by Amy Andrews
“Not yet. What’d you have in mind?”
She pretended to ponder for a beat or two. “How about more Star Wars?” she mused, her face a picture of innocence.
“Not quite the stars I had in mind.”
“Me neither.” She grinned and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him inside.
…
Harper wasn’t sure how—they certainly never discussed it—Sunday became their day. Over the course of the next month, spending the day with Dex and the twins became a regular thing. A couple of times they watched movies and ate pizzas. One time they played PG console games all afternoon, the guys versus the girls. Another time, Dex crammed a baseball hat on his head and donned dark sunglasses and they spent a few anonymous, fun-filled hours at Luna Park, riding the Wild Mouse roller coaster, eating too much fairy floss, and twirling around the Ferris wheel in the magnificent shadow of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
In an attempt to flaunt their fake relationship—that’s why they were doing it after all—Dex dropped the kids home to Anthea each Sunday night before turning around and driving straight back to Harper’s, where the adult content of their day commenced. He never stayed the night, citing training as an excuse as he kissed her goodbye in the wee hours, but that was okay.
He always left Harper with a big smile and a satisfied body. What more could she want?
Em, still in her all-men-are-bastards funk, was the voice of doom. “Why are you letting him use you like this?” she griped, not assuaged even after meeting and being charmed by Dex one Sunday afternoon.
Harper, a bit weirded-out by their role reversal, just smiled and said, “We’re using each other.”
“He’s told you he doesn’t want a relationship. This is only ever going to be just sex for him.”
“Fine by me,” Harper smiled. “It’s just sex for me, too.”
“You haven’t even been to his place.”
Harper liked that her place had become his haven. She understood without him having to tell her that it was a place away from prying eyes for him. A place where he could just be himself. The fact she could give him that was immensely satisfying.
“He likes coming to mine.”
Em would snort and leave it be for another a few days, but it was clear she thought Harper incapable of such casualness. She was wrong, though. Harper was embracing it whole-heartedly. Her previous relationships had been fraught with the expectation of progressing, of moving forward as a couple.
With Dex, she had no expectations.
Who the hell knew that could be so freeing?
…
The fifth week after their first Sunday movie day, he surprised her by inviting her to a home game instead. Occasionally they played on a Sunday or on a Friday night, depending on the comp schedule, and it was the Smoke’s turn for a Sunday game.
“I know a way to really drive Chuck crazy,” he’d said down the phone line.
To say Harper was stunned at his suggestion that she attend a game was an understatement. All she’d been able to reply with was an “Oh.”
“You don’t have to,” he’d said. “Just thought it’d annoy the living crap out of Chuck to have you hanging out with the WAGS in the Sydney Smoke’s corporate box.”
Harper had smiled, acknowledging the truth of it. “I’d love to. Thank you.”
She hadn’t seen him play live. That first night they’d met she’d hadn’t really known who any of the players were, so she hadn’t paid him any particular heed. But she’d watched every one of his games on the television since and been impressed by his skill, his moves.
To see him play live would be awesome.
Annoying Chuck was a bonus.
“Good.” She could hear the note of desire in his voice and felt a corresponding pleasure buzz through every cell of her body. “Come to the main entrance of the stadium at five. Someone named Eve will be waiting for you, and she’ll take you through to the box. I won’t be able to see you till after the game, though.”
He’d hung up shortly after but the buzz lingered for a long, long time.
…
Eve turned out to be Griff King’s PA, who greeted her with a friendly smile. She appeared to be about forty, and was in jeans and an oversize Smoke jersey, her hair scraped back with an ancient-looking scrunchie.
They chatted comfortably about the Sydney traffic and the impending game as Eve led Harper quickly and efficiently through the crowds to the corporate box.
And that was where Harper’s comfort ended.
Half a dozen gorgeous creatures turned to greet her, their stares blatantly curious.
Fuck.
Harper’s mind went blank as Eve performed the introductions, blindsided by how freaking glamourous the wives and girlfriends of the Sydney Smoke players were in real life. Like Eve, they, too, had teamed jerseys with jeans, but theirs were clearly designer labels, and they wore them with such confidence and sex appeal.
Harper always felt self-conscious in jeans—worried they were showing every lump and bump, every pocket of cellulite—but not these women. These women didn’t look like they had an ounce of cellulite anywhere.
Christ. She’d made a huge mistake. She should have Googled these women. Then she would have been prepared.
Possibly even pulled out.
She felt gargantuan and, frankly, fat, amidst the svelte bodies that glowed with good health and expensive skin care. They could have been models. Come to think of it, one of them was…but which one? They could all have qualified.
How stupid was she just to rock up and not give any thought to how intimidating this might be. Why hadn’t she been to the hairdresser? Gotten a manicure. And a pedicure. Hell, she should have gotten a freaking Brazilian. Why hadn’t she worn one of her figure-flattering maxis instead of an ass-emphasising peasant skirt?
Why hadn’t she worn her goddamn spanks?
“So lovely to meet you,” said a petite woman, coming forward after the intros. A blonde pixie cut feathered around her face, complementing her overall slenderness.
Harper must have looked blank because the woman smiled and said, “Matilda Kent, I’m Tanner’s girlfriend. Don’t worry, I promise you we’re all very nice. Here”—she reached down to a low table and plucked a glass of wine off a tray—“you look like you could do with a drink.”
Harper clutched at the drink like a lifeline. Another woman named Valerie—a redhead with stunningly gorgeous freckles, who was actually the coach’s daughter—approached with Eve, and they started asking Harper about herself and what she did, which drew the other women in. They bombarded her with questions, all obviously fascinated by her murals at the hospital, and Harper talked until the Smoke ran out onto the field and their attention shifted.
Harper was surprised to realise that these glamorous women were actually nice and that she’d relaxed.
“Liam’s looking pumped tonight, Eve,” Valerie said.
Harper followed Valerie’s line of sight to see Griffin King standing with a companionable hand on the shoulder of the kid with Down Syndrome whom she’d seen on the television the other night. He was shuffling from foot to foot, obviously excited.
“When isn’t he?” Eve laughed. “He takes his water boy responsibilities very seriously.” She smiled indulgently as she glanced at Valerie. “Your dad’s so good with him.”
Valerie smiled at Eve, but it seemed a little strained to Harper.
“Liam’s my son,” Eve said, turning to Harper.
A groan came from a woman called Kathy who had her eyes glued to a mounted television set in one corner. “That’s Johnny, you idiot.”
Harper tensed at the sound of Chuck’s voice as the camera panned around the field, and he put names to faces for the television audience. Kathy rolled her eyes at the screen. “God, he’s such a dick.”
In her peripheral vision, Harper could see Eve frantically shaking her head and making a cutting motion across her neck to Kathy. Kathy frowned, clearly puzzled
by Eve’s sign language.
Dex must have told Eve about Harper’s relationship with Chuck.
“Don’t worry, Eve,” Harper assured. “There’s no love lost between me and my stepbrother.”
Kathy blanched. Somehow not even that ruined the beautiful planes of her face. “Oh God, he’s your brother? I’m so sorry,” she apologised, a hand pressed to her chest. “I didn’t realise you were related.”
“Stepbrother,” Harper clarified, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. Chuck is a dick.”
There was general laughter, then the ref blew his whistle and everyone’s attention was focused on the game. By the time halftime rocked around, the guys were in front, the mood in the box was buoyant, and Harper felt like one of the gang.
Or at least she didn’t feel like a giant interrupting a dolly’s tea party anymore.
These woman may be impressively beautiful, but they were also just wives and girlfriends wanting their men to do well. They were friendly, involving her in their chatter, which surprisingly didn’t revolve around the guys or rugby. Instead, they talked about their families, and problems at work, and the latest movies they’d seen or books they’d read.
Toward the end of halftime, they were talking about a black-tie event, a fundraiser for the City Central kids hospital in a month’s time, which all the guys had been ordered to attend. Harper knew the event. She’d been asked to go by the hospital executives, as they were planning to showcase her work in a special effects presentation, lighting up the venue walls with some of the murals she’d already completed.
She had been flattered and accepted. But before she could add to the conversation, the guys were running back out, ready for the second half, and all attention returned to the field. Harper was sipping on her third wine as the ref blew his whistle for start of play.
“So, you and Dex, huh?”
Harper startled at Matilda’s low question to her left. “Oh no,” she assured. Harper didn’t want it to get back to Dex that she’d implied anything about their relationship. And she wanted to be upfront with Matilda and all the other WAGS that she wouldn’t be joining their ranks.
There was no way she belonged amongst this elegant assortment of women, no matter how welcome they’d made her, or how awesome it felt being here.
“It’s nothing, really. We’re not a…thing. We’re just friends.”
Matilda quirked an eyebrow. “With benefits?”
Harper lowered her eyes from the shrewd probe of Matilda’s gaze, deliberately finding Dex on the field and locking on him. “It’s nothing serious,” she evaded.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Matilda mused. “Dex has never invited a woman into the box before, according to Tanner.”
Harper refused to let the implied significance take hold in her psyche. Other people were bound to make assumptions at seeing them together. Which was the appeal of staying away from anyone who could make assumptions.
Nobody speculated about their relationship when they were shut away inside her house.
“We’re really just doing it to annoy Chuck,” she said dismissively, keeping her eyes on Dex. And not just to discourage conversation—mostly because she found it hard to drag them away.
Matilda seemed to take the hint, which was a relief, leaving Harper to her outright ogling of Dex. Conversation ebbed and flowed around her, and she participated where required, but otherwise she let her gaze follow him around the field, zeroing in on the incredible hunk of bone, muscle, and sinew that made up his body. The corded strength of his arms as he reached up and plucked a ball from the air. The power of his quads as he ran down the field. The tight bunch of his glutes.
All muscles he happened to use to devastating effect between the sheets, too.
Harper glanced around her. Every woman here was equally focused on the field, sitting forward in their seats, hands clenched, nostrils flaring as they clocked their own guys.
Were their thoughts as dirty as Harper’s?
Were they as aroused as she was?
Chapter Ten
The Smoke won by eight, and Dex was high on their victory two hours later as they climbed out of the car. He’d laughed and joked throughout the trip to her place, swirling patterns up her leg with his index finger as he drove, recounting some of the night’s best plays, leaning over to kiss her senseless at every red traffic light.
Harper knew exactly how he felt, already charged-up from watching him strut his stuff on the field. But then there was the added stimulus of the way he smelled, the aroma of soap on his skin and coconut in his hair. Add in the testosterone pouring off him, and there was one hell of a heady mix going on in the confines of the car.
He was damn lucky she hadn’t jumped him at one of those traffic lights. As it was, the door to her place had barely shut before Harper was on him. Yanking his shirt off. Kissing him hard and deep. Fumbling with the tie of his shorts. Yanking his wallet free as they slid down his legs.
“Slow down,” he groaned as he tried to kick out of his shoes and his shorts all while being moved inexorably backward by Harper in full heat.
“No,” she murmured as his legs hit the couch and she pushed him down onto it. He winced as the slight graze on his shoulder blade from a stray boot came into contact with the arm, but Harper didn’t care.
He looked like an underwear model stretched out on her couch, the type that adorned billboards. His right leg lay along the length of the couch but his left thigh was spread wide, his knee bent, his foot flat on the floor, exposing the big, beautiful bulge stretching out the front of his Calvin’s.
That bulge and all the acres of man flesh surrounding it were all she cared about.
She needed to be on him. To have all that hard, solid body under her. To harness for her own satisfaction that surge of power she’d witnessed on the field.
All she’d been able to think about as she’d watched him was his absolute dominance during the game. He played like nothing could tear him down.
Watching him duck and weave and bust through walls of muscle like a great marauding beast had been a huge turn-on. Because she knew she could bring him to his knees with one shake of her ass.
And it had totally brought out the Neanderthal in her.
Her pulse pounded like jungle drums through her head. She shoved the foil packet she’d liberated from his wallet between her teeth as she reached behind her for the button and zip of her skirt, cursing her shaking fingers.
“Take your shirt off,” he panted as he watched her struggle through slitted eyelids, making a grab for the hem.
Frustrated, she abandoned the idea of taking her skirt off, whisking her shirt off over her head instead, then rucking her skirt up and quickly stripping off her underwear
“And the bra.”
Harper shook her head. “Later.” She couldn’t coordinate skirt, knickers, condom, and bra.
And right now, condom took precedence.
She straddled him, one knee on the couch next to his right thigh, the other pressed hard against the outside of his left, just north of his bent knee. She gripped his body tight between her legs as her fingers ripped open the foil.
He groaned when she yanked his underwear down, barely acknowledging the beauty of his erect cock in her hurry to sheath him. Then she was grabbing for his big naked shoulders, dragging herself up higher, lining up their hips.
“Harper, wait,” he panted as she reached for his cock. “My head’s spinning.”
“Good,” she rasped. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to fuck.
Her hand closed around him as she lifted herself over him, guiding him to her entrance. She didn’t pause or tease, just sank herself down with a strangled gasp, her fingers digging into the balls of his shoulders, her head falling back as he slid all the way home.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, his hands clamping hard onto her hips, his eyes squeezing shut.
Harper couldn’t move for a beat or two. She could barely breathe as she adjusted to
the depth of his high, hard possession. But then she couldn’t not move. It was as natural as her heartbeat, as waves falling on sand, as night becoming day.
Primal forces took over, her pelvis rocking to a beat that couldn’t be heard but wouldn’t be denied, either.
“Harper,” Dex whispered, his eyes opening as she started to undulate her internal muscles up and the down the length of him. His hands reached for her breasts, her nipples tight and hard against the fabric of her bra as he cupped them, squeezed them.
“God. You’re so sexy,” he said, his gaze roaming over her face and the hair tumbling in what felt like complete disarray around her shoulders. “You look like a gypsy.”
And she felt like one, too. Wild and free. A complete wanton who knew what she wanted and how to get it.
And right now it was Dex.
She flexed her pelvis, and they both moaned at the movement. Then she did it again. And again. Lifting on and off little by little, more and more each time, until she was withdrawing almost completely on the upstroke only to take him all the way in again as she slammed down.
She rode him with complete abandon, leaning into her extended arms, her hands anchored to his shoulders and the counter force of his big, palms flattening her breasts.
She grunted her appreciation with each entry, the rigid girth of him almost slicing her in half, jolting through her like an electric shock, hurting so damn good.
She didn’t want to stop.
She didn’t ever want to stop.
But she needed completion, too, so she rode him faster, vaguely aware of their pants and gasps, of his thighs trembling beneath her, of a ball of light tightening and contracting deep in her belly like a constricting pupil. It blew out in one almighty burst, pushing her above them both, tossing her about and turning her around, battering her with rain and light and pleasure until she couldn’t physically take anymore, and then it whirled her back to Earth.
“Christ,” he said, as she collapsed, gasping, against his chest, his cock still rigid and unfulfilled inside her. “That was fast.”
