Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  Shock and confusion blanket his face and then if I’m not mistaken, hurt follows right after it.

  “Hey,” he says in a flat tone as his eyes hold mine. They ask questions I don’t understand but I just smile softly.

  “Hey,” I say in return, our gazes holding longer than is normal before I break away and introduce Lisa to everyone.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Justin says as he barrels up behind Drew and whistles, long and low. “Earlier you were all businessed-up and now you’re dressed to fucking kill, isn’t she, boys?”

  I ignore the scrape of Justin’s gaze up and down my body. His objectifying me. And it’s not that I don’t care, but rather I’m too busy noticing the clench of Drew’s jaw and the fisting of his hands.

  I’m definitely not privy to something that has transpired between the two of them but I have an inkling that it most definitely had something to do with me.

  “Earlier?” Drew asks Justin, ignoring me.

  “Yeah, bro. She took me to dinner. Wined and dined me.” He winks and slaps Drew on the shoulder. “I can’t help that I’m irresistible.”

  “I’m surprised your ego fit through the door,” I say with a saccharine-sweet smile. “And for the record, some meetings, Hobbs, are supposed to remain private.” I give him a nod and a stern look and only hope when I turn to Drew that he understands what happened.

  Hell, supposedly he gave Justin the push to call me, after all.

  Drew gives me a slight lift of his chin but breaks eye contact when Dax says, “Come join us. We have bottle service up top.” He points to the lounge area above the dance floor that looks down onto it.

  “No, we’re good—”

  “C’mon, Brex. Don’t be such a stick in the mud!” Lisa says as Dax puts an arm around her and she giggles. “These guys will protect us.”

  Is this the time for me to remember that Lisa becomes the giggly airhead around men when she wants their attention? How did I selectively forget that when I texted her to go out tonight?

  Maybe because it only makes a difference now.

  Only when I have to sit within feet of Drew and not touch him. Only now that the feel of him is at the forefront of my mind, and my blood is all but singing with unsated desire.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I normally don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  “C’mon, Kincade,” Justin says. “Don’t be such a prude.” He tugs on my arm as if we’re old college buddies when we’re not. “What’s the worst that can happen? A bunch of professional football players protect you from some assholes?”

  “You mean from someone like you?” Drew asks as he bumps Justin’s shoulder with his before heading up the stairs after everyone. He turns back to the two of us, absolute indifference on his face. “You coming?”

  Do you know how hard it is to sit across from someone and not show that you know them, want them, and are reliving their touch?

  I know that Drew does. Because every time I risk a glance toward him, our eyes meet fleetingly, and he conveys what seems like the same desperate desire that’s owning my body right now.

  To make matters worse, every time he passes behind me to talk to a teammate, he touches me ever-so-slightly—a hand across my ass, a fingertip across my shoulder, the heat of his body simply standing there.

  It’s like he keeps adding kindling to a fire I know we can’t stoke.

  He’ll be under team curfew at the hotel, and there’s no way in hell I’ll be the cleat chaser getting caught sneaking in and out of the room. Talk about ruining my professional reputation.

  So instead we’re relegated to this. The taunt and tease and tempt without anyone noticing.

  It’s devastating to my senses while simultaneously being the most seductive foreplay I’ve ever partaken in.

  A glance here. A touch there. The dart out of a tongue to wet his lips. Eyes telling me what he wants to do with their flick down my body.

  And yes, sure we may be laughing and having separate conversations with his teammates, but we are one hundred percent aware of each other at all times.

  My phone vibrates in my purse at my side. When I glance at its screen, I fight my smile.

  Drew: Meet me in the middle of the dance floor. It’s dark and crowded and no one will see.

  I glance up to see Drew staring at me, eyes intense, intent clearly etched in the lines of his face.

  Me: You dance?

  Drew: If you consider my hands on your body dancing, then yes.

  He offers me the sexiest smile from his place in the corner as I rise from my seat beside Dax and Lisa, who are in a heated discussion about who knows what.

  “Hey?” she asks.

  I smile. “I’m fine. I’m going to catch some fresh air. I’ll be back.”

  “You sure? I can come with you,” she offers but makes no movement to grab her purse. An empty promise I was counting on.

  “I’m good. Stay. Enjoy yourself.”

  Drew was right. The dance floor is packed and with the strobe lights over the darkened room, it would be clearly impossible to figure out who is who among the crowd of bodies.

  It takes me some time to make my way into the center of the space. Bodies are moving to the Latin beat, hips gyrating, arms thrown up in the sky, as they lose themselves to the beat.

  And it doesn’t take long for me to do the same. To move to the music and wait with burning anticipation for Drew to find me.

  To touch me.

  To kiss me.

  When his hands slide around my midsection and the heat of his body blankets me from behind, I don’t know how to react. My body’s so taut with anticipation while being so ready for him, that all I can do is sink back against him and close my eyes.

  We begin to move. It’s not him or me, it’s just us moving together. His hands on my abdomen. My fingers lacing through his. My body reacting to his.

  We don’t speak. We’d never be heard above the music. Instead, we communicate with our bodies. With touch and feel and fingertips and silence.

  His teeth find an exposed part of my neck and they scrape against the sensitive skin there before lacing it with an open-mouth kiss to ease the sting.

  It’s fire and ice.

  Fans are flamed.

  Tinder slowly ignites.

  Every part of me aches for his touch. For him. For what I can only hope is to come. But when I try to turn around, he keeps me in place. He holds me so I have no choice but to be aware and acknowledge the incredible way his body feels against mine. The heat of his chest against my back, the hardness of his cock pressed to my ass, the possession in his hands as they run up and down my sides.

  Each touch is an assault to my senses.

  Each touch is a temptation I can’t wait to get lost in.

  Our hips move in sync to the pulsating beat. Bodies bump us from all sides, but I only feel his. I only want his.

  Need becomes desperation as his hands map my lines. Down my hips, gently toward my front and over the apex of my thighs, before running up so that his thumbs brush just beneath the curve of my breasts—before starting their torturous course all over again.

  This time when I turn, he doesn’t stop me.

  Our mouths find each other immediately. We’re a clash of lips and tongue and need and greed. His groan is my gasp for breath. His touch is my drug of choice. His taste creates an addiction all on its own.

  But as the beat reaches a crescendo, all I can process is that this isn’t enough—it’ll never be enough—because even when our hands are on each other, I still crave more.

  The crowd we’re in the middle of feeds the frenzy we feel.

  Our bodies move as our tongues connect over and over again. As the desperation edges with necessity. As reason gives way to greed.

  As sanity loses the battle against lust.

  DREW

  I NEED MORE.

  Her lips on a dance floor. Her body against mine. People around us.

  More.

  I
’ve waited almost two goddamn weeks to see her again, and it’s like some cruel joke that I can touch her but I can’t have her.

  So much more.

  This is akin to putting a Band-Aid on an open wound. It’ll help momentarily, but it’s not going to stop the onslaught in the long run.

  How can I get more?

  Brexton gently tugs my bottom lip as I search for a way to feed the desire. To ease the ache in my balls and the fervor to have her own me completely.

  I move my hand between our bodies and slip my hand inside the hem of her skirt. It’s not a smooth or particularly pretty move, but when my fingers find purchase—her slick, warm, wet slit—I all but come on the spot.

  I try to focus. On the beat of the music. On her fingers digging into my shoulders. On how to pleasure her. But I’m fucking oblivious to anything but the feel of her coating me as I work my fingers back and forth.

  Fuck. I was wrong.

  There is no lessening desire when it comes to Brexton. There’s no having a taste to tide you over till the next time. There’s only adding to it. There’s only lightning striking and taking you for its ride. There’s only temporary pleasure before you need her again.

  And fucking hell do I need her again. “Come,” I tell Brexton. I pull my hand from between her thighs before tugging on her hand, without an explanation, and leading her off the dance floor toward the back of the club.

  Should I be worried about the guys seeing us?

  Yes.

  Am I?

  No.

  I only have one thought on my mind, one person I care about.

  Brexton, in that sexy-as-hell outfit that highlights her perfect ass and every curve connected to it.

  Brexton, whose lips taste like wine and whose kisses are an addiction all on their own.

  She stumbles behind me through the dark hallway as I look for anyplace, anywhere, that we can go.

  “What? Drew? What are you—”

  I turn and spin on her so that her back is against the wall and my lips close over hers to steal the words from them. There’s anger in our kiss this time. A need so violent that I can’t put words to it—can’t express it—and so kissing her is the only way I have.

  “What is your problem?” she asks, hands fisted in my shirt when we come up for air. She has to feel the same way as I do right now.

  I can’t be the only one.

  “What’s the problem?” I growl. “The problem is you.”

  “Me?” She laughs.

  “Fucking hell. Yes, you.” My lips are on hers again. My hands itching to slide beneath her skirt again and touch her skin. “I can’t get enough of you and it’s goddamn maddening.”

  She puts her mouth near my ear and whispers just above the throb of the music. “That makes two of us.”

  I lean back and stare at her—eyes dark, lips curved up in a taunt—and love that she’s been suffering tonight as much as I have. And we’re on the move again. Down the hall with her hand in mine as I try handle after handle until I reach the employee locker room. The door gives and I pull her inside without a second thought. It’s small and stifling, dim and empty, but as long as the door is sturdy and the lock stays, that’s all that matters.

  She yelps out a laugh as we slam back against it. Our lips branding each other’s again as her hands unbutton my pants and my hands pull up her skirt.

  “He knew you were here and I didn’t,” I murmur before tugging on her bottom lip with my teeth.

  She mewls out a moan as my fingers dive between her thighs to find her even more wet and ready than moments before and Christ, there’s no way I could get any harder. It’s already painful enough.

  She frees my cock and I groan when she wraps her hand around it and squeezes. “I was trying to keep it professional.” She sucks my bottom lip, her breath labored, her nipples hard against my chest. “We’re both working. We were both—”

  Her words stop as I heft her up so that her legs wrap around me, her back is braced against the wall, and my cock presses at her core.

  Goddamn right. That’ll make her stop talking about Justin.

  “How’s this for professional?” I ask as I lower her down and push my way into her.

  My body electrifies at the feel of her tight, hot heat.

  I’m staggered.

  Speechless.

  Fucking consumed.

  Her drawn-out moan and exposed neck as she leans her head back, overcome with the sensations, are a goddamn seduction in and of themselves.

  But I don’t need to be seduced. Not by Brex. No. She’s already done that. All I need to do is feel.

  And when I begin to move, that reality has never been more apparent.

  Jesus Christ.

  There is no beauty in our sex. No gentleness. No sweet words. There is only pure, unadulterated need. Only desire melding with greed. There is only hunger for more.

  Just more.

  Of her.

  Of me.

  Of us.

  It’s her fingernails scoring my skin. It’s her teeth sinking into my collarbone. It’s her heels digging into my hips.

  It takes every ounce of my control to hold on, to ensure she climaxes.

  “Drew,” she pants as her breath grows shallow and her pussy tightens.

  I pick up the pace.

  “Drew.” Now a moan as her fingers grip tighter.

  She emits a strangled cry as she locks her ankles above my ass and bucks her hips against mine.

  I can feel her orgasm. Its tight hold around my cock. The way her muscles pulsate around me. The way her arousal drips down my balls.

  And fuck. It’s enough to push me over the edge.

  Not that it would take much though, because I was holding on by a very thin thread, and thank fuck it just snapped.

  I lose thought. I forget about being gentle. I can only focus on the tidal wave of fucking sensation that’s so hot it edges on painful, and the only way to soothe its singe is to come. I thrust into her a couple more times before I lose all sense of reality, before I become lost to the moment.

  To her.

  And the last thought that crosses my mind before I lose myself to the madness she’s drawn from me is this—I understand it now.

  I get why men would go to war for this. Over this. To save this.

  With a shake of my head, I laugh out loud as I drag my lips over hers one more time before setting her down and stepping back to look at her. At her lips swollen, her hair wild, and her eyes alive.

  And I worry at what lengths I’ll go to do the same. There’s something about Brexton Kincade.

  And it scares the fuck out of me.

  BREXTON

  I LOOK AT THE TEXT again on my phone and try not to be angered by it.

  Drew: I have to cancel tonight. I’m sorry. Something came up unexpectedly.

  I type my single-word answer and stare at it for a beat, grateful that tone can’t be inferred in a text. Or maybe I wish he could hear it. The disappointment. The sadness. The frustration. I glance around my living room—to the candles lit and the dinner being kept warm—and hate that I deflate before I hit send.

  Me: Sure.

  Drew: Thanks for understanding.

  I read it again and look down at the stockings connected to garter belts on my legs and sigh.

  I got dressed up for him. I spent an hour in Agent Provocateur today, and the silk and lace and heels I’m currently adorned in prove it.

  I cooked for him—when cooking is something I rarely make time to do.

  I planned a special evening, because I wanted to welcome him home from his road trip. He seemed rather upset earlier when he texted about not touching the field and I thought this—me and a romantic evening—might help take the sting out of it.

  The funny thing? I’d debated doing this. In a sense it was me putting myself out there for him. It was more than us meeting up to have a quick and randy bout of sex.

  It was my way of showing him I wanted more than that.r />
  All that worry, all those pep talks that I needed to go for it, all this planning, and for what? To be blown off? To be put back in the booty-call only box?

  My exasperated laugh echoes around my empty apartment as I try to hide how upset I am.

  “You’re losing it, Brex.”

  Maybe it was something with his family. But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have said something to make him bailing on me more understandable? I know I would.

  The needy side of me wishes I would have asked him what it was that came up. The stubborn side of me refuses to.

  The first one I refuse to be. Needy can be done in my own thoughts, but never outright. Tears burn in my eyes, and I shake my head as I try to shake the disappointment and my overthinking off. But it’s rather hard to do when I’m dressed like this and the atmosphere is set for seduction.

  I grab the bottle of wine I had breathing on the counter, kick off my heels, and plop onto the couch without an ounce of grace.

  “Looks like it’s just me and you,” I mutter to the bottle before I take a drink straight from it.

  When I rest my head back on my couch and close my eyes for a beat, the first tear slips down my cheek.

  I laugh, then I allow myself to be ridiculously pathetic for a few moments.

  It’s allowed, right?

  I mean, I’ve looked forward to this since we saw each other at the club in Miami. Since the flirty texts we sent to each other while I was in North Carolina and he had a short turnaround to a Thursday night game of the week.

  Maybe that’s the problem.

  Maybe I want more out of this than he does. It’s not like that hasn’t happened to me before. I read all of the signs wrong with Micah. I jumped all in thinking he was doing the same only to find out later he was bitching to all of his and my friends that I was too clingy, too everywhere. I guess me being everywhere put a damper on him wanting to be everywhere with other women while dating me.

  I sigh and take another long sip of Merlot.