Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “They’re pretty, but . . . can you take them off? I don’t think I can.”

  “I’m not taking my panties off again.”

  “Then how will I fuck you?”

  My entire body clenches at the image his words paint. “Who says we’re gonna f-u-c-k?”

  His hand tangles in my hair, tugging until my scalp tingles, sending a bolt of lightning straight to my core. He kisses me hard then, his mouth demanding and rough, before skating across my cheek to my ear. “I do,” he whispers in my ear. “But if you don’t want to . . . I can still make you come, Elena.”

  “Hmm,” I breathe as my hips swivel against the tent in his shorts, sliding against him, feeling the hard ridge of him against my skin through the thin crotch of my thong.

  “Is that a yes?” He groans, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

  “Yes,” I say, moving against his shorts.

  He bites his lip. “Don’t stop doing that. Please.”

  I gasp when his finger eases under my panties and meets my slick flesh. His thumb circles, rotating on my favorite pressure point.

  “Jack . . .” My voice is uncertain, wavering, as I second-guess. This desire is so fast with us, and I’m not used to it, not used to feeling this out of control with a man. I dated Preston for three months before we got to the good stuff, but with Jack, that’s all I can think about. I’ve never been too adventuresome with sex—part shyness, the other part never having the right partner who took the lead and showed me what I wanted.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “I’ll die if you do.”

  “Can’t have that,” he rumbles against my neck.

  His fingers are skilled, slick with my wetness as he parts my folds and delves inside, dipping in with a fast stroke before circling my bud, his thigh muscles tightening under me as he strains for better access. “Undo your blouse.” His tone is gruff, and I can’t get the buttons free fast enough, my hands shaking as I slide the buttons through the slits and tug the end of the shirt free from the waistband of my skirt. He never stops that maddening touch, fingering me one heart-stopping second, then back to circling. Sharp prickles of pleasure build at the base of my spine, pushing me higher until I’m gasping for breath. Orgasms are rare and precious to me, requiring work and effort that my past lovers never took the time for.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, staring up at me.

  I laugh, bemused that he’d think so. I whip my shirt off, and his mouth parts. He stares at my barely there leather bra. “How the hell am I supposed to not fuck you?”

  His need for me arouses me more, makes me brazen as I undo the front clasp on the delicate demicup bra, my breasts tingling at his gaze.

  “I’ve only got one good hand, and it’s on your pussy. Come closer.” He bites his bottom lip.

  “Like this?” I ease up until I’m on my knees, hovering over him.

  “Closer.”

  I scoot in, not wanting his hand off me, but he knows what I want and never stops. His head arches up, and his mouth takes a nipple, his tongue flicking against my areola, the sharp edges of his teeth scraping against my sensitized skin. The scruff on his jaw brushes against me, prickling. My hands clasp his hair, hanging on to him.

  I hadn’t planned on this. I really didn’t mean for this to go so far . . .

  “Don’t let your head roam; stay with me,” he says, moving to the other nipple and sucking hard, taking as much skin in his mouth as will fit.

  It pricks in a delicious way that surprises me and feels so good, the way he wants me, desire flushing his cheeks.

  He’s got two fingers deep inside me, soft and easy, and I arch back, giving him more access. They flutter inside me, caressing against one place, and I jerk and tense at the new rocket of heat that spikes over me.

  “G-spot. Ride my hand.” Sweat beads on his temples, his face tight with concentration.

  “Am I hurting you?” I gasp out. I think back to Gideon’s words.

  “No, no, no, don’t stop. Shoulder be damned, I’m going to fuck you; I’m going to bend you over this couch after you come.”

  I picture it in my head, his big body behind me, hands digging into my hips. “Keep talking.”

  He huffs out a surprised laugh. “Elena, where have you been all my life?”

  “New York, then Daisy,” I murmur. “Tell me more, Jack.”

  His tawny eyes gleam at me. Wolf. “More what?”

  “Don’t play the dumb jock. Dirty talk, Jack, now.”

  He groans and moves his left hand then, the injured one, where it was resting by his side. He runs it down my chest, his fingers closing around my nipples and plucking them.

  “Jack . . .”

  He wraps his hand around my waist and grips me tight. “I’m going to fuck you against the wall, too, Elena. With your ass in my hands and your feet digging into my back. We didn’t do that yet. On the ride here, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  Oh, oh . . .

  My heart shudders in my chest. How can I ever handle a man like this? He’s raw and hot and primitive. I tremble and catch a reflection of us in the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m on top of him, my hair trailing down my back, my hands in his hair. I look . . . decadent and almost beautiful.

  “Jack . . .”

  “Baby, please come. I need to fuck you,” he rumbles.

  Be mine, I think he says, but I’m not sure, and that can’t be right, because I know what this is. It’s just sex. It’s just two people who want the same thing, and damn, why haven’t we been doing this nonstop since the moment we met?

  Because he is who he is, and you are who you are—

  “Elena, stay with me. Me and you, right now.”

  He’s shoving his gym shorts down, his thick length popping out, long and hard and veiny, the mushroom head flushed and tight, a bead of wetness there. He grips my hips and slides me against him, a long guttural growl coming from him as our flesh meets. I grind against him.

  “Come.” His fingers play with me, circling, the silky feel of his velvety skin skimming my folds. He’s almost inside me, if I move just a little, and I’m past all reason, my mind full of him, and his touch has my body climbing and searching, yearning, until I’m right there so fast that it takes me by surprise. The pleasure barrels into me like a train, and I tremble as it takes over and washes over me, covering me with vibrating sensation. The universe moves, and I’m powerless in its wake and ripples. I swivel on him, shuddering, making him slick, riding it out.

  Jack pulls my face to his and kisses me hard. “Elena, Elena, Elena . . . you’re so—”

  The doorbell rings.

  Chapter 17

  JACK

  Elena climbs out of my lap, jerking her skirt down. Her panicky fingers work on the buttons of her shirt she picked up from the floor.

  “It’s our food,” I say, enjoying watching her. Goddess. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t even know it.

  “You missed one,” I murmur. “Middle button. Also can you throw me a blanket?”

  “You’re cold?”

  “Steel pipe in my pants.”

  She blushes and dashes over to the armchair and grabs one of the fur blankets and tosses it back at me.

  She darts over to the mirror above the desk and pats down her hair, trying to straighten out the mess.

  “Oh my God. I look insane.”

  “Yep.”

  She throws a glare at me.

  “What? You do.” I grin.

  Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

  “Our pasta’s going to be cold if you don’t get that,” I say, laughing because she’s now trying to put her hair back in some kind of bun, but it’s clear she doesn’t have the tools. “Man, that bread is going to be good, and all you want to do is fix yourself.”

  I move to stand, and she points a finger at me.

  “You. This is your fault. Don’t move. I’ll get this.”

  Blowing out a brea
th, she gives up on her hair and marches to the door. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her skirt is on backward, the slit that was in the back now obviously in the front. And her shirt is crooked, one side tucked in, the other hanging out.

  Damn, I love getting her ruffled. Contentedness washes over me. Something about her grabbed me from the moment she sat down with me at Milano’s, and it’s so new and refreshing, and she doesn’t care who I am . . .

  Unease trickles in.

  But what the hell am I doing? I was ready to fuck her right here on the couch without even thinking about protection.

  I don’t have a view of who’s at the door, but the voice is instantly recognizable. Lawrence. I wince. He’s been sending me texts all day wanting to know how the breakfast with Timmy and Laura went and if I took any pics he could post on social media. I hadn’t. It never crossed my mind. I know I need to be spinning this and making the story into Football player spends time with young fan, but . . .

  They’re murmuring, but I can’t hear them. I frown. Lawrence can be a bulldog when it comes to protecting me—that’s what I pay him for—but he isn’t the smoothest when it comes to women.

  I’ve eased myself up to standing as they walk back into the den. Wearing a suit and his slicked-back Wall Street hairstyle, he walks ahead of Elena, whose face is blank, when normally she’s so expressive. It’s one of the little things I dig about her, the way I can read her. Milano’s: nervous as a poodle. VIP party: pissed. Church: shocked. Our kiss: hot as hell.

  Then I see the papers she’s carrying in her hand.

  Fuck. My eyes shut briefly. I was getting around to approaching the NDA topic, but Lawrence beat me to the punch with probably the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

  “You aren’t answering your phone, asshole. And you know that makes me nervous,” is what he says as he walks in. He takes in my lack of shirt and pops an eyebrow. “I called Quinn when I couldn’t get you, and he said you had a spasm today—and that you had company. I brought new papers for her. You okay?”

  “Good.” It still twinges. I’ve had worse injuries than this one on the field, yet this is the one that nags me whenever it wants to pop up. But it’s never hurt quite this bad. I don’t tell him that.

  “Nice. You have training camp soon. You want to be on top.”

  “I will be.”

  “Right.”

  “Anything else?” I ask, getting more tense as I watch Elena slap the papers down on my desk, then walk down the hallway to one of the bathrooms.

  Lawrence watches her leave. “Good. Privacy.” He takes a few steps closer, keeping his voice low. “Talked to the principal at Timmy’s school. He’s down with you meeting some young fans, signing some footballs. I told him low key, no school-assembly-type thing. Good?”

  “Make it casual. No media.”

  “What the fuck is the point if no one takes a photo, Jack?”

  I inhale, knowing he’s right. “You can take one photo for Instagram or whatever. I don’t want this to become a circus. I don’t want reporters outside Timmy’s school or his apartment. Laura wouldn’t like that.” She said as much at breakfast, and I want to make sure their lives aren’t upturned.

  “Fine.” He breathes out a heavy sigh. “Timmy wants you to do this play thing. How are you going to manage that?”

  I heave out a groan. I do not want to be on a stage. I picture me up there, weaving on my feet, my face bloodred, trying to get the words out. Hell no. My heart races at the mere thought.

  He reads me. “Do you have any clue how hard it is to manage you when you aren’t helping? Just go, and see what happens. Maybe you can be an assistant to the director or some shit.”

  I nod, not liking the anxiousness in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah.”

  He looks over his shoulder. “She still hasn’t signed the NDA. Told me so at the door. What the fuck? And she’s here now? One word to the press about an injury and—”

  “She knows about the shoulder. She was there when it happened.”

  Lawrence lets out a string of curses.

  “She won’t tell, Lawrence.”

  “Uh-huh. You’ve known this girl for three fucking days.” He shakes his head. “Be glad Sophia never knew that injury keeps popping up.”

  True. Sophia knew about the scar because everyone in my hometown knew the details of that story, and it has circulated around me for years. Plus, Harvey’s sister wrote her article. I never got around to telling Sophia about my occasional pain, mostly because it happened rarely. I hesitated when it came to her, which should have been a clue that she was wrong for me.

  Yet I told Elena. I could have brushed it off as a minor football thing, but I didn’t. I told her the story from start to finish, and I can’t recall doing that since Devon.

  Lawrence is giving me details about Timmy’s school in Daisy, quieting when Elena walks back in the room. She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her clothes have been straightened, and her hair is smooth, the long strands gleaming, as if she’s brushed it. Fresh red lipstick is on her lips. She snatches the papers from the table and sits down at the desk a few feet away from us, her head bent as she thumbs through them, pointedly ignoring us.

  Great. I run my hands through my hair.

  “Is that all, Lawrence? We’re waiting for lunch to arrive.” I give him a pointed look. Get the fuck out.

  He nods and pivots. “Don’t see me out. I know you’re hurting. I’ll let you know what day and time for the school thing plus the other we discussed.” He gives a nod at Elena. “Nice to meet you, Elena.”

  She never looks up. “Of course.”

  I grimace. Her voice is quiet, polite, exceedingly so. But she didn’t say Nice to meet you too.

  Lawrence is oblivious and glances at me and gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.

  I walk over to her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders. “Elena . . .”

  She holds a hand up. “Nope. Let me finish reading this fascinating document—which is backdated to Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

  I cringe, knowing exactly what else is in those papers: a firm statement about consent and age; explicit description of sexual acts she’d do, from foreplay to anal, things she puts a check next to or doesn’t; an agreement of complete confidentiality for the entirety of her life, right down to the details of personal information including my cell number, the Wi-Fi password at the penthouse, the location of my apartment, even Lucy’s address in Brentwood. Lawrence and my lawyer came up with the language.

  “What did Lawrence say to you?” Part of me is anxious at her expression—the other side of me, well, I want her to sign it.

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “He’s my jerk. Elena.”

  She ignores me, her fingers trembling as she turns the page. “What strikes me as the most ludicrous is that you’d actually sue me for five million dollars if I speak to anyone about our private life. Hate to tell you, but Topher and Aunt Clara know we had sex. Already told him, and he told her. No telling who she might tell. She’s a stylist at a beauty shop in a gossipy small town. You should hear the things they talk about in there.”

  She’s trying to get a rise out of me.

  “Good luck,” she adds. “I don’t have any money. All I have is my house, and it’s not worth that. We might be in court for years.”

  “Elena, please—”

  “No, you don’t have the right to say my name like that.” She dips her head, her hair swinging to cover her face. “This is so . . . ridiculous and grotesque. I must have been trashed. What was I thinking?”

  I lean against the wall at the disdain in her voice. Shit.

  “I wish . . . I wish I had read it, because I never would have had sex with you, Jack.”

  A long sigh comes from me. “It would make me feel better about us, Elena. Think about it. You sign, and we can start all over again—”

  She stands, little fists curled, a defiant tilt to her chin. “How many girls have signed this? How many women hav
e you kept at this fuck palace?”

  My lips compress. “No one has been here since she was. I didn’t need an NDA until she did what she did. You’re the first girl I’ve even wanted to be with. No one else has been offered an NDA.”

  “I’m so flattered.” She throws her eyes around the room. “You never even took Sophia to where you really live?”

  “No.”

  “How long were you with her?”

  “A year, give or take.”

  She shakes her head, eyes flaring. “You really don’t trust anyone.”

  “Can you blame me?” My voice is low. “I have a career to protect. And my privacy. I don’t want any more stories about me, Elena.”

  She licks her lips. “For a weird reason, I really thought you walked in church to see me, but really it was all about these papers.”

  “Not true.”

  “Oh, I think it is. Deep down, this NDA has been on your mind.”

  I pause. “Yes.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t brought it up earlier.”

  I dreaded it . . . maybe because I sensed she’d be offended.

  My skin crawls with unease, but all I can see is Sophia on Good Morning America, talking about our sex life, how I beat her up when she got out of line. Even though she never had one police report or photo or a hospital record to back her up, that shit still got published. It was my word against hers, and when I don’t give interviews . . .

  Sure, I put out a comment through Lawrence saying it was untrue and even tried to sue her, but it was pointless, a waste of money—and people ate it up. Even Coach grilled me when it came out. Shit. That was a tense few weeks, but he knows the man I am. Adidas was incensed at the book, especially when I refused to publicly comment about it.

  “I want to trust you, but . . .”

  “Right. Walls.” She picks up the papers and wads them into a ball. “This is what I think of your NDA.”

  I close my eyes, a hard anvil landing on my chest, and it’s not so much about the fact that she isn’t signing it but that I’ve disappointed her.

  “You’re right,” I mutter. “You are better than me. You deserve a nice guy and not a banged-up bad-boy superstar football player. I hear you. Do you think I like this? Being alone? It sucks, okay; it fucking sucks. Next up, she’s writing an article for Cosmo about how I forced her to have an abortion.”