Most Valuable Playboy

by Lauren Blakely

  “You’re a total dickhead.”

  “But seriously. Why is it so weird?” I press him, expecting him to make another playboy comment, like he did at his bar. But that’s not what he says.

  “You’ve never gone ass over elbow for a girl. You’re married to football, Coop.” Then he strolls to the tee at the first hole.

  I stand, unmoving, smacked upside the head by a hefty dose of reality. I’ve never been head over heels, and that’s why my breakup with Kelly in college didn’t faze me. Briefly, I wonder if my pretend breakup with Violet will hurt when it comes. Immediately, my chest twists at that unpleasant thought. Breakup and Violet are two words that shouldn’t occupy the same sentence, and if I let my mind wander in this direction, I’m going to play a shitty game of golf.

  I want to enjoy the hell out of my day off, since I enjoyed every single second of my late night.

  I’ve just started to the tee when Jones stops me with a strong hand on my arm. He nods to Trent. “He has no clue how you really feel?”

  “What?” I ask, brow furrowed.

  “How you feel about his sister,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

  I give him a blank look.

  Jones laughs. “That’s priceless. That expression on your face. Almost like you believe your own bullshit.”

  “My expression is that you’re about to ruin a beautiful game of golf.”

  His chuckles continue. “You might be able to fool someone who doesn’t want to see you’re nuts for his sister, but you can’t fool me. I heard how you talked about her to Jillian. You’re in so far over your head.”

  I level him with my gaze. “And I saw the way you looked at Jillian. Think you might be in over your head?”

  Now his expression is blank. “What are you talking about?”

  “C’mon. You know she doesn’t date players.”

  Jones rolls his eyes. “Don’t even try to change the subject to matchmaking games.”

  “Watch me change it again.” I point to the green. “Time to take my shot.”

  “But you know, Jillian is a badass babe,” he says.

  I grin and nod in acknowledgment.

  I’d have to say the same is true for Violet, and when I’m done losing terribly at golf, I take off for Sausalito.

  21

  When you’re raised solo by a strong single mom, you learn certain things. How to live on a budget—ramen is your friend. How to do laundry at a very early age—if you hear my mom tell the stories, I was separating whites and darks at three years old. How to treat a woman—don’t show up out of the blue without a gift.

  That’s why I stroll into the hair salon on Monday afternoon with a bouquet of violets. They’re stunning, a rich royal purple, and they’re tied with a silver ribbon.

  “Hello, Sage,” I say with a broad smile to the receptionist with the metallic-colored hair.

  She giggles. “Hi, Cooper.”

  “I’m looking for the lovely lady who runs this shop.”

  “I’ll get her for you,” she says with a huge grin, her bangles jingling as she rises. “She’s nearly finished with a cut.”

  “I’ll just wait then,” I say, and make my way to the white couch.

  But before I can park my ass, the click-clack of heels echoes across the floor. “You look gorgeous, Dani. And you are going to have the best time on your trip. I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Violet says to a customer, and when I hear her voice, a strange feeling erupts in my chest, like bubbles. I’m a goddamn soda bottle near her. Maybe that’s what’s going on with this odd sensation, like my world is suddenly effervescent.

  “And you know I’ll tell you everything. I always do,” the woman replies.

  I turn to see Violet hugging a high-cheekboned blonde, whose hair falls in pretty curls over her shoulders. I suppose I should admire Violet’s handiwork, and how lovely the woman’s ’do looks. But my eyes are on the brunette and that little black skirt she wears, paired too seductively for my own good with black boots that reach her thighs.

  Those thighs.

  My face fits so fucking well between those thighs.

  And now my dick is sitting up and taking notice.

  Focus on her face, idiot.

  But that only intensifies matters because . . . those eyes that glitter, that skin that glows, those lips curved in a surprised but happy smile . . .

  The bubbles are gone. Now I’m just burning with lust.

  “Hi. I wasn’t expecting you,” she says as her client leaves.

  I hold out the bouquet. “I brought you flowers.”

  Violet’s smile grows even wider as she takes them. “They’re gorgeous.”

  “Like you.”

  Sage giggles, and from a nearby salon chair, an audible sigh falls from a customer’s lips as another stylist snips her locks.

  Violet brings the flowers to her nose and inhales. “They smell sweet.”

  Like you, I mouth, just to her.

  A pink flush spreads over her cheeks. “Let me get water for them. Follow me back?”

  “Of course.”

  As Violet escorts me through the salon, a few heads turn, and a woman parked under a hair dryer snaps her gaze to us and widens her eyes. I’m all smiles as I follow the most beautiful girl in the room, the town, the whole damn city. The view is stupendous. Her ass looks fantastic in that tight skirt, the fabric hugging her curves deliciously.

  “I have a vase somewhere in the utility closet,” Violet says, glancing back at me as she walks past the shampooing sinks. She flashes me a smile that says we have a secret. That secret is I know what she sounds like when she comes on my lips.

  My dick twitches with the fond memory of last night, making his presence in my pants even more noticeable. Cocky bastard. We reach the back of the salon and turn down a short hallway. I peer into one of the low-lit rooms and do a double take when I see a massage table in an empty room. “I didn’t know you did massage here.”

  “Full-service spa, baby,” she says, stepping ahead of me to reach for the doorknob of what I presume is the utility closet. I call an audible in my head, though, changing the play right here on the line of scrimmage. I reach forward, grab her free arm, and tug her back.

  She nearly stumbles, but I steady her, then pull her into the massage room.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers as I close the door.

  I grab the flowers and set them on the massage table.

  “What I’ve been thinking about since you left this morning,” I say, as I walk her back to the wall beside the door, line up my body with hers, and kiss her.

  Fuck, she tastes good. Like lip gloss and spearmint. I kiss her rough, with a singular goal in mind—kiss the breath out of her. My plan works. She slinks her arms around my neck and angles her lush body against me as she gives herself over to this kiss. I get lost for a minute in her taste, in her lips, in the feel of our mouths crushing together.

  When we separate, she blinks, licks her lips, and says, “Wow.”

  “All day. I’ve been thinking about that all day.” My voice is rough, full of need.

  “You have?”

  “So much.”

  “Me, too,” she says, then tips up her chin, asking for more.

  I grab her chin and bring her face closer. My lips are millimeters from hers, and for a few seconds I let this moment extend and unfold, our lips so damn close, nearly touching. Wanting and waiting. Then I slam my lips to hers, hungry for her. So damn hungry and greedy. I could kiss her all day. I could kiss her all night. I don’t want to stop. Because there’s so much of her to kiss. So much skin and flesh. I travel along her jaw, kissing her there as she gasps and moans and sighs my name. I push against her harder, grinding my hips into her body, and she pushes back. I bend slightly at my knees, finding a better angle, then rub my hard-on against her, right fucking there. “I’ve been thinking of how you taste. How you felt on my tongue.”

  “Oh God, me, too,” she says, rubbing shamelessl
y into me, her voice like a confession.

  “Yeah? What do you think about?”

  She drags her finger over my top lip. “These perfect lips. The way you went down on me.” She cups my cheeks, stares into my eyes. “Mostly, how I felt when I looked down my naked body and saw this pretty face between my legs.”

  The world goes up in flames.

  Hot lust floods my veins, and my groin aches—just fucking aches for her. “Jesus Christ, Vi. That’s so fucking hot. I loved tasting you. I fucking loved making you come. Can’t get it out of my head. The way you sound. The way you move.”

  “How did I sound?”

  “Like you were desperate for me.”

  She moans. “I was. I still am.”

  I can’t resist. I inch my hand under her skirt, rubbing my fingers against the cotton panel of her panties. She’s soaked, beautifully fucking wet for me, and I need to feel all this slick heat. Need to touch her. Judging from her instantaneous reaction to my fingers—how she rocks against me—she needs it, too.

  “Let me,” I rasp out.

  She glances at the door, worry etched in her eyes. “I have an appointment in ten minutes.”

  I flick my finger against her swollen clit through the panties. “Baby, I don’t even need that much time.”

  She bites down on her bottom lip, holding in a cry. “I shouldn’t do this at work,” she manages, a feeble protest.

  I drag my finger across her center. I’m fucking relentless. “Say the word and I’ll stop.”

  No words come. Only whimpers. Only murmurs. Only gasps.

  I bury my face in her neck, licking her skin to her ear. “You’re the boss, Vi.” I slip a finger inside her panties, and the blood rushes straight to my dick. She’s so soft and so wet. “No one knows you’re in the empty massage room, getting your sweet little pussy fingered by me.”

  She sinks into my touch, whimpering my name. The way she says Cooper thunders through my body. It’s pure, liquid lust.

  I grind against her, letting her feel my hard length. “All day long. My golf game was total shit. I’d line up a shot and think about the way you taste. I’d take a swing and remember how you moved against my mouth. You’re on fucking repeat in my head,” I say as I stroke her, my fingers sliding across all that heavenly sweetness.

  She rocks with me, moaning, “I can’t take it. It’s so good.”

  “You’ve been thinking about coming again, Vi?”

  Her eyes squeeze shut. Her breath rushes fast. “So much.”

  “Are you glad I stopped by?” I thrust a finger inside her, feeling the way she clenches me tightly. So fucking tight that I burn. My skin prickles with heat. My body floods with nothing but longing for her. I add a second finger.

  Her mouth falls open and her head lolls back, hitting the wall. “So glad,” she says, panting as she fucks my fingers.

  I growl her name. “I jacked off to you in the shower. God, it felt so fucking good.”

  Her eyes snap open. “What were we doing? When you came?”

  “I was fucking you, Vi. I was fucking you hard. Your palms were against the wall. Your hair was in my fist. I wasn’t a gentleman in the least.”

  “Were you rough?” Her voice is colored with excitement.

  “I gripped your hips and pounded into you, and I fucked you hard until you screamed my name.”

  She moans my name now, as if she’s demonstrating how she’d sound. She dips down on me, grinding into my hand as I rub my thumb over her sensitive clit. “I got off to you, too,” she blurts out. “This morning after I was home.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, and this turns me on even more. I didn’t think it was possible to be more wound up than I am right now, but picturing her with her legs spread, fucking her own fingers, does the trick. My entire body is strung tight with this raging desire. “What was I doing?”

  “You wouldn’t let me touch you. But I wanted you so much, and I begged you to come on me.”

  My brain goes haywire from her dirty mouth. I’m white-hot in every damn molecule in my body. I rub my hard-on against her hip just for the barest relief as I finger-fuck her. “You want to see that? That gets you off?”

  “I want to see you naked,” she says, and her voice is the most desperate sound I’ve ever heard. She grinds and rocks and thrusts, and all I can think is how much I want the same things with her. How absolutely fucking much I want this woman under me, over me, beside me. With me.

  “You will, baby,” I say, as I crush my mouth to hers, kissing her right when I know she’s about to shatter. As I kiss her, I feel as if I’m devouring her pleasure with my mouth, as if I’m swallowing whole the sounds of her orgasm as she comes on my hand.

  A minute later, when she seems to float down from her high, I say with a grin. “By the way, I got you another gift.”

  “You did?” Her voice is raspy.

  “I thought you might need these,” I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and hand her a pair of bikini panties from Victoria’s Secret. Green with a giraffe print on them.

  Her eyes widen. “They’re adorable.” The meaning fully registers. She brings her hand to her mouth. “Cooper, did you come here knowing you were going to make me come?”

  I shrug happily. “What can I say? I was optimistic.”

  After I leave, I tug my Giants hat low and drop on my shades, feeling like a fucking orgasm dispensary, and I couldn’t be happier, even when a man with a beer belly and a dark mustache stops me. “Cooper Armstrong?”

  “Hey there,” I say with a smile, going into friendly-with-the-fans mode, since I don’t know this guy from Adam.

  But he seems to know me. He extends a hand. “I’m Ren Watling. I own this building.”

  Dickhead.

  “Nice to meet you, Ren,” I say, since he’s Violet’s landlord. I shake his hand.

  “Business has been great. I’m thrilled. I hope you come around more often.”

  My lips twitch in a smile. “I hope to come around more often, too.”

  Later that night, after I cook myself a dinner of salmon and green beans and study the playbook, my phone dings with a text message.

  Violet: Thank you for the afternoon delight. By the way, do you like my new giraffes?

  When the multimedia image loads, I find myself with a shot of Violet from the waist down in her new panties and nothing else.

  Giraffes are my new favorite animal.

  22

  When practice ends on Tuesday, I shower at the training facility, put on jeans and a nice navy-blue button-down shirt, and grab my keys. I’m meeting Jillian and Violet at the children’s hospital in forty-five minutes, so I make my way toward the players’ lot. But before I can leave, a herd of elephants sounds behind me, shouting my name.

  I spin around to see two frazzled intern types. One is a skinny guy with a beaky nose, and the other is a tall dude with a military-style haircut.

  “Coach wants to see you,” the skinny guy shouts.

  “He asked us to find you,” the military guy adds.

  “Okay,” I say, as a fleet of nerves launches in my chest.

  I take a deep breath and smile. Don’t let on that you’re as nervous as a reality show contestant who might be cut.

  I walk alongside them, making idle chitchat as we head down the corridor. And now, on this week’s episode of Passers on the Chopping Block is none other than Cooper Armstrong.

  We round the corner to Greenhaven’s office, and every step feels like I’m one step closer to the guillotine. Last summer, I watched an LGO docu-special on NFL training camps where the head coach of the Los Angeles Devil Sharks called a defensive back into his office and let him go on camera.

  “I’m going to release you, Troy,” the coach said in a coolly even tone.

  The defensive back simply nodded and thanked the coach for the opportunity.

  My chest ached watching that, a throbbing sympathy pain. Troy could have been any of us, at any moment, on any day.

  Li
ke today.

  My heart lodges in my throat, beating painfully with a wish to stay.

  Ironic how the game itself rests in my hands on any game day, but my own fate isn’t mine to hold. All I can do is lift my chin high when we reach the wooden door with Greenhaven etched into the plaque in simple white letters.

  “Here he is,” the skinny guy says, pointing to the coach, who’s on the phone.

  “There’s the coach,” the other dude says to me, also stating the painfully obvious.

  The coach motions for me to come inside. The chorus boys walk away as I cross the threshold into the decision chamber.

  Will he stay or will he go? Only Greenhaven knows if Armstrong will get the ax.

  Greenhaven holds up his finger to signal he’s nearly done with his call. “It’ll be done by five, I trust,” he says firmly.

  My shoulders tighten.

  “I don’t want any trouble this time,” he adds, in that rough voice that terrifies three-hundred-fifty-pound linemen and two-hundred-twenty-five-pound quarterbacks alike.

  He cracks a smile. “Thank you. Let me know when it’s done.”

  He hangs up the phone, clears his throat, and strides around his desk, leaning against the front of it.

  “Sorry about that. I was ordering a gift for my wife.”

  I blink, knitting my brow. “Oh.”

  “Emily loves antique tea sets, and she saw one a few weeks ago when we were in wine country on a day off. I’m having it sent to her at the house, but when the delivery company stopped by earlier, no one was there, even though I left instructions . . .” Greenhaven stops and waves a hand in the air. “Who cares? Bottom line—I want to make her happy.”

  “Of course. I’m sure she’ll love it, sir.”

  Just rip off the Band-Aid, man.

  He hasn’t even asked me to sit down. Isn’t he supposed to issue his directive from the power pose behind the desk? Instead, he’s leaning all casual-like, and I have no fucking clue what he wants.

  “I think she will, too,” he says then takes a breath and scratches his chin. “In any case, Emily asked me to find out if Violet has any eating restrictions.”