn that down maybe?”

I blink in my pre-coffee daze as I step into the sunlit kitchen and glare at the Bluetooth speaker blaring “Proud Mary.”

The only response comes from Buckley, who raises his chin from the kitchen floor and starts to wag his tail when he sees me. I shuffle over to the speaker and turn it off.

“Hello?”

I frown at the lack of response as the house goes silent. Buckley whimpers as he trots over to nuzzle my leg.

“Yeah, I like them too, but maybe at a normal level, huh?” I murmur at the lab as I pour myself myself some coffee. In a way I’m relieved Austin isn’t here, since it lets me pretend last night never happened.

Or at least, put it off a little longer.

It’s not until I sit in one of the kitchen bar stools that I see the note taped to the kitchen counter.

I roll my eyes at the note, fingering the black Amex card sitting on top of it, along with the car keys with a Porsche logo on them lying next to it. It’s not until I actually pick up the card though that I see the little addition underneath it.

I take a quick, scalding gulp of my coffee as my face goes red.

* * *

“
Y
ou did
what
?!
”

I haven’t even turned the car on in Austin’s driveway when my mother calls.

I wince as I hold the phone away from my ear before taking a deep breath and bringing it back.

“Mother, listen-”

“A
football person
, Natalie?!” She gasps dramatically, like she’s just been stabbed, and I can practically feel that token withering head shake of hers coming through the phone.

“Player, mother. They’re called football
players
.”

“Oh, what difference does it make!” She snaps, sighing heavily again. “I mean my
goodness
, Natalie, what were you
thinking
? I raised you better than this and you
damn well
know it!”

I bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose, shaking my head.

“I spent
far
too much on your schooling and your upbringing for you to be
slumming
it with an athlete like that, Natalie,” my mother moans, as if hearing about some sort of world-shaking catastrophe.

“Mother, will you let me-”

“Natalie, my
God
,” she cuts me off. “Someone like that is just simply
beneath you
, dear. I mean what in God’s name were you-”

“He makes forty million a year.”

The line goes silent, and I could almost laugh at how predictable the response is.

Almost.

“Oh,
Natalie!
”

Her entire tone changes like the flip of a coin, something almost like glee and coming through the phone.

“Natalie, I am
so
proud of you, sweetheart!”

I roll my eyes as I shake my head.
Loraine Ames-Royce, ladies and gentlemen.

“Thank you, Mother,” I say dryly, flipping down the driver’s side visor in the Porsche to try and put on some eye makeup. It’s bad enough I’m going out shopping in the black cocktail dress from two nights ago, not to mention commando since I’ve got zero clean underwear. Might as well take this lovely mother-daughter bonding moment to at least look halfway presentable.

“Oh, don’t make it sound like that,” she snaps. “You know what I mean, Natalie. You’re moving up!”

I snort. “Like you?”

“You are
not
going to fault me for moving on from your father, Natalie.”

She’s right, I’m not. Not after the shit he pulled, even before the arrest. It still doesn’t stop me from rolling my eyes at her though.

“I have to say though,” Her voice takes on this distasteful tone, “
Las
Vegas
, Natalie?” She spits the word out like a bad taste in her mouth.

“Yes, Mother. We were feeling impulsive.”

By which I mean, blackout drunk.

“Well, never mind that,” she says quickly. “The important thing is you’re married.”

I snort out a dry laugh. “Right, that’s the important thing.”

“Natalie,” She sighs, like I’m
the one that just said something ridiculous.

“Mom, I have to go.”

* * *

S
hopping goes fine
, even if I do feel like the ultimate cliché driving around Rodeo Drive in a sports car with my “husband’s” credit card.

Luckily, it’s Beverly Hills, and I’m surrounded by every possible instance of this very cliché.

Welcome to your life, Natalie.

And really, in the scheme of clichés, my arrangement with Austin
really
isn’t that bad. Yes, this whole thing stemmed from me needing money, but it’s not like I’m destitute, or don’t have family I could crawl to if I could get over my own ego. There are probably women trying on clothes in the very stores I’m shopping in that are all but indentured servants to rich, fat, older men with money who decided to buy a trophy wife instead of cultivating a personality and social skills.

Yeah, it could be a
lot
worse.

Hell, I could still be with Vince.

I think about it as I drive back to the house with a backseat full of clothes. Austin might be obnoxious, and full of himself, and cocky beyond belief, but he’s not an asshole. It’s a bitter feeling realizing my fake, bought-and-paid-for relationship is already better in two days than the two
years
I spent in an
actual
relationship, but it’s the truth.

And really, this
could
work. I could smile for the cameras, and join him at dinners and functions for the next few months. This business arrangement could work out just fine for the both of us, as long as we remember what it is.

As long as I keep my damn head on straight, and keep my traitorous and illicit thoughts about him buried deep inside, and pretend that kissing him -
twice
- never happened, we’ll be just fine.

I’ll just make sure I’m never alone at all with him, in the house that we share, for the next six months.

No big deal.

* * *

I
take
a breath as I pull up the driveway. Yeah, this’ll be fine. As long as we can set up
boundaries
, and-

The car brakes to a sharp stop as I slam my foot down, my eyes locked on the girl walking out the front door of Austin’s house. She’s young, and gorgeous, and dressed like…well, like
that
.

She looks up and then glares at me as I step out of the car.

“Oh, so
you’re
Natalie.”

I suppress the frown that comes to my face, trying to make myself smile at her instead. “Can I help you?”

The blonde girl barks out a laugh, using one long pink fingernail to brush a single stray lock of hair back from her face. She purses her painted, enhanced-looking lips at me.

“Tina” she says curtly, not offering a hand. “And
congratulations
.” She sneers the word out sourly, curling her upper lip and arching a brow as she gives me this
look
.

“Uh, thanks.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Yeah,
great
catch you’ve got in there.” She cocks a hip and sucks on her teeth, glaring at me like she’s waiting for me to respond somehow.