The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

He blinks, his gaze dragging from my lips to my eyes. “Ethan.”

  “What?”

  “My name,” he says. “It’s Ethan.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Ethan Dexter.”

  “Ah.” I take another sip. “So I’m not allowed to call you Dex? That only apply to friends or something?”

  He doesn’t laugh or fidget, just keeps his gaze steady on my face. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. You can call me Dex, if you like.”

  Before I can ask him why he’d insisted on Ethan if that’s the case, he speaks again. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

  Gray and Ivy’s wedding. Now that was a drunken blur. Good times.

  Truly, I don’t drink often. But when I do… Ahem. Which is why I try to avoid reaching the point of maximum craziness.

  Memories of the wedding are a strain, but hazy edges of them remind me that I danced with Gray’s boys—Dex included. Ivy danced too, which is always a show. My sister, who I love more than anyone on Earth, is a horrible, scary dancer. So mainly I’d concentrated on helping Gray run interference, making sure she didn’t accidentally clock anyone on the head while she convulsed—danced.

  “I remember you mostly holding one of the walls up all night,” I tell Dex now. He’d danced a few songs, sure, then had taken a bottled water and leaned against the wall to watch the rest of us.

  He grips his current bottled water. It’s too dark to see what his tattoos are, but I can tell they’re colorful, vintage looking. And he has more of them than he did a year ago.

  “Sometimes it’s more fun to watch.” His gaze doesn’t move from my face, but it feels like it does. My breasts swell heavy against my bra, more so when he continues. “You ripped your dress off and flung it in a tree.”

  A flush works over my cheeks. It was a tropical resort. And I’d wanted to swim. Everyone did. I lean forward. “Are you saying you liked watching me strip, Ethan Dexter?”

  His chuckle is a gentle rumble. “I’m saying it was memorable.” He glances down, those long lashes hiding his eyes. “And entertaining.”

  “I aim to please.” Crossing one leg over the other, I study him. I’m enjoying myself, which is a surprise because I never pegged Dex as much of a talker. “What are you doing in San Francisco? I don’t recall you playing for Gray’s team.”

  “I have a week off, and so does Gray…” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “I thought I’d visit him and Ivy.”

  “Wait. What?” A bad thought rises in my head, and I find myself leaning toward him. “You’re staying with them too?”

  He nods, wariness creeping over his features.

  “Did they send you here to babysit me?” I snap. I cannot believe he just happens to be at the same club. Not after both Gray and Ivy had complained about me going out on my own tonight.

  “Yes and no.” Dex takes a long pull of his water. “Yes, they said you were here. Yes, they were worried. But I happen to like this band, so I thought I’d come listen and say hello in the process.”

  “Oh, how convenient,” I drawl, sitting back against the wall.

  “Isn’t it,” he agrees in a dry voice.

  I snort, the temptation to chuck my cherry stem at him riding high. I don’t think he’ll care if I do. Dex seems too unflappable to be offended by flying fruit bits.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You can inform the wardens that you saw me, and I was fine, and be on your way.”

  He doesn’t flinch. “I want to sit with you.”

  Okay. Right. The big football player wants to listen to moody music all night. Sure.

  My expression must be skeptical because he gives me a half smile and hands me his phone. “Check my music selection.”

  He doesn’t have a password—not smart—so it’s easy to look. Flunk, Goldfrapp, Massive Attack, Portishead, Groove Armada, even some Morcheeba… He’s got a veritable trip-hop library going.

  I grin up at him. “You know, before this, I’d have taken you for a hard rock, or maybe even a bluegrass fan.”

  “It’s the beard, isn’t it,” he asks.

  “And the man-bun.”

  He laughs, a short rumble of sound. “Want me to let it down?”

  Yes. Maybe.

  “Not necessary. Man-buns are hot. I blame Jason Momoa. There was only so much watching him bang Khaleesi the female population could take before they wanted their own Khal Drogo.”

  Shit. I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Because it sounds a lot like flirting to me. Instinct tells me flirting with Ethan Dexter isn’t something to do lightly. And there’s the fact that I don’t go for athletes. At all. I don’t care how fit they are. Or how confident. I don’t like sports. Football bores me. Oh, I know tons about the sport—kind of impossible not to in my family—but I don’t want to pretend that I care when I’d rather talk about other things.

  Dex’s eyes crinkle again, and he turns toward me, leaning an elbow on the table. “Doesn’t Momoa have a beard?”

  I wave my hand. “Who has time to look at his beard when his muscles are on display?”

  I most certainly do not look at Dex’s phenomenal arms.

  “So your stance on beards is?” His gaze so strong I feel it in my toes.

  My breathing picks up. “Don’t particularly like them.”

  It’s the truth. And yet I can’t help but look at his. It’s dark, framing his mouth, which should be a turnoff for me. Only it draws all my attention there. To the shape of his mouth—the upper lip a gentle curve, the lower lip fuller, almost a pout. There’s something slightly illicit about the whole effect.

  I clear my throat, glance up, and find him watching me through lowered lids. He doesn’t seem particularly put out by my frankness.

  “What don’t you like about them?”

  Is he serious?

  He stares at me.

  I guess he is.

  Taking a quick sip of my drink, I search for an answer. “They’re just so…fuzzy. Prickly.”

  He moves in, not crowding me, but putting himself at arms’ reach. He smells faintly of cloves and oranges. It must be his aftershave or cologne, but it works for me.

  I’m distracted by it and almost jump when he speaks again. “Do you know this based on experience, or are you making an assumption?”

  My gaze narrows. “Aren’t you the philosopher.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Fine. Assumption.”

  His lips quirk. “You should find out if your assumption is true before you condemn the beard.”

  “Is this some sort of creepy way to get me to touch your beard?”

  A challenge flashes in his eyes. “There are a few guys at the bar sporting beards. You could go ask them. But I figure since we know each other…”

  “Not that well.”

  “You’d rather ask a stranger?”

  “You’re assuming I care enough to ask, Slick.”

  His teeth shine white in the shadows of the club. “I know you’re curious. You’re fairly twitching with wanting to know.”

  I flatten my hands against the table and glare. Is it just me, or is he closer? Close enough that I can see his eyes are hazel, lighter around his cornea with a starburst pattern. I wish I could see the colors, but he’s painted in shades of blue and gray right now.

  And he’s watching me. Patient. Calculating. Tempting.

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” I mutter before taking a breath. “Okay, I’ll pet your fuzzy face.”

  “Hold up.” Without hesitation, he reaches for my drink and takes a sip. “Liquid courage.”

  A strangled laugh leaves me. “Because I’m sooo scary.”

  “You have no idea, Cherry.”

  I think I growl at him. I definitely want to give his precious beard a good, hard tug. But he simply lifts his brows at me. “Get on with it, then.”

  This cheeky bastard is totally playing me. And here I am falling into his trap. Because I cannot look away from his beard

now. More specifically, his lips, which are parted just slightly. An invitation. A dare.

  Shit. I’ve never been very good at ignoring a dare.

  I hate that my hand trembles as I reach up to touch him. He stays perfectly still, his arm casually slung on the edge of the booth behind me, his body turned toward mine. But I don’t miss the way his breathing has kicked up just slightly.

  I hesitate, shy almost. Hells bells, I’m only going to touch a bit of facial hair. Why does it feel like we’re two kids tucked in a dark corner, playing a game of “I’ll show you mine”?

  Annoyed with myself, I close the distance between us.

  Soft. His beard is soft. And springy. I didn’t expect that.

  Gently I press my fingertips into all that springy-soft mass, stroke it a little. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath.

  I glance at him, search his eyes. He gives me nothing back. So I keep going, running my fingers up his jaw, against the grain. There’s the prickle I expected. Only it feels good, sending little tingles of awareness over my skin, up my thighs.

  I swallow hard, press my legs together. Can he tell? I’m too chicken to check. I keep my focus on his face, on his lips, which look so smooth in comparison to his beard.

  My own lips part, suddenly sensitive. Somehow I’ve moved closer. I can’t help myself. I trace the bottom edge of his lower lip with my thumb.

  Sweet Mary Jane Watson, that was a mistake. The contrast between his soft yet firm mouth and the thick, crinkly beard sends a bolt of sheer, shocking want straight to my clit.

  In a daze, I stroke his lips again, following the gentle upper curve, keeping contact with his beard while I do. Fuck, but I can’t stop imagining his mouth moving over my skin. Would I feel his beard when he sucked my nipples?

  I’m throbbing now. Said nipples aching for relief. Dex’s warmth is a wall against my chest. I’ve moved onto my knees before him without realizing it, my free hand clutching his shoulder as if I’m afraid he’ll back away.

  But he won’t. Not when his big, heavy hand has landed on my hip, bracing me, his fingers clutching in a way that’s a little possessive and a little protective.

  I should stop. I tell myself this even as I keep tracing his mouth, the corners of it, his chin. Dex breathes lightly through his parted lips, and each exhale sends a little gust of soft warmth over me.

  I want—no, I need—to feel more. And that need has a mind of its own. I feel his shocked intake of breath a second before my lips graze his. God. God, that’s good. Silky-firm, prickly-smooth. I do it again, touching the corner of his mouth, his beard tickling my lips.

  A small whimper sounds between us. I don’t know if I made it or he did. Doesn’t matter. I’ve become obsessed with his mouth, taking kiss after kiss, just feeling it.

  Jesus, there’s something downright dirty about beards. Fucking naughty. All I can think about now is sex. About other places with hair that’s both soft and wiry. My mind fills with images of this thick, full beard running over my clit and how it would tickle and tease. And it makes me frantic.

  I lick into his mouth, greedy, needy, my thumbs bracketing the corners to feel him as I taste him.

  Dex’s groan vibrates through his body. A heavy hand cradles the back of my head, his long fingers twisting into my hair. Then he’s angling his head, kissing me back, deeply and thoroughly, as if I’ve woken him from a long sleep, and he’s starving.

  Lust rushes through me harder and faster than I’ve ever experienced. It takes my breath, my reason. I can only stroke the sides of his face, press my tender breasts against his chest, and give him what we both want.

  He tastes of whisky and sweet vermouth, candied cherries and some mouthwatering flavor I can only assume is his own. I slide my tongue along his to get more of it.

  Dex’s chest heaves on a breath, his mouth opening wider to let me in. His large hands cup my ass. Suddenly I’m weightless, dizzy. I land on his lap, straddling his hips. He’s big enough that it’s a stretch. I wrap my arms around his head, grind my center against a rock hard erection that’s truly impressive. Perfection.

  He reacts with a grunt and squeezes my ass, spreading my cheeks apart in a way that’s downright lewd and so hot that I whimper, rock into him again.

  That we’re basically dry-humping and fucking each other’s mouths is all I care about. Until I hear a catcall, loud and unmistakable.

  “Fuck yeah, man. Give it to her.”

  We freeze, our lips still touching. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.

  Putting a protective hand at the nape of my neck, Dex turns his head and glares over my shoulder. I can’t help but look too, and find a table of three guys watching us with unabashed interest.

  One loudmouth hoots again. “Fucking nice, honey.”

  Shit. It isn’t really my style to give a public show.

  Dex’s muscles bunch. God, but he’s solid. A veritable wall to lean on. His voice comes out deep and hard. “Enough.”

  That’s it. One word. And the odd thing is, the guys listen. Immediately they turn away and busy themselves in their drinks.

  I glance back at Dex to witness the tail end of his scary glare before it fades to his usual neutral expression.

  Some guys are alpha dogs, snarling and snapping. Dex is more like a silverback gorilla, quietly going about his business until something pisses him off and he gives a warning.

  I wonder what would happen if he truly lost his temper. He could easily pound the shit out of most people. Something those guys obviously understand.

  But I no longer care about them. Now that we’re not mauling each other, I’m slightly mortified over the way I outright jumped Dex.

  His expression isn’t smug, though. It’s thoughtful and a bit tender. “So, still not a fan of the beard?”

  Sign me up and call me a convert. “Tell the truth. Did you do all this just to get me to kiss you?”

  “No.” He gives my hair—now fisted in his hand—a tug, holding me a little away so he can study my lips. “I just wanted you to touch me.”

  Then he takes my mouth again. One more time in a slow, exploring kiss before letting me go.

  Breathless and more than a bit befuddled, it takes me a moment to gather my wits and climb off of him. I don’t even know what to do with myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex and am not ashamed to go after it. But I don’t do this. I don’t make out with guys who aren’t remotely my type. And I certainly don’t hit on a friend of my family; that’s just asking for awkward when things go south.

  “Let’s go home,” Dex says quietly.

  My gaze snaps to his, and he winces.

  “I’m not implying to bed. Just back to Ivy and Gray’s.” He glances at his watch—a thick, black leather one that looks more like a cuff. “It’s coming on two in the morning. Bar’s going to close down soon anyway.”

  “Okay, sure.” Home sounds like a good plan. Only I want to go alone and not have to face Dex anymore. Hottest kiss of my life or not, it’s not something I can do again. Ethan Dexter could become an addiction if I take another taste of him.

  Chapter Two

  Dex

  In the course of my life, I’ve done stupid things. Who hasn’t? But kissing Fiona Mackenzie comes close to the top of the list. Ironically, it is definitely one of the best things I’ve done in my life as well. Painfully good.

  Painful now. I’ve a hard-on that won’t go away and is bent awkwardly down the leg of my jeans. I’d adjust, but I know Fiona would notice. Not much gets by her.

  Then again, she’s making a valiant effort to ignore me now, her gaze set on the window at her side as we drive Gray’s old pickup back to his house.

  I love Grayson. The man is worth over 25 million dollars, and he still drives his high school truck. But now I’m thinking about the fact that I had my tongue in his baby sister-in-law’s mouth, and I have to resist the urge to wince.

  I shouldn’t have done it. But my brain took a vacation. I know how good I am at manipulating a situation, and I saw the curiosity in Fi’s bright green eyes. So I cajoled, enticed, all but dared her to get up close and personal with my face. Had I expected her to kiss me? Hell no.

  But I’d taken one look at her in that club and wanted her to touch me, to fucking see me more than my next breath. I’ve wanted that from the moment I laid eyes on her two years ago at her sister’s Christmas party.

  Even then I knew Fiona wasn’t for me. I’m quiet, like to keep to myself. Fiona is life—bouncy, bubbly, snarky life. All wrapped up in a tiny, perfect package.

  I’ve often heard Ivy compare Fi to Tinker Bell. I suppose that’s accurate. Only I’ve always found the little cartoon fairy annoying, and I could watch Fi all day. Just the lilting sound of her voice entrances me. And when her nose wrinkles and she glares? Hard as a fucking pike.

  Yeah, I’ve got it bad. Which is not good. I know full well she doesn’t want anything to do with professional athletes. I’d heard her say that much outright at the wedding. A girl I was interested in during college ditched me for the same reason, and I’ve no interest in getting my heart stomped on again.

  Which is why I shouldn’t have touched, much less kissed, Fi. Because I can’t stop replaying it in my mind. I know what she tastes like now. And she tastes like addiction.

  Gripping the wheel, I turn us into Gray and Ivy’s driveway. They bought a massive townhouse in Pacific Heights. I have to admit, I’m envious. It’s the kind of place I’d love to call home. My place is a nice but fairly empty townhouse in New Orleans. I love its high ceilings, old wood floors, and natural light. But it doesn’t feel like a home. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m the only one ever in it.

  We’re silent as we pull into the garage and climb the back steps to the main floor. I’m only vaguely surprised when Gray comes shuffling out of the kitchen holding a bottle in one hand and a pot in the other. He’s a mess, his blond hair flattened on the side, his sweats inside out and backwards. Deep circles shadow his eyes.

  “Hey,” he mutters. “Have fun?”

  He doesn’t look as though he cares much about anything other than sleep at the moment.

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