The Right Swipe

by Alisha Rai

  It took a second to connect the dots and the timeline. “He passed away . . . while you were playing pro? And you knew that his behavior was linked to concussive injuries?” That must have been a conflict for Samson.

  “You’re wondering why I didn’t quit immediately?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You should. I wondered.” He lifted a shoulder. “Even after I got the diagnosis, I tried to convince myself I was wrong, that my dad was a unique case. Deep down, I knew I was fooling myself. I only needed something to push me into realizing it.”

  Realization dawned. “Your friend. The one you walked for.”

  “Dean.” He put the frame down and gestured at the other photo, the one of him and his goddaughter. “When the reporters asked why I was retiring, I said I feared players’ head injuries weren’t being managed properly. The press went nuts, especially since my dad’s death was so fresh. There were already rumblings of the class action coming.” His words were halting. “I know the league was my employer, not my friend. But they spend all this time—the coaches, the media, my teammates—they tell you you’re part of a family. And it was like my family turned on me. My coach said I walked ’cause I couldn’t handle the pressure. Our quarterback said I was a traitor, that I’d left the team when they really needed me. I went from the Charm to the Curse.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

  “I’m sorry.” She wondered if anyone had seen much of this brooding, dark side of Samson Lima. Words didn’t feel like enough, so she wrapped her arms around his waist. “That must have been painful.”

  He held stiff for a minute, then relaxed, putting his arms around her, engulfing her in his body heat. “I loved the game. I loved my family more.”

  She lifted her chin so she could look up at him. She opened her mouth to say something. What, she wasn’t sure. Something smart and clever and kind. But the next thing she knew, his lips were on hers.

  His hands slid over her back, to her butt, and rested there for a second. She pressed tighter against him, taking the kiss deeper. The energy shift between them was seamless, from comforting and pained to needy and lustful. The adrenaline that had fueled her flight to his place returned in a vengeance, channeled into lust. He pulled away to speak. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “We don’t have to think.” Better to think later. Putting her brain on a small time-out was necessary right now.

  Let the anger and fear transform into mutual greed.

  “I like that plan,” he muttered.

  Her clothes were easy to remove. She only had to slide her yoga pants down her legs and yank off her hoodie and shirt. One of the plus sides of athleisure.

  When she was naked, he surveyed her. She hadn’t worn a bra today, and her nipples peaked when he ran his gaze over them. His big hands reached up to cup her breasts and they both shuddered.

  He was far too overdressed. She attacked the button on his jeans, struggling with the stiff denim. He tried to help, but his hands were more in the way than anything else. “You do your shirt,” she ordered, trying to concentrate.

  She had to stop when his T-shirt cleared his head. Their hurried interludes in her car hadn’t given her enough time to appreciate his body. Not at all. His chest was so wide, the perfect size to curl up on and take a nap or pet or bite or lick . . .

  Bottom line, she could do a lot to that chest.

  “Bedroom,” he said, in a guttural tone, distracting her from her plans to world tour his upper torso, and she placed her hand in his, happy to comply. Their foreplay had lasted weeks now. She wanted his body driving inside hers.

  They could forget, like they’d forgotten for that night in Cayucos. Forget about who she was and who he was and all of the baggage that made up Rhiannon Hunter and Samson Lima.

  He tugged her into the bedroom. The sun was setting outside, but the blinds were pulled in this room, making it dark and cool, the only light spilling in from the living room. She shoved the comforter down and got in the bed while he undressed.

  She might actually break her final rule and solicit pics of this dick. Pretty indeed.

  Rhiannon tried not to lick her lips for fear it might come across as too lascivious, but her mouth watered when he walked over to the nightstand. He pulled a fresh box of condoms out of the drawer and ripped it open.

  He donned the condom, pushing the latex over his curved, thick cock and turned to her. She’d hoped to lick him, play with him, take him in her mouth, but he moved over her so quickly, his body sliding over hers.

  “Can this time be quick?” he asked, his voice rough.

  This time. This time implied more times, and she squelched the surge of happiness that came with that possibility.

  None of that dangerous hope nonsense. Not now, not ever.

  But she didn’t want to explain that to him now, when he was so close, his body heat alone making her ache. He bent his head when she didn’t respond immediately and licked her nipple.

  She gasped. “Yes. Quick. Do it.”

  He pushed her leg aside and sank inside her. She groaned and arched, forcing him to speed up to a faster pace. His fingers clenched over her thigh and he moved harder, deeper, shafting her in long, fast strokes.

  Delicious.

  She slid her hands down over his back, slick with sweat, and grasped his pumping buttocks. He pressed his mouth against her neck and kissed her, his tongue working over her sensitive skin. “Fuck,” he moaned.

  Rhiannon wound her leg over his hips. “Harder.”

  He took her request, his body slamming into hers. The coil of passion inside her belly went tighter, but that sliver of a peak remained out of reach.

  Until he put some space between them and his fingers went searching between her legs. He rubbed a slow seductive circle around her clit, his delicate fingers at odds with the furious pace of his cock. Again. And again. She broke, the climax washing over her.

  He groaned, his body tensed for a long moment as he came. His arms caught his body weight before he could collapse on her.

  Fool. Didn’t he know?

  Of course not, how could he. She pressed down on his shoulders. “Rest on me. I like it.”

  His breath panted against her neck. “I’m too heavy.”

  “No such thing.” She tugged at him, and he finally complied, relaxing on top of her, shoving her into the expensive mattress.

  Ah yes. She felt completely covered and hugged and smushed. She loved it. Like one giant sweatshirt covering her whole body, only this one was made of muscle, not fleece.

  She didn’t realize she’d made the comment out loud, until he turned his head, a puzzled smile on his soft face. “I’m a hoodie?”

  “It’s the same feeling, like I’m being hugged,” she tried to explain, though she wasn’t sure how. She felt loopy and punch-drunk, like a balloon that had had half the air leached out of it. “Never mind. I’m tired.”

  “Me too.” He pressed a kiss against her neck. “Stay here and keep warm.” He rolled off her and she admired his back and that stupendous butt as he moved away.

  Seriously, that butt could launch a thousand ships.

  She lay there for a second or two as he did whatever he needed to do in the bathroom, but relaxing wasn’t her style, even if she was in a postcoital glow. She sat up. This room was as impersonal as the rest of the apartment, but there were more signs of Samson here. He was neat, she was happy to note, his open closet showing her his clothes hung up and organized by style and color.

  The only mess were his jeans on the floor. She rose from the bed and picked them up, tossing them and his boxers on the armchair. A slip of paper fell out of one of the pockets.

  She didn’t mean to look at it when she picked it up, but the phone number, smiley face, and words scrawled on the napkin were impossible to miss. Janet. Call me.

  Oh.

  She held the napkin for a second while the faucet turned on in the bathroom. She didn’t know what this feeling
was. Disappointment. Jealousy, perhaps. Sadness.

  Okay, she knew what the emotions were. This was a cliché, wasn’t it? The lover finding another woman’s number in her man’s pocket.

  Only she wasn’t his lover, and he wasn’t her man. These emotions didn’t belong to her.

  The reason they were seeing each other was, ostensibly, to prep him to date other women. She was the one who had told him ten million times this was temporary. She had no right to be jealous of Janet, whoever she was. Even if Samson had deemed the woman worthy enough to keep her number.

  Rhiannon’s fingers tightened over the napkin. Was Janet sweet and loyal and kind?

  The faucet shut off in the bathroom and it galvanized her into action. She shoved the napkin back into his jeans and went to the living room. She had her T-shirt and panties and pants on by the time he came to the door. He’d donned his boxers and was scratching his beautiful, perfect, smooth chest. His expression of sleepy satisfaction faded as he took in her fully-dressed appearance. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m sorry, I have to go into the office. Dating emergency,” she half joked and put her hoodie on, making sure to zip it all the way up.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not a sick cat this time?”

  “I do have a cat, for your information. That wasn’t a lie.” Well, it had been at the time, but she’d made it true.

  A frown appeared on his forehead, one she didn’t like. His sadness had vanished while they’d had sex. She may not like that he was collecting other women’s phone numbers, but that wasn’t his issue to deal with. It was hers. She took a step forward. “I really have to go. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Still, he puffed out his cheeks.

  His visible disappointment was so cute, she had to come closer and slip her arms around his waist and press a kiss on his chest. “I’ll see you soon. Thanks for everything. This was really great.”

  He returned her hug. “Thank you. Uh, was this why you came over here, or did you need something else?”

  Ack. How had she forgotten? She almost slapped her forehead. The man had some kind of magical power over her, addling her brain. “Right. Are you going to talk to Annabelle soon?”

  “I told you, she should be home any day now.”

  She thought for a second, grateful the sex had cleared her head. She couldn’t tip Samson and Annabelle off to other buyers if Peter really didn’t have any intention of going after Matchmaker. The last thing she wanted to do was bid against herself. “I really need to speak to her, is all. It would be good if we could get together soon. I would love to do a deal that helps both of us out.”

  If Samson thought it was weird that she’d raced over here to impress upon him how badly she wanted to speak to his aunt, he didn’t say so. “The second she’s stateside, I will tell her you want to talk to her. Promise.”

  His promise shouldn’t carry so much weight for her, but it did. She allowed him to walk her to the door. His bare chest and thick thighs called to her, but she tried to ignore them, because she couldn’t go curl up in his bed and cuddle.

  Janet. Think of Janet.

  He bent down to kiss her and she almost swayed into another hot, wet kiss. It was only the knowledge that it would lead to other hot, wet things, all with the undoubtedly lovely Janet’s number sitting firmly in his pocket, that gave her the strength to pull away and walk.

  She’d reaffirmed Samson would talk to Annabelle without tipping her hand, and gotten sex in the bargain. What more could she ask for?

  Rhiannon closed her eyes and rested her head against the mirrored wall of the elevator, trying not to think about the delicious ache in her sex and inner thighs. Probably best to avoid answering that question.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SAMSON HAD never been much of a coffee drinker, but sleeping had come hard after his uncle’s death, and he’d learned to appreciate the glory of caffeine. He’d set up the fancy coffee maker’s timer in his loaner apartment the first night.

  As was his new habit, he padded out of his bedroom, grabbed his full mug, and took his first sip in front of the giant windows overlooking the downtown skyline, the freeway traffic in the distance already bumper to bumper though it wasn’t quite six. He liked this view. Matchmaker had furnished him with a nice little spot, even if it was one he’d never have thought to choose on his own.

  The house he’d grown up in Cayucos had been a homey environment with bright splashes of color and comfy furnishings. When he’d become independent, he’d barely paid attention to where he lived, figuring he could have a real home at some shadowy point down the road. And, then, of course, he’d been with Uncle Joe.

  Samson frowned out over the buildings. Where would his next place be? He’d sold his own condo years ago and had no interest in returning to Portland anyway. His childhood home in Cayucos was sitting vacant, but it held so many memories. Leaving there after Uncle Joe’s death had been both heart wrenching and a relief.

  Trapped and aimless.

  He shifted. He still had time to think about his next move after this gig was over. He didn’t have to come up with it right now.

  His day was packed with various Matchmaker-related engagements, including a photo shoot. He needed to get showered and dressed, but he took another sip of coffee, wishing he could inject the caffeine directly into his veins. He’d stayed up all night thinking about Rhiannon and the sex. And the aftermath.

  He’d been looking forward to smushing her all night when he’d sauntered out of the bathroom, his body all loose and relaxed, and instead, he’d found her almost out the door. He didn’t know what had made her dart out like that. Or really, what had made her come to him in the first place. Surely she hadn’t really run over to make sure he did what he’d already said he’d do and contact Belle, right?

  He should have pressed her before she left, but he’d been too thrown by the sex. And his own internal upheaval.

  He never talked about his parents. The only people in the world he’d confided in had been Uncle Joe, Aunt Belle, and Dean and Harris. Though he knew Rhi wouldn’t tell anyone, he was shaken by how easily the details of his life had spilled out of his lips.

  At first, he’d stayed silent because his father wouldn’t have wanted too much about his final years made public. Everyone knew about the depression, yes, and some of Aleki’s erratic behavior. The anger, though, he and his mother had kept under wraps, had shielded the world from. Flying into uncontrollable rages was the thing his father would have found most horrifying about his personality change. Aleki had been gentle. He’d never so much as raised his voice before the Switch.

  Samson’s hand shook as he took another sip of coffee. He was a fucking thirty-six-year-old man, bigger than average, and the mere memory of his father’s rage made him shake like a boy. How did a person reconcile the man they’d loved with a man who was controlled by a brain that had been fundamentally altered by hit after hit? How did you reconcile adoration and fear? Fear for his dad, his mom, himself.

  How do you think Trevor’s son’s feeling?

  He had to put his mug down, lest he spill it. He may have initially hidden his history for his father’s sake, but it was also simply too difficult for him to think about, let alone share with another human.

  He’d go shower, and get dressed, and try to forget all these feelings Trevor and Rhi had stirred up. He couldn’t handle them, not right now.

  His phone rang, and he welcomed the interruption to his trip down memory lane. He grabbed it, relief coursing through him when he saw who was calling. “Aunt Belle.”

  “Hello, Samson.”

  He frowned. Aunt Belle sounded like a timid, hesitant version of herself. “Hey there. I was talking about you with someone yesterday. Are you stateside again?”

  “I am. I got in last night.”

  “Are you up north?” Belle’s main estate was a lovely home near San Francisco, surrounded by tall redwoods.

  “Yes.” She paused, then
spoke in a rush. “If you’re mad at me, can you get it all out?”

  “Mad at you?” Samson sat down on his couch. “Why on earth would I be mad at you?”

  “Because I left everyone in the lurch.” His aunt’s tone grew thick. “I called William first, and he told me . . . well, it doesn’t matter what he told me.”

  Samson’s frown deepened. It wasn’t William’s place to chide his boss. Jennifer may have been the former CEO, but Annabelle controlled the company now. “You didn’t leave me in the lurch.”

  “Well. I suppose I should have thought before I got overwhelmed and ran away, especially when the company isn’t having its best year. I was in fairly constant contact with Tina, but not as much as I should have been. Not as much as Jennifer would have been.”

  “I think everything ran fine even with you gone for a few weeks,” Samson said soothingly. “I didn’t notice any hiccups.”

  “I saw you changed the campaign. That was smart, after that mess of a date.”

  The amusement in Aunt Belle’s voice was a relief. “I guess match percentages can’t promise perfect dates.”

  “They can’t, but I will defend my test. I accessed your account and you didn’t have the highest match percentage with sweet Rachel.”

  Samson shook his head. Joe had once privately told him Belle had made him take the damn test, in hard copy, before agreeing to go on a first date with him. What their match percentage had been, Samson didn’t know. As far as Samson was concerned, the infamous test was nothing more than a personality questionnaire.

  “I found another girl in your matches who would work so much better. I asked Tina to set up a date with her for you this week.”

  Samson leaned forward and placed his arms on his knees. “Uh, I still have one more filming session with Rhi.” They hadn’t talked about when that meeting would be scheduled yet. “And my schedule is pretty tight this week. Podcasts, some other interviews, a photo shoot. It’s not all in the city, so I’m going to have to travel.”