The Player (The Player Duet Book 1)

by K. Bromberg

  “Here we are,” he murmurs as he turns down a tree-lined drive set back from the road. Dust plumes up behind us as we drive, and my neck feels like it’s on a swivel as I try to take in my surroundings.

  When the trees part, we pull up to a two-story brick house that spreads in all directions over the plot of land. Dogs are barking, I can hear a lawnmower somewhere in the distance, and cottonwood seeds dance all around us in the breeze.

  I narrow my eyes at Easton as he hops out of the truck and rounds the front to open my door. He takes my hand in his, and the minute he shuts the door of the truck, he pulls me against him, into a kiss to rival all kisses. It’s soft and sweet and tender and has the heat, desire, and need that’s never too far from reach.

  “We’re not in the city,” he murmurs against my lips. “There’s no one to see me kiss you, so I’m taking advantage of it.”

  I laugh, loving that he’s so protective of our little bubble, and put my free hand to the back of his head to pull him back down. “Me, too.” I brush one more kiss against his skillful lips before letting him tug me along by my hand toward the house.

  He has the cutest grin as he pushes the doorbell and just stares at me, shoulders against the wall behind him, one foot angled and resting against it. His eyes dare me to figure out what we are doing, and I honestly have no clue.

  The door opens, and a slight woman with long, gray hair stands inside. Her smile widens to epic proportions when she sees Easton. “Mr. Wylder. Thank you so much for making your way out here to come and visit us.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Melinda. Thank you for letting us come out on such short notice.”

  “It’s such a long way from the city.”

  “It’s a beautiful drive,” he says as he steps in, kissing her on the cheek in greeting.

  “And you must be Scout.” Her voice is full of warmth as she wraps her arms around me in a brief hug. “So nice to meet you.”

  I’m a little startled by her overly friendly welcome but follow Easton’s lead and hug her back, still so in the dark about what we are doing at this woman’s house. “You, too.”

  “Let me show you to it,” she says as she leads us through the large but cozy family room of the house. “I had to kick Timmy out with the boys, or else they would have just gawked at you—the real live Easton Wylder in our backyard. Noses smashed to the windows. Eyes wide as saucers. They’d grab at any reason to head out back and interrupt you, and I couldn’t have that.”

  “You shouldn’t have. They would have been fine,” he says with absolute sincerity. I get that this is Easton’s public persona, have seen it time and again at the field, but this is also the real him. “Maybe they’ll be back before we head out. Meeting them is the least I could do after you so graciously let us come here.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She laughs, her fingers nervously fidgeting with her hair. I want to put her at ease and tell her we all get that way around Easton. “Your generosity is enough to keep the sanctuary fed for the next year. It’s us who should be bending over backward for you.”

  “It’s well deserved,” Easton says as Melinda pushes open the door to the backyard. The sound of dogs barking hits us immediately, before I even clear the threshold, and when I do, my eyes widen and the smile is instant on my lips.

  “You brought me to see dogs?” I ask, my voice escalating in pitch with each word. I look around the yard, where, organized in a hexagonal type fence, there are about fifteen dog kennels angled off one large play space. And the play space is currently occupied by about ten dogs of different colors, breeds, and sizes. Tongues loll, tails wag, and bodies wiggle in excitement.

  “Not just any dogs,” he says with a laugh, “but mutts.”

  My feet move on their own, down toward the fence where the fur babies are all vying for attention, hopping on top of one another, trying to lick my hands through the fence. “Can I go in?” I ask as I turn to look at Easton and Melinda, who are both smiling at me.

  “That’s the whole point,” Melinda says as she walks the short distance toward me and directs me to go in the first set of gates that closes me off from the rest of the free yard, before opening the second set that leads me into the play pen. “These babies need some extra attention, and Easton said the two of you would love to come out and give it to them.”

  “Seriously?” I look over to her and then glance at Easton as the gate is opened, but my attention is diverted as I’m assaulted in the best of ways by licking tongues on my hands and tails whacking against my legs. There are grunts and whines and a few growls.

  Time passes in wiggles and pets. The pack slowly calms down; their interest and eagerness is still there, but not as desperate. And I’m so lost in giving and receiving attention that it’s a while before I notice Easton standing inside the play area, staring at me with a beagle snuggled in his arms.

  There is a soft smile on his lips, a quiet awe in his eyes, and there’s something about his expression that makes those butterflies in my stomach take flight, tickling my insides as they flitter about. His face is typically all hard lines with his dark features, but right now, with the sunlight on his face, all I see are his soft edges—soft edges that call to me to push myself to my feet and let him know how much this means to me.

  And he must sense that I want to be near him but am currently serving as a chair to Lola, the slobbery pit bull with a scarred face and the sweetest disposition of the lot. As I nuzzle Lola with my forehead against her back, Easton makes his way over to me.

  I laugh when he’s overrun by the wags and licks like I was when I first sat down, but when our laughter subsides and I look his way, those butterflies hit me again.

  “What is this magical place?” I ask as I reach over and squeeze his forearm as he pets the belly of a scruffy three-legged mutt.

  “It’s a dog sanctuary for abused and abandoned dogs. Melinda used to work for the ASPCA . . . and she wanted to do more after she ended up adopting some of the dogs she’d nursed back to health herself. She couldn’t turn them away, so she started with one, and then another, and then . . .” He shrugs. “You get the picture.”

  “That’s incredible. This place is incredible.” I laugh as I get nudged by a fluffy brown dog demanding attention. “Such a good girl,” I coo, but my next words trail off when I look up to see Easton’s head cocked to the side, eyes on me. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to rid it of a thought, and links his fingers with mine. We smile like goofy teenagers for a moment, like there isn’t a care in the world and this is the only thing that matters.

  “I just thought, with how hard you’ve been working to get me back on the field, and everything with your dad, that you could use some extra loving.”

  “It’s perfect.” I feel like I’ve used that word a million times while we’ve been here, and I’m not sure if I have, or if I’ve just thought it, but it’s true. The trees. The sun. The clear sky. The furry flurry. And Easton. How much better could it get?

  “I guess Melinda typically has some high school kids come out and volunteer to help her here at Pet Haven. They give the dogs some extra attention or give them baths when people are coming out to possibly adopt them, but there’s some big school function this week, so they’re not available . . . and so I volunteered us.”

  “How long have you been involved with the organization?”

  “Since about two days ago.” He laughs and goes to lean back on his elbows, quickly realizing what a huge mistake that is as he’s smothered in canine tongues and pawing paws. His laughter carries over the landscape and sounds so carefree, so relaxed, it makes me smile. When he can finally sit back up, after giving equal loving to the dogs around him, it hits me what he just said.

  “Wait. Just two days ago?”

  He nods. “The night I had to head out to take care of my mom? Melinda was there to help rescue a dog who broke free one street down. I ended up helping her get him back, and we started talkin
g. I told her about you and how you were missing puppy love.”

  “But wait . . . didn’t she just say something about a donation that would help feed the animals for . . .” I narrow my eyes as I put two and two together, and he nods slowly, trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “Easton Wylder, how much money did you donate so I could pet dogs?”

  “I love when you get all Easton Wylder on me.” He laughs at the same time I realize how ungrateful I sound. I begin to backpedal and explain that I don’t need to be impressed, because I already am—with everything about him—but he just shakes his head, takes my hand in his, and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the backside of it, which cuts me off before I can get the words out. “First of all, Kitty, I never donate to charity to impress a girl. I donate because I want to. Because I’ve been blessed beyond measure in my life. It didn’t hurt that I know you love dogs. And it definitely doesn’t hurt that bringing you here might get me extra brownie points I can cash in for my benefit.” He lifts his eyebrows and one corner of his mouth curls up. “But I did it because I wanted to and because they need more love than most to prove that not everyone is going to hurt them or leave them behind.”

  I look at him for a split second, hear the subtle parallel he’s drawing to my life, and wonder what man does this. What man would pay enough attention to what I need and then go out and find a way to reassure me the one way he knows I’ll hear?

  I scoot next to him, the grass cool beneath my skirt and the sun heating my skin, but it’s the man whose shoulder I just put my head on that keeps on warming my heart. And so we sit there for a bit and just enjoy our canine company and the fact that we don’t have to speak to fill the silence. We can just sit here in a field of grass with the breeze on our cheeks and let the idea of there being an us settle between us.

  “You brought me to see doggies,” I finally say, and there’s no other way to describe my voice other than completely enamored with him and what he did for me.

  “I figured it would tide you over until you can get one for yourself.”

  If it were possible for my heart to break free of my rib cage and flop onto the ground, then that’s what it would be doing right now. That hard heart of mine doesn’t seem so hard any more. Not when it comes to Easton Wylder, at least.

  And as much as I want more of this with him—as much as I think I’m ready—it still scares the shit out of me. The idea that I’m cursed is still alive in my mind, despite the most incredible past month.

  “I love this.”

  I love you.

  The thought is there. And once it’s there, it takes hold and won’t let go, no matter how hard I push it away, try to run from it, try not to be freaked by it.

  Because I am.

  “Thank you so much, Melinda, for letting us come out here today.”

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Melinda says to me, but I don’t think she’s heard a word I’ve said, because her attention is on the field to the left of the house. Her two boys, ages ten and twelve, are standing there with bats in their hands while Easton gives them pointers about their stances. The looks on their faces are priceless, complete idolization, and yet Easton continues his lesson, making them laugh and kidding around with them.

  He’s good with kids.

  And with dogs.

  And with his sick mom.

  And with spooked women.

  Is there anything this man can do to make me not like him?

  Because I’m beginning to think he might need to do that, so I don’t start believing he hung the moon.

  Or stole my heart.

  “You smell like dog.” She laughs, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek before settling in the passenger seat.

  “You’re one to talk. Lola got more kisses than me. It seems she claimed you as hers,” I tease as I push a hand playfully against her face when she comes close and makes a show of sniffing at me. She grabs my arm, her laugh ringing out above the warm night air rushing in the windows, and she tries to wrestle it away.

  I let her win. Let her grab my hand and link her fingers through it, tangle us as if we’re not already entwined. Am I a sap if I admit I like this? A relaxing day, a casual dinner at a roadside diner, and a beautiful woman in the cab of my truck. There’s only one thing that could make this day better, and I sure as fuck plan on making that happen once we get back home.

  A skirt and cowboy boots? What sane man says no to that?

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

  “Today.”

  “What about it?”

  “How it was just what the doctor ordered.”

  “How so?”

  “It was good to get away from the city.”

  “It was.” She nods.

  “And it was nice to get to do something for you for a change.” She squeezes my hand in response as I roll up the windows. “You have spent so much time and effort on me.”

  “That’s sweet. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

  “You deserved a proper date.”

  “You just wanted to see me dressed up in my skirt and cowboy boots again,” she laughs.

  “Now that . . . I won’t deny.” Images of her laid out in the batting cage with her legs spread, skirt pushed up around her hips, and her hands wrapped around the netting fill my mind. “Seeing your legs in anything is a turn-on.”

  The truck falls silent as I check my mirrors and take a right on the lone highway back to town.

  “You mean these legs?”

  I glance her way to find her shifted in her seat, back against the door, with one leg bent so her thighs are spread. But with the dimming sky and the shadow of her skirt, I can’t see shit.

  And fuck how I want to see what’s beneath it, even though I already have the taste, the scent, the feel of her pussy imprinted on my damn mind.

  “Yes. Those. Legs,” I murmur, as desire fires my blood and my dick hardens at just the thought of her. I glance up to find her eyes trained on mine. The damn woman is testing me, taunting me, and it’s hot as hell.

  “About those brownie points . . .”

  Music to my ears.

  “Yeah? What about them?” I may feign nonchalance, but fuck if she can’t hear that restraint in my voice snapping string by string.

  She doesn’t answer, not with words, anyway. It’s the hitched sigh of hers that catches my ear and almost makes me jerk the truck off the road when I find her with legs spread wider and fingertips moving in the darkness I can’t see between her thighs.

  God. Fucking. Damn.

  The road, Easton. Look at the road.

  I glance to the straightaway then look back to her. To her fingers hidden beneath the white pair of panties. To her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. To her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt. To her panting breath that turns into a moan as she fingers herself.

  “Eyes on the road, Hot Shot,” she murmurs.

  “Now, that’s just not fair,” I groan, but obey only for a second before my eyes are back on her.

  On her eyes. On that slow, seductive smile with her teeth still biting into that lip.

  “Straight ahead,” she orders, and damn it’s hot being ordered around by her.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath, but I obey under protest. Because those fingers are still in her panties. The scent of her is filling the cab of the truck.

  “That depends if you’re a good boy and do what I say.” She chuckles, cranking up the seductress role and turning me on even more.

  I groan.

  She laughs. Fucking foreplay if I’ve ever heard it. Deep and suggestive and throaty.

  Her seat belt clicks.

  I move to look her way, and her hand is right there, guiding my face forward so I remain looking at the road. I start to protest, but I’m met with two of her fingers slipping between my lips.

  They taste like her.

  Sweet.

  Damn.

  Perfection.

  I suck
on them and fight the urge to yank the truck to the side of the road and fuck her hard and fast right here for all to see. Because it’s Scout. That’s what she does to me.

  She pulls her fingers from my mouth and slides them down to my lap. She scrapes her nails up and down my thigh and over my cock pressed against the seam, pushing my thighs wider so she can tease my balls. I groan out loud and struggle not to close my eyes and drop my head against the headrest because it feels so damn good.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she murmurs against my ear, the heat of her breath tickling my skin and hardening my dick. “I want your cock, Easton Wylder. I want it right now. I want to wrap my lips around it. I want it hitting the back of my throat. I want all of it. To suck you off. To fuck you with my mouth. I want every last drop you have to give me.”

  That’s about the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “You’re going to help me get your cock out of your pants, then you’re going to put both hands on the wheel and concentrate on not crashing. Understood?”

  My hips are already lifted, my zipper undone, and my pants shoved to my knees before she even finishes her sentence.

  “Good God, woman.” It’s all I can say as she wraps her lips and one hand around my shaft and then takes me all the way to the back of her throat on the first suck. My hips lift to give her as much of me as she can take. My hands squeeze the steering wheel like a vise grip. My teeth grind together as I force myself to keep my eyes open and watch the road.

  It’s a mixture of sensations. The heat of her breath warming and staying on my skin. The wetness of her mouth as she slides up and down. The suction of her lips as she pulls to my tip, and the little pop I hear and feel as she releases me from her mouth. She twists her hand as she works over my cock in a varying pattern; just as I start to get used to the feel of it, think I’m at the point of no return, she changes the angle, the grip, the movement, and builds me up all over again.

  Nice and slow, East.

  “You taste so good,” she murmurs around my dick, the vibration tickling down to my balls and then back up.