Most Valuable Playboy

by Lauren Blakely

  She grabs my ass, and I slide her knees up her chest. I make love to her like that. With her pinned beneath me, saying my name, breathing my breath, kissing my lips.

  Her gasps come faster.

  Her noises grow louder.

  Her moves become wilder.

  She rocks up into me, widens her legs, takes me deeper.

  Everything in me crackles. Pleasure snaps in my body. Desire flows hot in my blood. I’m dizzy with want, ravenous with the need to be as close to her as possible.

  In seconds, she’s crying out in bliss, saying my name, chanting God’s name, calling out incoherent moans of pleasure, and sending a whole new wave of electricity sparking across my skin. As the aftershocks shudder through her, I rise to my knees, grab her hips, tug her down harder on my cock, and go wild, thrusting, pounding, letting go until the world slips into pure pleasure and my climax obliterates me, as I come inside the woman I love.

  The woman I plan on loving for the rest of my life.

  After, as I collapse on her then roll to the side, I find myself wondering how it’s possible to just know. To know with absolute certainty that you’re with the person who makes you not only happy, but better.

  Because I know I’ve found the one I want. I don’t want her to doubt my love. I run my fingers along her cheekbone. “Hey, Violet. You want to know something?”

  She turns to me, her cheeks rosy and glowing. “Yes, I want to know something.”

  I wrap an arm around her. “You’re stuck with me.”

  She laughs. “Is that so?”

  “Yep. I don’t plan on letting you go. Ever, basically.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “You should live with me,” I say.

  She arches a brow. “You’re already inviting me to live with you?”

  “Vi, I plan on loving you for my whole damn life. I don’t need to mess around with stages and steps and taking things in some kind of orderly fashion. You’re an eighty-yard pass, and I want to get into the end zone with you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That sounds incredibly dirty.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Hey, do you want to know something?”

  “I do.”

  She runs her hands down my chest, over the planes of my abs. “Why did the football go to the bank?”

  “Why?”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “To get her quarterback.”

  I crack up. “You’ve got him. You’ve absolutely got him.”

  “I’m keeping him.” She slinks a hand over my hip and around to my butt, squeezing. “After all, you do have the best butt in the NFL.”

  Two days later, she wakes up with me on Christmas morning, and I give her one of many gifts. A key to my home. She already has the key to my heart.

  Epilogue

  A few days after Christmas

  * * *

  Ah, this is my favorite view.

  “You can cut my hair all day,” I say, smiling like the cat that ate all the canaries as Violet snips my hair, trimming the messy strands at her salon.

  “You dirty man,” she chides.

  “You like me that way,” I say, setting my hands on her hips.

  She stops snipping and gives me a look. “You can’t do that when I cut your hair.”

  “But the rest of the time I can, right?”

  She laughs. “Possibly.”

  She finishes my haircut, and that evening, we go out on a date. Violet jokes that it’s the charity date she won from the Most Valuable Playboy auction. I don’t like to think about how the other dates from past auctions went. They were one and done. This date is the start of the rest of my life.

  That’s why I make sure it’s different. We meet the whole crew at my favorite karaoke bar in Japantown, in the heart of the city. Trent and Holly wave from a table by the stage, since they arrived first. When Violet and I sit, Trent shakes his head, gesturing to us. “Still getting used to the two of you together,” he says, but he’s smiling.

  Violet wiggles her eyebrows. “Let me help you with a little trial by fire.” She turns and kisses me hard in front of him. She’s loud, too, making lip-smacking sounds.

  “Get a room,” Trent says, tossing a napkin at us.

  When Violet wrenches away, she grins at her brother. “Did that help you? Or do you want to take a picture to hang in your home?”

  “Damn. You two really are perfect for each other,” Trent says.

  Holly runs a hand through his hair. “I told you so. They were meant to be.”

  A few minutes later, my college buds, McKenna and Chris, show up.

  The blond and bubbly McKenna wraps Violet in a warm embrace. “You guys are adorable. Also, I had a feeling he always liked you,” McKenna says.

  “The feeling has always been mutual,” she replies.

  More friends join us, and soon Trent, Holly, Jones, Jillian, Harlan, Chris, McKenna and Rick work their way through standards like “I Want It That Way,” “Hooked on a Feeling,” “Love Shack” and, of course, “Living on a Prayer.”

  Yes, I let Jones have my song, because I take my turn with Violet. We sing together, belting out “Islands in The Stream.” We’re no Kenny and Dolly, but if you listen to the words, you’d be hard-pressed not to fall deeper in love. It’s one of the most upbeat, happy love songs ever written.

  Which makes it perfect for two people who are disgustingly cute, as Jones shouts to the stage.

  “No, they’re ridiculously adorable,” Jillian corrects.

  That’s us. We’re those people on stage, singing a popular love song as if no one else is around, as if we’re going to go home and rip each other’s clothes off, then make pancakes together the next day.

  Come to think of it, both of those things sound like great ideas, so that’s what we do.

  Violet roots from the fifty-yard line in all my playoff games. She shouts the loudest and cheers the hardest when we win the wild-card round in an absolutely epic trounce. She goes nuts in the divisional round, and I’m running on the most exhilarating adrenaline I’ve ever felt when we kick ass with a fat victory.

  But our quest splinters in the championship game against Los Angeles. It’s a tight match against our rivals, and we lose by three measly points.

  Not gonna lie. It stings. It hurts.

  But there’s always next year.

  When I drive to the coach’s home a week later, Violet fiddles with her bracelets in the passenger seat, and I set a hand on her wrist. “Relax, baby. Greenhaven isn’t that bad, I swear.”

  Violet shoots me a look that says you’ve got to be kidding me. “I’m not worried about the coach. I want his wife to like me.”

  I laugh. “She’ll love you.”

  And she does. Because Violet is pretty freaking fantastic. She brings a set of antique teacups that she found in a store in Noe Valley, as well as a bottle of wine. No surprise—both Mike Greenhaven and his wife, Emily, think Violet is the bomb. At dinner, Emily pours the wine and raises her glass. “To next year.”

  “To next year,” we say in unison.

  It’s both a toast and a fervent wish.

  Having it all is a pretty tough feat to pull off, and I remind myself that in the scheme of things, I’ve already come out grossly ahead this year. New contract, fat payday, amazing team, strong playoff performance, and the best part of all—someone who loves me and would still love me even if I didn’t have any of those things.

  Maybe next year I can add a ring to the mix.

  For now, I have everything I need in the woman I come home to at night and wake up to in the morning.

  Another Epilogue

  A few months later

  * * *

  “Go, go, go!” Violet thrusts her arm in the air when Smashalie scores a point.

  Turns out the little girl was serious about roller derby. She took it up after her last appointment, and joined a junior league that Violet and I happen to fully sponsor. My signing bonus was pretty damn sizable, and
I decided to donate it to charities and youth programs in the Bay Area. The children’s hospital is using it for services and research, and Ford is helping me funnel money to worthy programs for kids. That includes sports for girls, but also some sports programs for kids who might need a little extra help, whether after battling cancer or having corrective surgery. I want to give them every chance to reach their fullest potential.

  So here we are at the roller rink, watching a bout as Smashalie and her teammates cruise around the oval.

  “What would your roller derby name be?” I ask Violet.

  She screws up the corner of her lips, looks to the ceiling then at me. “I’d be the Purple Snipper. Don’t you think?” She pretends to cut with scissors.

  I grab my crotch. “Ouch.”

  “Lavender Cutter?”

  I seesaw my palm. “Mildly better.”

  She snaps her fingers. “The Lilac Shredder!”

  “You’re brilliant,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  “What about you? Would you be Best Butt in the NFL? Hard Rock Cheeks?” She squeezes my ass.

  “Steel Buns.”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m keeping the butt nicknames for myself. You’re the Gunslinger.” She runs a hand down my right arm. “Yes, the Gunslinger made all this happen.”

  And, honestly, that’s one of the things I’m most proud of. That I’ve been able to give back. And I’ve done it with Violet. That’s always been one of our shared passions, finding worthy causes that help kids. That’s why I chose this spot instead of the beach, a mountain hike, a picnic, or a basketball arena. That’s why there is no Jumbotron, no cameras, no flash mob. I researched ideas. I googled clever strategies. I approached this moment like I was prepping for a game, studying all the options, deciding which plays to use.

  In the end, though, I want today to feel authentic to who we are as a couple.

  I turn to the woman I adore. “Hey, Violet, I wanted to ask you something.”

  She tilts her head, waiting, her lips quirking up in a soft smile.

  I move quickly. Always have. I drop to one knee and flip open the box I’ve had in my pocket. Her eyes widen. “You’re my best friend, my lover, and my favorite person in the universe. You are more precious to me than anything else. And I know our love will outlast everything. Will you marry me?”

  She clasps her hand to her mouth as she whispers the loveliest word I’ve ever heard—yes.

  Tears stream down her cheeks as she kneels with me, still nodding, now sobbing, and holding out her hand. I slide the ring on her finger, and it’s perfect. Honestly, it’s one of the biggest rings ever made. You can’t be the quarterback’s wife and walk around with a tiny diamond.

  “I love you, Cooper. So much you have no idea.”

  “Oh, I do have an idea. A very good idea. I think it’s pretty damn close to how much I love you.”

  She brushes a kiss on my lips. “Some days I still can’t believe it’s real.”

  “And I’ll spend a lifetime showing you how real my love is.”

  She threads her hands through my hair, and we kiss, kneeling on the floor of the roller rink.

  When she breaks the kiss, she lifts her hand and gazes at her ring. The way I see it, even if I don’t have a ring, there’s no reason she shouldn’t.

  Besides, there’s always next year.

  * * *

  THE END

  Coming next for the Renegades is Jones’ story in MOST LIKELY TO SCORE, releasing in January 2018. In October, a brand new standalone rom-com will release in HARD WOOD. A sneak peek of both books follow. Looking ahead to early 2018, I’ll release WANDERLUST (hello, hot British hero) and COME AS YOU ARE! First, MOST LIKELY TO SCORE…

  * * *

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  I can reel off some pretty impressive stats, and I have for the last few years as a star receiver for a winning NFL team, but my favorite is this—ten and three-quarter inches.

  Pretty big, huh?

  You don’t get into the double digits too often.

  That’s nearly as long as a football.

  And that makes me a one-of-a-kind guy.

  C’mon.

  I’m talking about my hands.

  And yes, another part is close to a foot long, too.

  But they don’t call me The Hands for nothing. These hands have won championships. These hands have pulled off circus catches in the biggest games. These hands are a beautiful target for game-winning passes.

  I know exactly what to do with these hands.

  Especially when it comes to enjoying the soft, sweet flesh of a woman. A touch here, a stroke there, and I can have her melting beneath me. They’re a multipurpose asset, and these hands and other parts have come out to score quite often after hours. There’s no better way to enjoy a career as a pro-baller, as far as I’m concerned.

  Except when it comes time to clean up my act.

  Remake myself into a good, upstanding citizen, and kick that party boy to the curb. Fine, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.

  And hell, do I ever need to after some of the shit I’ve had to deal with in the last few years.

  But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person to turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.

  Damn shame we’re going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially when she says everything needs to remain hands-off.

  Until the time it doesn’t . . .

  * * *

  MOST LIKELY TO SCORE will release in January…

  * * *

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  * * *

  It should have been a simple play…

  * * *

  She needed a football player to step up and be the star for a charity calendar. I needed a sharp and savvy publicist to manage a brand-new sponsorship deal. I scratched her back. She scratched mine. And oh hell, did Jillian ever drag her nails down my back on one hell of a hot night. Okay fine, it was several hot nights on the road.

  * * *

  Now we’re back in town and it’s time to set the play clock back to when we were simply player and publicist.

  * * *

  After all, she doesn’t date players. And given the way the last few years have gone, I can’t risk this deal. But that sort of delay of game doesn’t work so well once you’ve seen someone naked. So when she asks me to help her at an upcoming event— hands-off, of course — I’ve got a feeling it might be the hardest night of my life. Pun intended.

  * * *

  What’s a guy to do when he’s always been most likely to score, but the woman he’s falling for is just out of bounds? Find a way to convince her to be hands-on and all-in, body and heart, no matter the risk.

  * * *

  Coming next is HARD WOOD, a brand new rom-com told from the guy’s POV! Releasing October 23 everywhere! A sneak peek follows.

  * * *

  * * *

  Women often say a good man is hard to find. And a hard man is even better. That’s why I’m quite a catch— good, hard, loaded, and wait for it…I’m ready to settle down too. But the woman I want to pitch my tent with lives clear across the country. Neither of us wants to get lost in those woods. All I have to do is resist her for the week she's in town. I try. I swear I try. But yeah, that doesn't work out. And after one fantastic night with Mia, I’m ready to give her years of nights under the stars. What's a few thousand miles when love's involved? But there’s a hitch in my plans — she just hired my adventure tour company. If there’s one thing I’m committed to, it’s running a squeaky clean business. Number one on my list of iron-clad rules? Don’t screw your customers. I can follow my own guidelines for a quick group tour down the hills and over the trails—even if it’s hard in the woods. I’m about to give myself a badge of honor when the storm of the century hits, sending everyone else running for cover. They're safe, but Mia and me? We're
trapped. Together. Alone in the woods. You don’t screw the client, especially when you’re already in love with her . . . But what’s a guy to do when she’s so hard to resist? Time to take a trip in a new direction.

  * * *

  Prologue

  * * *

  By now, most women have met the half dozen or so basic types of men in the world.

  Just to be sure, though, let’s review the lineup.

  First, there’s the too-cool-for-school playboy who solemnly swears he’ll never settle down. Next to him in the modern-day parade of dudes is the Grouchy McGrouch Pants surly bearded guy who’s a softie beneath the dickhead exterior he shows to the world along with his beanie cap. By his side is the guarded businessman in his three-piece suit, housing deep, dark secrets that only one woman can unlock. We have other roles in Guy Central Casting—the lumbersexual, the groomed father, the citified pretty boy, the hot nerd, and the bad boy with a heart of gold.

  Trust me when I say the ladies of the world have heard their stories.

  I know that because I’ve fucking heard them. I’ve heard them from the guys, I’ve heard them from the gals. When you take people out of their comfort zone and into the woods, they tend to tell you everything.

  Every sordid detail. I’m honestly kind of amazed that men and women, women and women, men and men, get together at all. There’s so much baggage going around, it’s like a goddamn virus.

  As for me?

  I’m simple. I travel light. I don’t bring luggage to the table. I hoist my backpack and I’m ready to go. I’m a man of many skills. I could spend a week in the woods, and we’d all survive. Pitch a tent, find some food, we’ll make it last. Give me a battery and I’ll start a camp fire. Show me an old phone and I’ll make a compass. I’m the guy who knows how to get out of jams. Fix a tire, repair a sink, gut a fish, pick a lock, survive a bear attack. Been there, done that, have the merit badge to prove it.