The Player's Club: Scott

by Cathy Yardley

  Finn exhaled heavily. “George is my cousin. I got him in here. I don’t want to kick him out…not unless there’s no other choice.”

  Scott sighed, too. Now, not only was he trying to get into this Club—he was trying to help his new friends, his cool friends, who needed him to keep the Club something awesome, and not another drunk, rich party boy’s ego trip.

  They were counting on him.

  Scott thought it was worth it…but at this point, he wasn’t quite sure. And the “not sure part” was probably what was going to sink him.

  SINCE SCOTT WAS WORKING late that Tuesday night, Amanda had decided to have a girl’s night in. Between her nascent career as a burlesque dancer, and hanging out with Jackie without divulging either her dancing secret or her plot to join The Player’s Club, she was almost exhausted. She’d always been a hard worker. Though this whole having-an-outside-life thing was more tiring than she’d expected.

  Of course, it’s not the stress of falling for your “fling” adventure guy.

  It wasn’t what she was supposed to do. It certainly wasn’t what she’d planned to do. And even though she knew it was the stupid thing, she wasn’t entirely sure it was something she could do anything about. She was falling in love with Scott Ferrell. The man who apparently went to raves and went camping in the Mojave, who went skydiving and God knows what else.

  The man who regularly crept onto her fire escape and ravished her. Who’d made love to her in a public place.

  The man who was making her no promises.

  How in the world was she supposed to keep a man like that interested, much less in love?

  Not thinking about it. He told her he would be doing a lot of overtime, getting ready for his last big challenge in Spain. She felt a little bereft, she needed to distract herself. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt that had chocolate stains on it, plaid flannel boxer shorts and a pair of superfuzzy socks. She was just going to veg out on the couch: she had a bunch of kettle corn, straight from the farmer’s market. She had the makings for killer meatball sandwiches, a messy, delicious, utterly indulgent treat.

  There was a Twilight Zone marathon on the science fiction channel, completing her version of decadent, introverted, nerdy bliss. She sighed happily, snuggling into her couch.

  The familiarly creepy introduction music was just coming on when she heard the knock at her door. Irritated, she got up, looking out her peephole.

  It was Scott. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder, a slight growth of beard darkening his jaw. The combination of the suit and the rugged shadow made her mouth water.

  “Damn!” Her heart started beating faster. She glanced down at her ratty ensemble. He couldn’t see her like this. She didn’t even have makeup on.

  She quickly darted to her bedroom, tore off the offending articles, and opted to just throw a silk robe on, naked. She ran her fingers through her hair, hoping it wasn’t too crazed looking, and wondered how women managed to have that sexy, tousled “bed head” while she just looked as if she’d rubbed her hands on one of those lightning balls.

  He knocked again, and she opened the door. “Um, hi,” she said, hoping she sounded breathless-sexy, and not just frazzled. “I thought you had to work late tonight.”

  He grinned, and her heart fluttered. “Bomb threat,” he said. “They sent us all home, so I thought I’d stop by.” He leaned down, kissing her softly. “I wanted to see you. Needed to see you,” he whispered against her lips.

  She pressed her body against his, sighing into him. How could a woman not fall in love with a man who said stuff like that?

  He pulled away. “Maybe we should shut the door.” He sounded out of breath, too.

  Wordlessly, she tugged him inside, shutting the door and locking it. She was about to kiss him again when he sniffed, and she heard his stomach growl. “What is that? It smells great.”

  “That? Oh. That’s, uh, meatballs. For meatball subs.” A completely unromantic meal, she realized. “You’re hungry, huh?”

  He was staring at her when he answered. “Absolutely,” he drawled.

  He wasn’t looking at the meatballs.

  She blushed, and felt her thighs twitch. Then his stomach growled again, and they both chuckled.

  “I made plenty,” she offered, then frowned. “I’ve got to warn you—your suit is going to probably take a beating. These aren’t the neatest things in the world.”

  “Some things are worth risking.” He winked at her.

  She smiled back, heading for the kitchen. Of course he wouldn’t care about stuff like that. He had nothing to prove. Besides, he probably ate a lot more neatly than she did. She just didn’t pay attention when she ate, it seemed—she always wound up with a spot of coffee on her favorite blouse or wine stains on the sleeve of a sweater.

  She made a hefty meatball sub on the homemade French rolls she’d baked that afternoon. A quick pass under the broiler left mozzarella cheese dripping over the meatballs and tomato sauce. She walked out into the living room.

  He was on the couch, munching from the large bowl of kettle corn as he watched TV. He’d taken off his shirt. She’d seen his chest plenty of times before, but she always held her breath a little every time she saw it fresh. He looked yummier than all the food in her house. Possibly than all the food in the city—and in San Francisco, that was saying something.

  “I love the old episodes of Twilight Zone,” he said.

  She didn’t speak. Her mouth was dry.

  Then he laughed, a warm, rough sound. “I took off the shirt. Didn’t want to get it messed up.”

  She smiled, putting the tray of food on the coffee table. She was suddenly hungry herself. Ravenous. “You know, those are nice slacks,” she said. “Probably dry-clean only.”

  His answering smile was wicked. “You’re right. No sense courting danger.”

  He stood up, stripping out of his pants, leaving him only in his boxers. She could see his erection tenting the fabric, and she nervously licked her lips.

  She sat next to him on the couch, both of them ignoring their sandwiches. He stroked her cheek…then let his fingers trail lower, tugging at the belt of her robe.

  “This looks nice, too,” he remarked, his eyes gleaming. “You probably don’t want to get any tomato sauce on that, either, right?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak as he opened the robe, slipping it off her shoulders. He ran his fingertips down her bare shoulder. Her nipples tightened.

  “Th-those boxers look nice,” she said, not even noticing them. “Maybe we should…”

  He stretched out on the couch, and she pulled them off. His cock stood at attention.

  She muted the television, and stared at him, her body already beginning to go damp and willing. “Are you starving?” she asked, sending a quick glance over at the sandwiches.

  He reached for her. “Only for you.”

  “Good answer.”

  She covered him, reveling in the feel of his hot, smooth skin against hers. She kissed him, and he parted her lips, his tongue probing soft and intent as he smoothed his palms up her sides, down her back, cupping her buttocks and molding her more precisely against him. She groaned as she felt the feverish skin of his cock pressed against her stomach, his shaft like a heated bar of iron against the juncture of her legs. She gently gripped his shoulders, pressing her breasts more firmly to his chest as their tongues intertwined. He groaned against her mouth, and she slipped her legs on either side of his hips. The feel of his hardness brushing against her inner thighs made her shudder, her pussy going wet in a rush. She toyed with him, teasing his erection with her entrance, until he growled, his hands jetting to her hips, guiding her directly to the tip of his arousal. She sat up, pushing herself gently over his staff, feeling his cock stretch and fill her as she moaned softly in appreciation. When she was fully impaled on him, she arched her back, enjoying the sensations. When she looked down, he was smiling at her, stroking her, reaching up to cup her breasts, his thumbs circli
ng her erect nipples.

  It felt like heaven. She raised her body slowly, then inched lower, setting the tempo, intent on the glide of her flesh over his. His shaft dragged at her clit, and she bit her lip at the delicious sensation. She could feel him brushing against the inside of her pussy, and she gyrated her hips slowly, eager to intensify the secret caress.

  It felt like hours, in the best possible way. Her breathing went choppy and ragged as the pleasure seeped into her, drenching every emotion and every physical sensation. He was lifting his hips from the couch to penetrate her more fully, and she was thrusting downward, urging him deeper inside her.

  “Baby, please.”

  He gripped her hips, pulling her tight and flush against his straining hips, and she felt him fill her almost painfully, her clit getting just the pressure it needed. She bucked against him, her speed and rhythm going from slow and graceful to fast and out of control. She ground her hips against his, and he thrust up, pulling her to him, the two of them sweating and straining to reach release.

  She felt it first, the climax exploding inside her. She cried out incoherently as her body shuddered, clenching at his cock. He yelled in response, his hips jerking against her, and she collapsed on top of him, their bodies a synchronized mass of shivers and aftershocks. She couldn’t hear anything but their rasping breaths, and the thundering beat of her heart, echoed by the thudding pulse of his heart, beating against her ear as she lay pressed against his chest.

  After long moments, they got up, straightened out. She quickly got towels, helped them get in some kind of order. Then they sat on the couch, naked and companionable.

  The Twilight Zone marathon was still running, she realized. It seemed sort of silly.

  “This is so awesome,” he said, reaching for the sandwich she’d made. “Just what I need. Thanks for feeding me.”

  She grinned happily as she turned the sound back on. It seemed impossible. This guy was too good to be true.

  Of course, maybe she was making it too easy for him. And why should she turn herself inside out, just to please him, right?

  He looked at her. “You’re hungry, right?”

  She stopped, startled. “Well…yeah.”

  “Then eat,” he said, nudging the plate toward her. “And stop thinking. I can practically hear you from over here.”

  She glared at him, but just for a moment. Then she took a bite of her sandwich. It tasted just as good as she expected it to.

  She squealed as a fat blob of sauce hit her thigh. “Crap,” she muttered through a mouthful of food, reaching for some napkins.

  “No, please. Allow me.”

  She squealed again when he leaned down, licking the offending spot thoroughly. When he was done, he was grinning at her mischievously.

  She swallowed, feeling the sugary heat that he always managed to provoke in her. Maybe he was right. She was thinking too much. She should just enjoy it, for what it was, for as long as it lasted. That meant no more trying to impress him. No more trying to be what she thought would keep him in her life and in her bed.

  This was probably going to end in disaster. So she would enjoy today while it lasted.

  9

  SCOTT COULDN’T BELIEVE how well his life was going. He was doing stuff with the Players at least once a week—mountain biking one afternoon, kayaking the next, hitting an after-hours party during the workweek. He also had a hot, wonderful woman who blew his mind—both in bed and out of it—on a regular basis. Even his job as a data analyst was going along smoothly, despite all he was juggling. Granted, he was feeling a bit like an impostor, wondering when someone was going to rip off his mask. He wasn’t as daring or as suave as he probably should be, given he was pledging The Player’s Club. And Amanda seemed to be under the misguided impression that he was some sort of International Man of Mystery, thanks to his late-night shenanigans.

  Oh, yeah. Me and Austin Powers. Yeah, baby.

  Still, while stressful, he had to admit being mistaken for a cool guy, with a cool club and a to-die-for girlfriend, was a nice change.

  He was pretty sure his cover had been blown when he hunkered down on her couch, popcorn in hand and watching the Twilight Zone marathon with her. The really funny thing was, she thought he was indulging her. He probably would have been doing the same thing if he’d been alone that night. The fact that their geekness matched was a bit of a charge, too.

  “Ferrell. You got those reports?”

  Scott looked up. It was Rich, from Sales. Rich schmoozed the clients using the information Scott pulled together, and because of that, and the fat commission checks Rich got and Scott didn’t, Rich tended to treat all the data analysts as geeks. Otherwise, Rich was a nice enough guy, he supposed, although Rich had made some inappropriate remarks about Kayla when Scott was dating her. Maybe Scott was a bit prudish, but it wasn’t cool to say to a guy how much you’d like to “tap” his girlfriend’s ass. Granted, it was the Christmas party, and Rich had been quite plastered. Still, it was the principle of the thing. Consequently, Scott was always a bit leery when Rich came around.

  It was also, incidentally, the reason why Scott never got drunk. Alcohol could be worse than truth serum in the wrong hands.

  “Guess you’ve moved on from Kayla, huh?” Rich asked with a note of speculation.

  Why do we keep having Kayla conversations? Did the guy want to know if the field was clear to ask her out, or something? Ugh. No class. Any of the Players would have known better. Scott shrugged. “I guess,” he answered as casually as possible.

  “Really went the other direction, huh?”

  “What?” Scott finally focused on Rich, who seemed more than curious. “I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

  “Not in a bad way,” Rich assured him. “I mean, Kayla’s smokin’ hot, so you probably wanted a break, someone more in your, you know, league…”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Scott snapped, pushing away from his desk. He moved toward Rich.

  Rich obviously sensed the menace in Scott’s voice because he held his hands up in the universal calm-down, don’t-punch-me gesture. “Whoa! I’m not saying your new girl isn’t hot! She’s just, you know, more like a schoolteacher than a vixen like Kayla. Still, I’ll bet when she lets her hair down…”

  Scott barely stopped himself from grabbing the guy by his shirt. Rich seemed to put that together as well, quickly shutting up. “How do you know Amanda?”

  Rich swallowed visibly. “She’s… Well, ah, she’s at reception. In the, er, lobby.”

  “Amanda’s here?” Scott blanched. Not that he minded seeing her, even without warning but… “Why didn’t Tricia tell me? Call me?”

  Rich followed like a puppy when Scott stalked past him, headed for the entrance to the building. “A meeting just got out, and Tricia had to clean up the conference room, so there wasn’t anybody at the desk.”

  “And you just happened to be hanging around,” Scott finished.

  “Yeah.” Rich paused. “And, uh, so were a few of the sales team.”

  Great. Just great. He could just imagine what those jerks were regaling her with. He stopped just short of the lobby when he heard their voices, obviously laughing over the tail end of some story.

  “You’re saying Scott picked you up at a rave?”

  Scott skidded to a halt. “Oof,” Rich muttered as he ran into him.

  Scott heard Amanda’s voice, throaty and low. “Sort of,” Amanda demurred.

  “Scott. Our Scott?” This from John Thompkins, a top selling exec who had no use for the analysts…unless he needed a report done ASAP. His voice dripped with skeptical derision. “I thought Scotty was in bed every night by ten.” There was an answering burst of chuckles at that one.

  “Who says he isn’t?” Amanda responded. The laughter at that one was even louder.

  “I meant with like a glass of warm milk,” John said. What a dick. He’d make sure Thompkins’s next “rush” report got pushed to the bottom of the pile.

>   “Believe whatever you want,” Amanda replied. Her tone screamed her skepticism.

  “Well, I used to date him,” a feminine voice drawled. “So I ought to know.”

  Scott winced. That was Kayla. God, could this get any worse?

  He stepped forward just as Kayla was saying, “I mean, Scott and I only dated for six months, but I never—”

  “Amanda,” Scott interrupted, and Kayla at least had the grace to appear embarrassed. “I wasn’t expecting you. You weren’t waiting long?”

  Amanda shook her head, her eyes twinkling merrily. “Don’t worry,” she said, kissing him softly but thoroughly on the lips. “I was…entertained while I was waiting.”

  “I’ll bet.” He glared at the handful of people from the sales team, including Kayla. The men fled, but Kayla’s eyes narrowed with irritation. “Why don’t we grab some lunch?” he offered.

  “But I’d like to see your office,” Amanda protested mildly. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Uh, okay,” he said, moving her past a frowning Kayla. “It’s not very exciting, though.”

  “I’ve never worked in an office,” Amanda answered brightly. “So it’s always interesting to me to see people who do.”

  “Never worked in an office? Really?” Kayla pounced. “What do you do?”

  Amanda returned Kayla’s catlike smirk with a wide, genuine smile of her own.

  “Lots of different things,” she said. “But right now, I’m a stripper.”

  Every single person within earshot suddenly went silent at Amanda’s announcement. Rich, who was lingering nearby, gaped openly.

  “My office is this way.” Scott quickly hustled Amanda away from the lobby, but not before a bunch of people peeked out of office doors and over cube walls, trying to get a good look at her. He shut his office door behind her, thankful for the first time that his office wasn’t the type with windows.

  She burst out laughing, quickly covering her mouth to muffle the sounds. When she regained her composure, she grinned at him, slightly sheepish. “Sorry. Maybe I was exaggerating there, but that woman was bugging the hell out of me.”