The Player's Club: Scott (15 page)

“If that’s all…” Lincoln continued, but George interrupted him again.

“As long as I’ve got the floor, I want to discuss our meeting places,” George said, standing up like a politician. “I’d like to suggest a few party places that I think are way cooler than the hole in the walls you’ve been setting up, Lincoln. And I want to bring strippers back into it. Real strippers. Not burlesque dancers or whatever the hell you call them.”

Lincoln grinned. “Majority rules, remember? And you don’t have a majority, so maybe you should just sit down.”

“Maybe the guys are sick of your little
Dead Poets Society
self-help crap,” George growled, getting into Lincoln’s face. “Maybe they just want to be studs and have fun for a change, am I right?”

There was a ragged, masculine cheer, mostly from the drunken, rich frat contingent.

“Maybe,” George added in a low voice, under the noise of the cheer, “it’s time for new management.”

“You don’t have the brains or the balls to run this thing,” Lincoln said dismissively.

“Watch me.” George turned around. “Okay, guys, meeting’s over. New location’ll be announced. Get the hell out!” He was laughing as he and his friends exited.

Lincoln turned to Finn. “He’s making his move.”

“I didn’t think he would,” Finn said, sounding irritated…and worried.

“This isn’t what I signed on for,” Lincoln said.

“Why can’t you just kick him out?” asked Scott.

“Wish it were that easy,” Lincoln said. “We’ve all been friends for a long time. Sure, there are some that I like less than others, but when we started, it wasn’t like this. Wasn’t so polarized.” He sighed, rubbing at his temple with one hand. “At least we know it’s happening.”

“I’d like to do something to help, if I could,” Scott offered.

“Make it through the challenges. Help us keep a majority, until we can convince some of the guys he’s fooled to come back to reality,” Lincoln said. “He just wants a bunch of flunkies to make him look cool. Sometimes he impresses them with stuff, like expensive gifts. Sometimes women.”

“He didn’t used to be such a dick,” Finn said. But even he sounded doubtful.

“Can’t you kick him out for the stupid business cards?” Scott asked.

“No proof he’s handing them to anybody but pledges,” Lincoln said, but rolled his eyes.

Finn exhaled heavily. “George is my cousin. I got him in here. I don’t want to kick him out…not unless there’s no other choice.”

Scott sighed, too. Now, not only was he trying to get into this Club—he was trying to help his new friends, his
cool
friends, who needed him to keep the Club something awesome, and not another drunk, rich party boy’s ego trip.

They were
counting
on him.

Scott thought it was worth it…but at this point, he wasn’t quite sure. And the “not sure part” was probably what was going to sink him.

SINCE SCOTT WAS WORKING late that Tuesday night, Amanda had decided to have a girl’s night in. Between her nascent career as a burlesque dancer, and hanging out with Jackie without divulging either her dancing secret
or
her plot to join The Player’s Club, she was almost exhausted. She’d always been a hard worker. Though this whole having-an-outside-life thing was more tiring than she’d expected.

Of course, it’s not the stress of falling for your “fling” adventure guy.

It wasn’t what she was supposed to do. It certainly wasn’t what she’d
planned
to do. And even though she knew it was the stupid thing, she wasn’t entirely sure it was something she could do anything about. She was falling in love with Scott Ferrell. The man who apparently went to raves and went camping in the Mojave, who went skydiving and God knows what else.

The man who regularly crept onto her fire escape and ravished her. Who’d made love to her in a public place.

The man who was making her no promises.

How in the world was she supposed to keep a man like that interested, much less in love?

Not thinking about it.
He told her he would be doing a lot of overtime, getting ready for his last big challenge in Spain. She felt a little bereft, she needed to distract herself. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt that had chocolate stains on it, plaid flannel boxer shorts and a pair of superfuzzy socks. She was just going to veg out on the couch: she had a bunch of kettle corn, straight from the farmer’s market. She had the makings for killer meatball sandwiches, a messy, delicious, utterly indulgent treat.

There was a
Twilight Zone
marathon on the science fiction channel, completing her version of decadent, introverted, nerdy bliss. She sighed happily, snuggling into her couch.

The familiarly creepy introduction music was just coming on when she heard the knock at her door. Irritated, she got up, looking out her peephole.

It was Scott. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder, a slight growth of beard darkening his jaw. The combination of the suit and the rugged shadow made her mouth water.

“Damn!” Her heart started beating faster. She glanced down at her ratty ensemble. He couldn’t see her like this. She didn’t even have makeup on.

She quickly darted to her bedroom, tore off the offending articles, and opted to just throw a silk robe on, naked. She ran her fingers through her hair, hoping it wasn’t too crazed looking, and wondered how women managed to have that sexy, tousled “bed head” while she just looked as if she’d rubbed her hands on one of those lightning balls.

He knocked again, and she opened the door. “Um, hi,” she said, hoping she sounded breathless-sexy, and not just frazzled. “I thought you had to work late tonight.”

He grinned, and her heart fluttered. “Bomb threat,” he said. “They sent us all home, so I thought I’d stop by.” He leaned down, kissing her softly. “I wanted to see you.
Needed
to see you,” he whispered against her lips.

She pressed her body against his, sighing into him. How could a woman
not
fall in love with a man who said stuff like that?

He pulled away. “Maybe we should shut the door.” He sounded out of breath, too.

Wordlessly, she tugged him inside, shutting the door and locking it. She was about to kiss him again when he sniffed, and she heard his stomach growl. “What is that? It smells great.”

“That? Oh. That’s, uh, meatballs. For meatball subs.” A completely unromantic meal, she realized. “You’re hungry, huh?”

He was staring at her when he answered. “Absolutely,” he drawled.

He wasn’t looking at the meatballs.

She blushed, and felt her thighs twitch. Then his stomach growled again, and they both chuckled.

“I made plenty,” she offered, then frowned. “I’ve got to warn you—your suit is going to probably take a beating. These aren’t the neatest things in the world.”

“Some things are worth risking.” He winked at her.

She smiled back, heading for the kitchen. Of course he wouldn’t care about stuff like that. He had nothing to prove. Besides, he probably ate a lot more neatly than she did. She just didn’t pay attention when she ate, it seemed—she always wound up with a spot of coffee on her favorite blouse or wine stains on the sleeve of a sweater.

She made a hefty meatball sub on the homemade French rolls she’d baked that afternoon. A quick pass under the broiler left mozzarella cheese dripping over the meatballs and tomato sauce. She walked out into the living room.

He was on the couch, munching from the large bowl of kettle corn as he watched TV. He’d taken off his shirt. She’d seen his chest plenty of times before, but she always held her breath a little every time she saw it fresh. He looked yummier than all the food in her house. Possibly than all the food in the city—and in San Francisco, that was saying something.

“I love the old episodes of
Twilight Zone,
” he said.

She didn’t speak. Her mouth was dry.

Then he laughed, a warm, rough sound. “I took off the shirt. Didn’t want to get it messed up.”

She smiled, putting the tray of food on the coffee table. She was suddenly hungry herself. Ravenous. “You know, those are nice slacks,” she said. “Probably dry-clean only.”

His answering smile was wicked. “You’re right. No sense courting danger.”

He stood up, stripping out of his pants, leaving him only in his boxers. She could see his erection tenting the fabric, and she nervously licked her lips.

She sat next to him on the couch, both of them ignoring their sandwiches. He stroked her cheek…then let his fingers trail lower, tugging at the belt of her robe.

“This looks nice, too,” he remarked, his eyes gleaming. “You probably don’t want to get any tomato sauce on that, either, right?”

She shook her head, unable to speak as he opened the robe, slipping it off her shoulders. He ran his fingertips down her bare shoulder. Her nipples tightened.

“Th-those boxers look nice,” she said, not even noticing them. “Maybe we should…”

He stretched out on the couch, and she pulled them off. His cock stood at attention.

She muted the television, and stared at him, her body already beginning to go damp and willing. “Are you starving?” she asked, sending a quick glance over at the sandwiches.

He reached for her. “Only for you.”

“Good answer.”

She covered him, reveling in the feel of his hot, smooth skin against hers. She kissed him, and he parted her lips, his tongue probing soft and intent as he smoothed his palms up her sides, down her back, cupping her buttocks and molding her more precisely against him. She groaned as she felt the feverish skin of his cock pressed against her stomach, his shaft like a heated bar of iron against the juncture of her legs. She gently gripped his shoulders, pressing her breasts more firmly to his chest as their tongues intertwined. He groaned against her mouth, and she slipped her legs on either side of his hips. The feel of his hardness brushing against her inner thighs made her shudder, her pussy going wet in a rush. She toyed with him, teasing his erection with her entrance, until he growled, his hands jetting to her hips, guiding her directly to the tip of his arousal. She sat up, pushing herself gently over his staff, feeling his cock stretch and fill her as she moaned softly in appreciation. When she was fully impaled on him, she arched her back, enjoying the sensations. When she looked down, he was smiling at her, stroking her, reaching up to cup her breasts, his thumbs circling her erect nipples.

It felt like heaven. She raised her body slowly, then inched lower, setting the tempo, intent on the glide of her flesh over his. His shaft dragged at her clit, and she bit her lip at the delicious sensation. She could feel him brushing against the inside of her pussy, and she gyrated her hips slowly, eager to intensify the secret caress.

It felt like hours, in the best possible way. Her breathing went choppy and ragged as the pleasure seeped into her, drenching every emotion and every physical sensation. He was lifting his hips from the couch to penetrate her more fully, and she was thrusting downward, urging him deeper inside her.

“Baby, please.”

He gripped her hips, pulling her tight and flush against his straining hips, and she felt him fill her almost painfully, her clit getting just the pressure it needed. She bucked against him, her speed and rhythm going from slow and graceful to fast and out of control. She ground her hips against his, and he thrust up, pulling her to him, the two of them sweating and straining to reach release.

She felt it first, the climax exploding inside her. She cried out incoherently as her body shuddered, clenching at his cock. He yelled in response, his hips jerking against her, and she collapsed on top of him, their bodies a synchronized mass of shivers and aftershocks. She couldn’t hear anything but their rasping breaths, and the thundering beat of her heart, echoed by the thudding pulse of his heart, beating against her ear as she lay pressed against his chest.

After long moments, they got up, straightened out. She quickly got towels, helped them get in some kind of order. Then they sat on the couch, naked and companionable.