Scoring the Player's Baby (WAGs Series)

by Naima Simone

  Still… He couldn’t prevent the shudder that worked its way through his body. Didn’t even try to pretend that, at this moment, he hadn’t become that man who most women sneered at: the man ruled by his dick.

  “What?” she asked, the same serrated, hungry edge from earlier roughening her voice again.

  Lowering his head, he laid his mouth directly over her ear.

  “Exactly how long is a while?”

  …

  Exactly how long is a while?

  It took Kim several moments to decipher the question. Especially when his lips brushed the shell of her ear, and that deep rumble of a voice vibrated against her skin, through her body. Over her nipples and between her legs.

  Thank God for her jacket, so he wouldn’t be able to feel her beaded tips, which were saluting him like a damn flag.

  How in the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? If someone had told her that a regular work day at a wedding expo would end up in an inexplicably hot embrace with a sexy-as-sin Paul Bunyan—well, a sexy-as-sin Samoan or Polynesian Paul Bunyan—she would’ve asked them for a hit of whatever shit they had to be smoking.

  He lifted his head, and she met his dark eyes. Her breath snagged in her throat.

  God, that gaze. It stirred an almost painful, sweet ache deep inside her. An ache she’d started to believe was on permanent hiatus.

  “Kim?” he murmured, doing that growly thing that had a ten-alarm fire licking through her. “A while?” he persisted.

  Right. Closing her eyes, she shut him out so she could concentrate on something other than his overwhelming maleness.

  He was referring to their earlier conversation in the lobby when she’d been commenting on the “wit” that had attracted Marissa-Clinger-Extraordinaire to him. And when she’d inadvertently let it slip that it’d been some time since she’d had sex.

  Jesus. The man should come with a warning label: Causes Severe Case of Anal Agoraphobia. Or in layman’s terms, causes severe case of not being able to get your head out of your ass.

  Inhaling a deep breath, she turned her head away from him, suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Since Matt’s infidelity, sex had been relegated to a murky abyss, all her focus and passion fastened on her career at Bishop Enterprises, and then later, on relocating from Boston to Seattle to head this new project. This unexpected…awakening had her abruptly edgy, caught between wanting to escape and needing to slip closer. To demand he hold her. Touch her. Stroke her. Make her shudder.

  Make her come.

  God, it’d been so long.

  And from one moment to the next, it seemed if she didn’t explode, didn’t have that almost forgotten tightening and quivering deep inside her, she would beg for it. That’s how bad she wanted it. Craved it. And now that hunger had a name.

  Ronin.

  Maybe something in her expression betrayed her indecision, or the desperate desire twisting her belly. Either way, his lazy smile slowly faded. His gaze became hooded, sharper. Even though he didn’t move, somehow he seemed to crowd closer, his wide chest and shoulders blocking out the hallway, the door back to the hall. Hell, the world. There was nothing but him, that stare, and the ache that swelled to a knee-weakening throb.

  “Something you need to say to me, Kim?” he said, his already deep voice lowering to a near growl. She swallowed a humiliatingly greedy whimper. “I’m right here.” He lowered his head until she heard and felt his words. “Tell me.”

  Isn’t there a room with a door and lock somewhere around here?

  Would you mind if I climbed you like a spider monkey in heat?

  I need an orgasm, like five minutes ago.

  Answers to his question bombarded her, rushing up her throat and vying for first place on her tongue. This was crazy. She was crazy. And sex deprived. It was the only explanation for why her body was rebelling, and she hovered seconds and a moan away from begging him to back her against the wall, lift her skirt, and give her what those dark, bottomless eyes promised.

  “I…” She paused, swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “I need to get back to work.” Move, damn it. Move. Her brain delivered the order to her feet, but they had obviously gone deaf and dumb because they didn’t move.

  But while her body didn’t obey her command, Ronin did. A heartbeat after she murmured the last word, he moved backward. And for one insane second, she mourned the loss of this sexy Paul Bunyan’s embrace. Regretted the loss of his wild wind and dark earth scent.

  Oh, for the love of… The sound of disgust directed at herself bounced on the walls of her head as she forced herself to move toward the door. She didn’t glance at him as she passed by his large frame. One look and all resolve to walk away would fizzle and go flat like the bubbles in the champagne that had been out all day in the expo.

  “Wait.” Strong fingers closed around her wrist, but the hold was gentle. As soon as she paused, Ronin freed her and plucked her phone from her hand. Taking advantage of her surprise, he pressed her thumb to the home button, unlocking the screen.

  “I think this falls under ‘invasion of privacy,’” she grumbled but let him have it, resenting the spurt of amusement in her chest.

  “Yeah.” He chuckled, the sound low and wicked. “That thumb thing drives my sisters crazy, too. Here.”

  He offered her the cell and snuck in a soft stroke over her palm. A bolt of lust sizzled over her skin before striking out for all points north and west. A touch to her hand. Seriously? She didn’t know if that made her pathetic or just sex deprived. Probably both.

  “I added my name and number in your contacts,” he said, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, rocking back on the heels of his scuffed boots. “If you change your mind, all you have to do is call. Or text. Or send a GIF. Hell, Morse code. I’ll be there.”

  She couldn’t reply. Could only stare.

  A corner of his sinfully carnal mouth hiked up, and shifting closer, he brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. She could’ve avoided the caress; he’d given her time to move out of the way. But she hadn’t because she wanted it, wanted to feel those big, competent hands on her one more time. She fought not to close her eyes and reveal just how much she liked his touch. That would only encourage him. And weaken her.

  So she remained still. Didn’t even move when he backed away and exited through the door.

  Only when the lock reengaged did she release the breath that had her lungs screaming for air. And only then did she close her eyes.

  It was for the best. Men like him only spelled trouble.

  And she’d had her fill of trouble and men in the last year.

  Yes. She’d been right to reject his offer of “dinner.”

  Now, if she could just get her vagina on board, everything would be fine.

  Chapter Three

  Kim emerged from the bathroom, a billow of steam trailing her and fogging up the mirror above the counter and sink combo right outside the door. The cool, conditioned air of the hotel suite that had been her home for the last two weeks swept over her damp skin, raising chill bumps across her arms and upper chest. It’d been cold inside the convention center all day, and after the heaven of her hot shower, she couldn’t take one more moment of freezing air.

  Securing her towel between her breasts, she exited the bedroom, crossed the living area of the suite to the thermostat, and tapped the arrow until the temperature read a balmy seventy-two degrees. Maybe it was growing up in London and Chicago that had her constantly craving warmth. Her brother Alex always complained about her apartment feeling like a sauna. She smiled. Then again, it was Alex, so he was eternally grumbling about something.

  A spike of melancholy jabbed her in the heart, and she slowly inhaled then exhaled against the wave of homesickness. God, she missed him. Ever since he’d traveled to Chicago when she’d been fifteen, and he sixteen, to find her—his father’s bastard and his half sister—they’d been extremely close. He could’ve easily rejected her and pr
etended she didn’t exist, as their father had, but he’d claimed her with unconditional love, not caring that a half-black sister raised eyebrows and questions. Not that anyone would dare question the formidable Alexander Bishop, CEO of the internationally renowned Bishop Enterprises. Not even their father, who resented his illegitimate offspring working for the family business. Malcolm Bishop might not like it, but he didn’t dare confront his son about it.

  She chuckled, shaking her head. Her brother could be downright intimidating. But never with her. And never with his wife and baby daughter. They were family, and right now, she wanted nothing more than to curl up on their couch, hold and play with her niece, and laugh with her brother and sister-in-law. It would be so easy to return home, back to the love and warmth that awaited her.

  But that love had also been the catalyst for her decision to leave Boston for Seattle.

  Sighing, she reentered the bedroom and, dropping the towel, put on a comfortable pair of loose, cotton drawstring pants and a tank top. When she’d been married, Matt had preferred she wear sexy lingerie—silky negligees and teddies. She’d acquiesced because he’d been her husband, and she’d wanted to please him. She hadn’t been naive; as a popular football player, he was constantly surrounded by beautiful women. So she’d jumped through the hoops to keep him happy and satisfied during the limited time they had together through football season. Even though she’d felt silly as hell walking around their condo like Joan Crawford or Bette Davis in floor-length, expensive negligees, she’d done it to remind him of what he’d had at home.

  But now, with an ex-husband who hadn’t appreciated her, had cheated on her probably even before the “I do’s,” she wore whatever she wanted, determined to please only herself.

  And if her current existence was a little bit…lonely, well, at least she had her dignity to keep her company.

  You didn’t have to be alone tonight, a snide voice whispered inside her head.

  Giving that voice a mental middle finger, she deliberately shied away from any thoughts of Ronin, the sexy lumberjack. As she’d been doing all afternoon since he’d walked away, his wicked offer ringing in her ears and his stashed number in her phone taunting her.

  “Dinner,” she said aloud, the word echoing in the silent suite. “If I’m going to have a pity party, at least I can bring food.”

  Flipping on the television to create noise so the rooms didn’t feel quite so empty, she plucked up the hotel menu and skimmed the entrees. She should know the offerings by heart now, since she’d been existing off the hotel food for the last couple of weeks. She’d moved to Seattle without an apartment already rented, so while she looked, the executive suite of the Grand was her temporary home.

  An hour and a half later, her Cobb salad eaten and plates set outside her door, she settled back on the couch and stared at a rerun of Law & Order. When her cell phone rang, she lunged for it, so desperate to shatter the loneliness suffocating her she didn’t even glance at the caller ID screen.

  “Hello?” she greeted whoever was on the line.

  “Kim.” An all-too-familiar and once-loved voice echoed in her ear.

  She dropped her head on the back of the couch and pinched the bridge of her nose. A dark, swirling mass of emotion—anger, pain, disgust, grief—coalesced in her chest, setting her pulse to pounding dully.

  Fuck. She should’ve checked the caller ID.

  “Kim?” her ex-husband repeated. “You still there?”

  “Not for long,” she said. The effort to keep her voice calm and even knotted her stomach. Damn, if she let him know how he still affected her, he would only take it as encouragement. As hope that if she still felt anything for him, even hurt, she must still care. He’d had the balls to say that to her across the conference table at her attorney’s office as they signed the divorce papers. What utter bullshit.

  Dog crap on a sidewalk disgusted her. Didn’t mean she secretly wanted to cozy up next to it.

  “Wait,” he protested, as if he could sense her intention to end the call. “Please, babe, don’t hang up. Just give me a minute.”

  Babe. She’d once found the endearment sweet, and it’d made her feel special. Now it just made her want to hurl. And punch him in the nuts. Not in that order.

  “Thirty seconds. And you better make it fast, because the clock started ticking ten seconds ago,” she informed him.

  “Damn it, Kim,” he snapped, and she could easily imagine him rubbing a wide hand over his clean-shaven head. “Babe, I’ve been trying to call and text you. I…” He paused, exhaled. “I just want to talk. I miss you,” he murmured.

  Nausea squirmed in her stomach, and she pressed a fist to it. “We have nothing to talk about,” she ground out. “I told you that in the attorney’s office, in my last text, and in the last call. It’s been over a year since the divorce, Matt. Move on. I have.”

  She had…kind of. She no longer wanted him—the thought of him touching her after having fucked all those other women had bile racing up the back of her throat. But had her life truly moved forward from that dark abyss he’d left her in? Yes, in that she didn’t shut herself away from the world any longer. But no, as well. Because the idea of entering another relationship, of trusting another man not to break her heart and leave her a shattered shell of a woman she didn’t recognize, had her retreating from the emotional ledge, unwilling to risk suffering that kind of agony again.

  So, yes, she’d survived his betrayal, but he’d scarred her. And some scars didn’t fade with the passing of time. They served as stark reminders of the shit you’d suffered, fought, and barely managed to crawl free from. They functioned as ugly souvenirs, so you’d never forget and enter into that madness again.

  “How?” he insisted. “We were together for five years. You just don’t move on that quickly. I know you’re still angry, and you have a right to be—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she interrupted him. “I’m not angry. I’m not pissed. I’m nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said softly. “I don’t believe you feel nothing for me.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine,” she stated, voice flat. “Now that’s twenty more seconds than I intended to spend on this conversation. Goodbye, Matt. Don’t call back.”

  “I’m not giving up on us, Kim…”

  She didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. Pressing the end call button, she dropped the phone on the couch and jumped to her feet. Anger and frustration crawled through her, and she paced from the living area to the wet bar across the room. Grabbing a bottle of wine, she uncorked it and poured the golden alcohol into a glass.

  She’d lied; she was still angry, still pissed.

  At him for destroying the vision and hope of the future they could’ve had together. In all her daydreams, she’d never planned to be divorced and alone at thirty.

  At herself for allowing him and the dissolution of their marriage to keep her from living. For the last year and a half, she’d been merely existing.

  An image of Ronin assembled inside her head like a jigsaw puzzle. First, those dark, densely lashed eyes. Then the prominent cheekbones, followed by the wide, erotic mouth framed by a thick, black beard.

  She shivered.

  This time, she didn’t prevent thoughts of him from rolling through her mind. Didn’t deliver a mental slap down to her body when it tightened and ached dully at the memory of his wild and sensual scent. Of the strength in his thickly muscled arms. Of the solid press of his rock-hard body against hers.

  Of the hot, dirty, and dominant command in his kiss.

  When she’d rejected his offer for “dinner,” it’d been a reflex. Kim Matlock, sister to Alexander Bishop, Vice-President of Public Relations at Bishop Enterprises, didn’t have sex with someone she barely knew. Kim Matlock was better than that.

  Aaaaand now she was thinking about herself in the third person. God, she was losing it.

  Sighing, she downed more of the wine. Her confidence had take
n a direct hit—like a Pearl Harbor hit—with Matt’s betrayal. She’d questioned everything about herself: her femininity, her beauty, her appeal, her desirability. Common sense—and hours of Dr. Phil—had assured her that Matt’s cheating had been about him, not her. Yet, her emotions, her heart had accepted the blame, had pointed out how she’d probably hadn’t dressed up enough, hadn’t put him first, had been boring in bed.

  In the last year, she’d battled those insecurities, had even conquered some ground. But Ronin’s proposition of dinner-that’s-really-sex had brought them charging to the forefront. Ronin, with his utter maleness, virility, and I-don’t-give-a-fuck demeanor, had both drawn and intimidated her. But she wasn’t that moth that had to dance close to the lamp and learn, after having her ass fried six ways to Sunday, that it had been a bad idea.

  But that had been before she’d returned to this lonely, cold, and silent suite.

  Before Matt had called, reminding her of the woman she’d become…and the one she desired to be. Even if only for one night.

  In the year since their divorce, her body had gone into hibernation, but Ronin had jerked it rudely awake today. Had reminded her of how she enjoyed sex—the closeness, the intimacy, the foreplay, the build-up. That moment when a man pushed inside, filling her. The bliss of release.

  Damn, did she miss it.

  But until he’d slid his tongue inside her mouth, she hadn’t realized how much she craved it.

  She might not have the intimacy or the cuddling, but she could have the pleasure. Yes, if she were brave enough, she could have it. Have him.

  But only if she had the nerve to take it.

  Take Ronin.

  Setting her empty glass on the bar, she turned and pinned her gaze on the couch—and the phone that she’d dropped on the cushion. Can I? This is… She reached for the bottle again, but at the last second stopped herself. Stop stalling. Just do it, damn it. You know you want to. With the firm put-up-or-shut-up echoing in her head, she strode across the room to the sofa.