The bartender slid my vodka soda toward me, and I happily took a few long sips. The icy cool drink with just a hint of lime slid down my throat but did nothing to bury the fire burning within me. Not just the fire from the dance with Hendrix, who had no idea who he was dancing with, but the fire of that hurt I couldn’t seem to shake no matter how hard I tried. And believe me, I had tried. I’d tried to drink Trevor away, Krav Maga him away, and hell, I'd even tried to eat Trevor away.
Not so much the memory of Trevor himself, because he certainly wasn't that memorable, but of what he'd done. Of what he'd had the audacity to do, to participate in.
The adrenaline surged in my blood, and a new idea took shape in the forefront of my mind. Crazy, sure. But if it went according to plan, I’d be the one in full control.
"Oh no," London said, delicately setting her drink on the bar. The music filtered behind us, as did the chatter of every celebrity and athlete in the room. But London made sure she drew my attention, her fingers on my chin forcing my gaze down to hers. "I’ve seen that look before," she said. "And it usually comes with consequences.”
"Since when have I ever steered you wrong?" I asked, tilting my head at her as she released my chin.
She popped that hand on her hip, staring up at me incredulously. From the look of us, we couldn’t be more different. I was tall and long where she was short and petite. I was fire-red hair and dark eyes, and she was dark hair and bright eyes. I was reckless, and she was cautious, but we never let those differences come between our friendship. In fact, she was as much of an influence on me as I was on her. She helped subdue my wild side when most needed—like right before finals, and I helped bring her out of her shell when she seemed content to stay in there forever.
"Oh I don't know," she said with an air of attitude. "How about that time you decided it would be a brilliant idea to break into the campus swimming pool and go skinny-dipping in the middle of the night."
I resisted the urge to snort-laugh. "That was a great night," I argued.
London gaped up at me, shaking her head, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. "We were halfway through a bottle of vodka, and the entire collegiate swim team ended up catching us there completely nude."
"Oh, please," I said, waving her off. "None of them got a good look at you. Or me for that matter."
"Yeah because one look at your red hair, and they knew who you were. None of them were brave enough to jump in the water or even turn his head."
None of the men had the balls, is what she meant. Not many did. Not many men would take their chance with Savannah Goodman. Not when the entire lineup of the Raleigh Raptors would see to their untimely demise if they stepped a toe out a lie.
I blew out a breath, the idea taking shape in my mind only solidifying with her recount of the tale. "Still was a good night," I said, shrugging. We’d had a blast up until that point, laughing and talking, half-drunk on the drinks we’d had after completing our finals.
"We could’ve been expelled," London said. "If any of them had decided to turn us in—"
"None of them would have," I interrupted her. "And besides, I highly doubt the dean of the school would expel us so close to graduation. Plus, it wasn't that big of an infraction. Not like cheating on a test or stealing another student's property.”
"Oh no," London mocked me. "Public nudity and breaking and entering are so blasé."
I laughed at that, shaking my head as my eyes scanned the dance floor. As if Hendrix would still be out there, a new woman on his arm. Not an unlikely prediction, not with Hendrix Malone. The best wide receiver the NFL had ever seen. Not with his Hollywood good looks, his bedroom smile, and his reputation for being a tomcat in the sack.
A blush crept along my skin, heating up every inch of my body as if I could feel his hand on my hip. A hand that would never have found my hip in the first place, if he’d had an inkling of who I was moments ago.
But he hadn't recognized me, and I made sure to say as little as possible so he wouldn't recognize my voice. The sensation was thrilling—having someone who I’d spent so much time with in the past not have a clue who I was. Especially someone as cocky and impossible as Hendrix fucking Malone.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on in that epic, beautiful brain of yours?" London asked. She tapped her polished nails on the marble, impatiently waiting. She knew I would tell her. I told her everything. As I had since the day we shared a dorm room freshman year. Thank God we’d upgraded to our own apartment since then. A shiver raced down my spine just remembering the dorm rooms.
A few months and that would all change. Both of our aspirations of going into sports management would be solidified with our degrees. And I’d made double sure of that. I’d wanted to get out of college so quickly—because of my celebrity dad status and the fact that I didn't care for school much—I'd taken the accelerated track. That meant summer school, extra classes, and a grueling schedule that made my mind numb on some nights, but I was right on track for graduating early. And after that?
I didn't want to think about that right now. Not when this idea was drumming through me like it had its own heartbeat.
"Is this about what Trevor did?" London asked when I didn't answer. "Are we plotting against him again? Because I already told you I'm more than happy to throat-punch the shit out of him."
I smiled down at my best friend, my heart swelling at her fierce protectiveness over me. She may be small, but she packed an endless well of passion. She was as sweet as a fluffy white kitten, until she wasn't. The girl had claws, but not many people ever got to see them.
"Come on," London urged. "Spill it. Now."
"All right," I said, shrugging and scanning the dance floor one more time. I easily spotted Hendrix talking to Roman across the room. "I'm going to use this anonymity to my advantage," I said.
"Meaning?" London asked warily.
"Meaning," I said, a smirk shaking my lips as the idea fully took shape in my mind. "If my virginity is that sought after…” I swallowed hard, the sting from what Trevor had done sizzling in my chest. “Then,” I continued. “I’m going to stop playing the game and decide who it goes to. And who better than Hendrix Malone?"
London gasped, her blue gaze following mine across the room before snapping back to my face. She stepped into my line of sight, or as much as she could being a head shorter than me. "You've got to be kidding me," she said. "I get what Trevor did was bullshit. What that whole frat house did was complete and utter bullshit. But you can't—"
"I can," I interrupted her, allowing her to see the seriousness in my contact-covered gaze. My features softened as I looked at her and tried to will her to understand. "I'm so tired, London. I'm so fucking tired of having people either be too scared to get to know me, or only interested in getting to know me because what my status can do for them." I swallowed down a mouthful of acid, my thoughts raging at my ex.
My one and only ex. The charming boy I’d thought was different. And boy was the right term because where I thought I’d dated a man, I had been completely and utterly wrong. A silly boy with a silly agenda. Disgusting.
London pressed her lips together, that same flicker of anger and understanding swirling in her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder again, quickly glancing at Hendrix and then back to me.
"Why him?" London asked.
I gaped at her. "Well, I'm certainly not going to choose one of our delightful collegiate peers," I said with all the sarcasm I could muster.
London rolled her eyes at me in an obviously sort of way. "I'm not saying going for an NFL player is a bad idea," London said. "I mean, we've all been around perfect bodies and competent attitudes for years now," she continued. "But there are at least fifty-two other players on the Raptors roster that might be more suitable than the most renowned playboy on the team." She shook her head, that beehive wig threatening to come off again. She fixed it and continued, "Hell, I might even go for a hockey player. I know a few, remember? I can get you th
eir numbers."
It was my turn to roll my eyes at her. "I know Hendrix," I said. "I know who he is. His playboy status isn’t hard to miss."
"Exactly," London said. As if that explained everything. "He'll break your heart."
"My heart isn’t on the line. It's not part of this play. Only my body is." My tongue darted out to wet my lips as my breath caught. "And I sure as hell trust him with that."
London tilted her head back and forth as if she were trying to find an argument with that logic and was having a hard time. So I forged ahead.
"Plus, he'd keep it a secret," I said. "That, I’m absolutely sure of. What with my father's completely off-limits clause in his locker room speeches. And honestly, who better to have your first time with than Hendrix Malone?"
London parted her pink lips, then shut them. Her eyes met mine. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
I grinned at my friend, my heart racing with exhilaration. I honestly didn't have a fucking clue what I was doing. But I threw back the rest of my vodka soda, drinking down the liquid courage. There was this rush of relief at the idea of finally ridding myself of this title that had left me vulnerable to the pain Trevor inflicted.
“I’m taking ownership of my V-card. And who I give it to."
London sipped from her pink drink. "Well, you know I am an expert on that," she said, a little hint of sarcasm coating her sweet voice. "You know, since I've had sex all of once before." She shook her head, that old frustration popping behind her eyes. She was almost as notorious as I was, but that was a whole other bag of worms to unpack. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."
And I loved her for that. Honestly, she was the best friend a girl could ask for. But right now, I needed her to see the brilliance in this plan. This sporadic, brilliant, totally fucking mad plan. "You can't harm what you can't have," I said, shrugging. "Like I said, my heart's not at play, just this stupid little title. And once that's done?" I slid my palms together as if I were tapping out of an argument. "I won’t have that cloud hanging over me. Then people like Trevor and his buddies will have no power over me. No bets left to make."
Anger and sadness swirled in her eyes, but she nodded. She stepped out of my line of sight, leaning against the marble bar once again. And we both looked to where Hendrix was finishing up chatting with Roman.
London let out a little giggle that was ninety percent sugar and ten percent sour.
"What is funny?" I asked.
London took another long sip of her drink, barely containing her laughter. "Oh, I just simply can't wait to hear if the rumors about Hendrix Malone are true."
A warm shiver danced down my spine, my breath catching with anticipation. Just imagining Hendrix’s lips on my skin did things to my body. We’d had an innocent dance only minutes ago, and I couldn't shake his touch even now. Even after the vodka soda. And I couldn't deny the one singular need crashing through my mind, my soul.
I wanted him.
I wanted him so badly I could almost taste him.
So I smoothed my hands over my butterfly gown and winked at my friend. "Stay tuned."
My heels once again clicked along the marble as I followed Hendrix, who had just turned down a long corridor, leaving Roman and his buddies behind.
And with each step closer, my heart pounded a little harder, each beat crying out for the same thing —
Hendrix, Hendrix, Hendrix.
3
Hendrix
"Somehow, you've managed to slip into an even fouler mood," Roman noted as I glared into the crowd of dancers from our table.
"I'm fine," I assured him, even though it was a lie. What else was I supposed to say? I’d just spent the better part of twenty minutes telling my best friend that I was done with anonymous sex, only to now be annoyed that I couldn't find the woman from the dance floor? I was a hypocrite.
"Well, you don't look fine." He raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I am." Great. Now it sounded like every argument I'd ever gotten into with a girlfriend. I was my own girlfriend.
"Right." He drew out the word slowly but looked away.
"You know, I think I'm going to grab some air." I slammed back the last of my champagne and set the glass on the table.
"Okay. Don't get lost."
I headed away from the driving beat of the music, slipping down the hallway of the gallery toward the back entrance. Maybe it was the sound of music, with a lingering scent of the machine smoke in the air, but I swore I could still taste that almost kiss. I'd never been driven that completely wild by not-a-kiss my entire life.
The farther I got from the music, the more silent my surroundings became until I could hear my individual footsteps on the shiny marble floor.
I passed one of the smaller galleries on my right and peeked in on the darkened, private space. Only the pieces were illuminated, and though I'd never truly been a fan of modern art, the painting on the far end caught my eye. It was a riot of colors, the paint coming together in a loose interpretation of wings.
"I like that one," a voice–her voice–said from behind me.
"Do you now?” I asked softly, not bothering to turn. She'd run off the last time, and though I'd searched, the place was packed. And I’d never been the guy to chase after a girl. I wasn't about to start now, no matter how good she tasted.
"It feels like a kindred spirit," she said, coming up next to me. Her head tilted slightly as she studied the painting, the pose so achingly familiar that I almost did a double take.
Damn, I shouldn't have had those drinks. I was usually more careful, but it was the off-season. I couldn't help but feel that I would've recognized her sober.
"You mean because of the wings?" I asked, motioning toward the painting.
She nodded. "It's kind of sad, really," she mused. "They're trapped there inside all that color. They'll never get to fly."
"Maybe they are flying," I said quietly, turning my gaze to her mask-obscured profile. "Maybe we’re the ones trapped by our own assumption that the sky is always blue."
She turned slowly to stare at me, a corner of her mouth tilting upward.
I wasn't sure how long we stood there, silently watching each other, feeling the tension rise between us until it felt as sharp as a knife's edge. “What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?” She tilted her head slightly.
My brow furrowed as I thought about it, my gaze flickering to her empty left hand. She wasn’t married—that was my hard line. “No,” I answered honestly.
"What would you say if I asked you to kiss me even though you don’t know my name?" She took a step closer, closing the distance until there were only inches between us. “A name doesn’t change whatever this pull is between us, does it?”
It didn’t. Whatever this attraction was defied logic. My blood heated, and my gaze dropped her lips. "I guess you'll have to ask if you want to find out."
"Would you kiss me?" she asked, brushing her lips over my chin.
"Would you like to be kissed?" I'd never been asked before. Somehow it was always assumed that I would want to kiss whomever was bold enough to take it. It was a little thing, but her request was hot as hell.
"Yes," she whispered.
Thank you, God. It was on.
I took the back of her neck in one hand and gripped her waist with the other, pulling our bodies flush, letting that sweet angst of anticipation build for just a breath longer—which was about all the self-control I had left.
She lifted her face toward mine, and I kissed her. I kept that one soft, just an introduction of our mouths, but when I drew lightly on her lower lip, she gasped, and I took full advantage. My tongue swept inside her mouth, and I groaned at how sweet she tasted, all citrus and lime.
She gripped handfuls of my shirt as I took her mouth over and over, licking into her, exploring and teasing with swirling strokes that had my pulse skyrocketing.
Don’t lose control.
Control was something I prided myself
on just as much as stamina when it came to bringing a woman into my bed—her bed…whatever surface was flat and close by. But that discipline slipped with every thrust of my tongue, every scrape of my teeth, every whimper that rose from the back of her throat.
When she threw her arms around my neck, I sucked that sweet little tongue of hers into my mouth. Her breath caught for a heartbeat, and then she arched, pressing her breasts against my chest as she kissed me like her life depended on it. I was starting to think mine did—she was that addictive, more potent than any alcohol I’d ever tasted.
My nose grazed the bottom of her mask. Who was she under all the sequins and glitter?
“What’s your name?” I asked against her lips, my hand sliding over the curve of her delectable ass.
She froze.
“Tell me,” I insisted. I had to know, had to see her again. I kissed her slowly, scraping my teeth gently over her lower lip.
“Touch me first. Talk later,” she countered, taking my hand and placing it on her breast.
Holy shit. I could live with that, especially with the weight of her breast filling my hand, the hard lines of her corset scraping my palm only to give way to soft, plump flesh. I wanted this woman naked, spread out like a seven-course meal on a table so I could devour her bite by bite.
I lifted my head long enough to see she’d shut the door to the small gallery. Then I spotted one of the wide, cushioned benches that faced each wall and lifted her by her ass, sinking back into her mouth as I carried her there. Our mouths remained fused, our tongues restless even as I laid her lengthwise on the bench, then rose above her.
She tugged off my mask, then ran her fingers through my hair, her nails scraping my scalp lightly. I lifted my hands to the edge of her butterfly mask. She swept one hand down my chest and gripped the hard length of my dick.
“Fuck,” I hissed, my eyes sliding shut as white-hot, searing pleasure raced through my veins. My hands fell away to grip the edge of the bench, bracing my weight so I didn’t fall on her like some high school kid in the back of Dad’s pickup.
Hendrix: A Raleigh Raptor Novel Page 2
