by Naima Simone
“Easy,” he soothed, his thumbs sweeping back and forth over the front of her hips. “Look at me,” he ordered in that same low, calming tone, but she couldn’t deny the underlying note of steel. When her eyes met his, he arched an eyebrow. “A while, huh?”
Inexplicably, a chuckle fought its way through the constriction in her throat. The laughter might have sounded a bit strangled, but it was there. She knew what he was doing; distracting her while her body adjusted. And it was working. She gradually relaxed around his cock, her muscles easing, softening. The pressure remained, but the pain ebbed, not disappearing but blending into the need, sharpening it.
Exhaling, she flattened her palms on his firm muscles and gave an experimental roll of her hips. Desire, hot and wild, whistled through her like an arrow let loose from a tight bow.
“Oh God,” she moaned, her head tipping back on her shoulders. Repeating the twist that rubbed her clit over his pelvic bone, she shuddered.
So good. So damn good. Again. She ground against him again. Then again. She became lost in the steady, greedy climb up that precarious mountain, seeking the crumbling, treacherous edge of release.
Lips clamped over her nipple, and she cried out, locking her arms around Ronin’s head. Hell, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be giving both of them pleasure. But hadn’t that been his wish when he’d arrived? To use him? Not that he seemed to mind. No, from the growl vibrating against her breast, and the lash of his tongue over her tightly furled peak, he didn’t seem to mind at all.
Switching to the other tip, he treated it to the same erotic torture, and each tug and pull echoed in her sex. With an animalistic snarl that would probably shock the hell out of her later, she leaned forward, pressing him back to the bed. Fingers clamped around his wrists, she held him down, all that strength and power at her disposal giving her another sensual high.
Thrusting her tongue between his lips, she pounded herself on his cock. Lifting and falling, she took from him, in turn giving to them both. His flesh swelled inside her, stretching her the smallest bit more when she’d believed she was already filled to capacity. Their kiss reflected the battle of their hips, colliding, withdrawing, clashing again. The slap of flesh, the wet suction of his dick leaving her, their moans saturating the air, spurring her on.
That kind of hell-bent-for-leather ride couldn’t last, though. And she didn’t. Ecstasy pummeled her from inside, from outside. It surrounded, conquered, and demolished her. A scream tore at her, leaving her throat raw with the power of it. She writhed on top of him, bucking and grinding, prey to the ruthless claws of pleasure.
Beneath her, Ronin gripped her, his firm, inflexible fingers clutching her hips, dragging her up and down his cock, burying himself in her over and over again. All she could do was hold on, a piece of driftwood tossed on a chaotic, sexual storm. A harsh, ragged groan broke free of him seconds before he stiffened and pulsed inside her. Hard grunts punctuated each abrupt jerk of his hips as he came, and she hoarded every one of them for later when she thought back on this night.
Finally, his big body loosened, sprawling on the bed, and Kim didn’t move from her position on top of him. Only their rough pants echoed in the room, and for once, her thoughts remained quiet, scattered by the power of her release and not yet reassembled.
She was just fine with that.
Because Ronin had promised her tonight. And tonight wasn’t yet over.
…
Kim groaned, her internal clock clanging, announcing it was six o’clock in the morning. Mentally, she punched the damn thing, silencing it. Getting out of bed before noon on a Sunday morning was sacrilegious. Especially after a night of the most wonderful, mind-bending sex with the most gorgeous man—
Holy shit.
She jackknifed to a sitting position, clutching the sheet to her chest in a very belated, and completely misplaced, sense of modesty. Suddenly wide awake, she turned her head to the left, then to the right, searching the room for the man who’d rocked her word like a Fall Out Boy concert. Hard, grinding, sweaty, and a whole lot of screaming.
But she was alone.
A whisper of disappointment slid through her like a wisp of smoke. One night. That’s all she’d intended for it to be. What she’d wanted. So this irritating and stubborn feeling of regret didn’t make sense.
Shit. She grimaced. There wasn’t any going back to sleep now. Coffee. If she was going to be up this early thinking, then she would definitely need coffee. Shifting her legs over the side of the mattress, she stood and headed for the bathroom. Minutes later, she emerged, wrapped in her robe and tender in places she hadn’t been for too damn long. It was…nice. Screw that. It was good.
Padding out to the living area of her suite on bare feet, she aimed for the tiny kitchen area and the hotel-issued, single-cup coffeemaker like a heat-seeking missile with its target locked. As she rounded the small counter separating the main space from the kitchen, a lone sheet of memo paper with the hotel’s logo at the top of it snagged her notice. As did the bold, dark print scrawled across it. Slowly, she slipped it from under the coffee mug holding it in place.
Sorry you had to wake up alone. Had to meet up with my sister. You’re beautiful when you’re sleeping. And I mean that in a totally non-stalkerish way. You have my number. It’s yours to use.
Huffing out a laugh, she smiled and set the note back on the counter. God, he was so funny—and hot. Until meeting him, she hadn’t known the particular combination existed in a man. Images of Ronin from the night before flooded her. His teasing, wide smile. His face stamped with lust. His body, undulating over hers as he pounded into her…
She shivered, picking up the cup he’d left for her and turning toward the coffeemaker. Would it be so wrong to turn a one-night stand into a couple-of-nights stand? Or three? No, she wasn’t ready for anything more than a fling, but maybe seeing him again would be okay.
The argument waged in her mind as the coffee brewed and filled her mug. Carrying it to the couch, she carefully lowered to the cushion, taking her first sip of the day. The fragrant liquid slid over her tongue, and yes, she groaned aloud, because that first hit of caffeine was almost as good as sex. Almost.
Sighing, she reached for the remote on the sofa next to her hip, and her fingers glanced her cell. It’d vibrated last night, but she’d been…busy and hadn’t answered it. Picking it up, she saw the screen reflected several notifications of missed texts. All from Morgan. Huh. What could Morgan have possibly wanted? And four texts all in a row, it must’ve been important. Her heart kicking into an elevated tempo, Kim swiped her thumb across the screen, opening up her messages.
Text one: The hell, Kim? Did you know?
Text two: Abort! Abort! Mayday!
Text three: A picture of Ronin.
His dark hair tumbled down around his face, and the grin she’d come to associate with him was absent. As were the T-shirt and worn jeans. Instead a black, blue, and white uniform covered his big body. A football uniform.
Oh, God.
Text four: Where the hell are you? Wait. Fuck. I know where you’re at! Don’t answer that!
Carefully, oh so carefully, Kim set the coffee mug on the table in front of her and stared at the image of Ronin filling her screen.
A football player. Ronin was the very thing she’d sworn off.
Shutting her eyes, she dropped the cell, and it hit her lap. Had she felt disappointment before? No, because this was disappointment swirling in her chest, tightening it. And anger at herself for getting involved, even for a night, with a man like her ex-husband. The fame. The constant ego-stroking from everyone around him. The women throwing themselves at him 24/7. No one could be a normal, decent person in that kind of environment. Even someone as charming as Ronin. Especially someone as charming as Ronin.
Goddamn, did she have a magnet embedded inside her?
“Why fucking me?” she whispered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Minutes ago, she’d been about to ca
ll and ask him for a three-peat.
But no way could she do that now.
Not when she should’ve never had him in the first place.
Chapter Four
Two and a half months later
“Oh Jesus Christ, you two make me sick. Get a room,” Ronin muttered, shooting his best friends Dominic “Dom” Anderson and Tennyson Clark a mock-disgusted look. “And a seat. Dom, you do realize there’re two extra ones here, right? Doyle’s has plenty of them.” He jabbed a finger at the empty chairs in their corner of the Pioneer Square bar that was their local hang-out. “Can’t Tenny have one?”
Dom planted a kiss on Tenny’s jaw…and flipped Ronin off behind her back.
Snickering, Ronin raised his Guinness and downed a big gulp. In spite of his words, he was happy to see the two of them together. Still a little shell-shocked—after all, for the six years he’d known Dom and Tenny, they’d been childhood friends, not lovers. So seeing the woman he’d come to think of as another sister perched on the other man’s lap swapping kisses would take some adjusting to. But they appeared happy. Hell, earlier that week, Dom had missed a key practice to follow Tenny to Dayton, OH, and bring her back home. As quarterback and team leader of the Washington Warriors, he’d risked a fine, an ass-chewing, and benching by the coaches, plus shit from the team. Must be love.
Or some kind of chicken flu that resulted in a slow decline in mental capacity and sharpness, and an increase in irrational behavior and general head-in-ass-ness.
And it seemed to be going viral.
He glanced next to him at his other best friend, Zephirin Black, and his “significant other,” Sophia Cruz. The tight end and the brilliant app developer had been together several months, but from the way they remained glued at the hip when neither were working, it might as well as have been several years.
If Ronin didn’t know with a certainty that he was immune to this particular malady, he’d start wearing a damn surgical mask to avoid contracting this disease.
It wasn’t that he doubted his friends’ affection for each other. Neither did he question the existence of love. He just hadn’t seen evidence that so-called committed relationships worked out. His parents had split when Ronin was ten; his sister Alea’s marriage hadn’t survived past the two-year mark; Zeph’s long-time relationship with his ex had ended in lies, betrayal, and a child that wasn’t his.
And him… He stared down into his pint. He’d had Grace. Since childhood, it’d been him, Grace, Jason Wilder, and Renee Smith. Then, one day, in Mrs. Randolph’s sophomore second-period Geometry class, he’d looked at Grace, and that quick, something inside him had changed. Clicked into place like a wayward puzzle piece. He’d fallen in love with his best friend. And she’d loved him. From then until the day she’d died at twenty-six from complications of cystic fibrosis.
So, no, it wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. He just didn’t want it. Not it or the relationships and commitments love demanded. Most only resulted in pain, disillusionment, infidelity, resentment. And God, he was so damn tired of being left behind to bear the burden of the agonizing aftermath. Why would anyone willingly put themselves through that?
He wouldn’t. Never again.
He glanced at the two couples on either side of him and mentally shrugged. Hey, to each his own.
He’d stick with his one true partner, the mistress that had never let him down: football. The game had—and continued to be—the stable force in his life. Even family could leave, as his father, and now the threat of cancer hanging over his mother, had proven.
Grace had been as close to him as family. And she’d left him, too.
Fuck, he’d been thinking about her more often lately. Nothing good came from that. Not when it opened a yawning pit in his gut that only alcohol filled.
“Normally, I would agree with you,” Jason, the fifth member of their ever-widening circle, added, drawing Ronin’s attention back to the present. “But in this case, them”—he waved his beer bottle in the direction of the two couples—“being all booed up only makes us look more inviting to women. For some reason, it makes them think we’re relationship material, too.”
Ronin snorted. “One”—he held up a finger—“‘booed up’? What the fuck? You been watching that Love and Hip-Hop crap again?”
“It’s good. I keep trying to tell you,” Jason protested, even as he glanced around. Probably hoping no one heard him admit to that emasculating bullshit.
“I love that show,” Tennyson piped up, grinning.
“Not helping, babe,” Jason said, patting her knee.
“Two.” Ronin ticked up another finger. “You and I both know we’re the least relationship-prone motherfuckers here.”
“Of course, we know that.” Jason nodded. “But they don’t.”
Jason might be teasing—or maybe not, sometimes it was hard to tell—but his words contained a grain of truth. The traffic of women approaching their small circle had been more…brisk than usual.
Doyle’s was more-or-less a “safe place” for him, Dom, and Zeph. Though they were well-known professional football players, they’d been patronizing the bar for so long, they were rarely bothered with autograph seekers or photobombs. Not that it was a bother—fans, for the most part, weren’t. But still, management and other regulars in the bar kind of shielded them, giving them a place to just relax.
But tonight alone, six different women had requested autographs and selfies and stayed longer to flirt and throw down invitations that ranged from a romantic dinner to a night of I’ll-let-you-bend-me-however-which-way-you-want sex to a quick and dirty fuck in the bar bathroom. The last two offers weren’t unusual. But the dinner invites? Yeah, he had to place that blame squarely at the feet of the two couples on either side of him.
Still… None of them interested him. Not even his cock had jumped at the whispered offer to have it blown in the men’s restroom stall.
Matter of fact, it’d been nearly two and a half months since his dick had shown interest in anything beyond his fist.
Two and a half months since he’d walked into a hotel suite at the Grand hotel.
Two and a half months since a woman with the face and body of a goddess and a mouth like a Hoover had turned him out.
He hadn’t laid eyes on Kim No-Last-Name since then, but she’d fucking gelded him. Was it any wonder he couldn’t purge the memories of that night from his head? Especially when he jacked off to images of her mouth sliding over his cock, of her climbing on top of him, riding him, squeezing him so tight as she came, he’d damn near killed himself falling after her into a mind-melting orgasm.
Inhaling, he forced his thoughts to things less likely to have him sporting a boner in the middle of his friends. Try explaining that one away.
Scanning the bar area in a pathetic and futile exercise of horny hope, he paused when a cute redhead in skin-tight jeans and a thin white shirt caught his eye. She didn’t even make an attempt at coyness but boldly met his stare. With a small nod, he could have her crossing the room toward him. Have her—
A flash of movement to Red’s side caught his attention. Just-below-the-shoulders dark brown hair. A slim, elegant back. Bared arms the color of toffee and cream. His fingers curled around the handle of his pint glass. A drum struck a primal beat in his chest, the echo of it pounding in his suddenly awake dick.
He leaned forward in his chair, studying the woman, willing her to turn toward him. She wasn’t Kim. Slightly different body shape, and this woman was a little shorter. But the resemblance was enough to send his pulse rocketing. Damn it.
He would be the first to admit that after Grace’s death, he’d gone wild with the sex. Other people might drown out grief with alcohol or drugs. Others with isolation. And some with work. Given his profession, alcohol and drugs hadn’t been an option. Neither had isolation—not with his family and team. He had channeled a good part of his anger and pain into the game, though. But it hadn’t provided the forgetfulness, the oblivion, the
escape that sex had. Even when the razor-sharp teeth of desperation, sorrow, and loneliness had dulled, he’d still enjoyed the women.
But now, he didn’t even have that outlet.
Hell, maybe he should approach the woman at the bar, see what was up with her. Because at this point, it was either find someone who reminded him of Kim or spend the foreseeable future having regular one-night stands with his fist.
“How is it you haven’t ended up on an episode of Snapped with your face blurred out yet?” Sophia asked Jason, dragging Ronin’s attention back to his friends.
Ronin cocked his head to the side. Yeah, he could definitely see how his friend might end up a victim on the crime show about women offing their significant others.
Jason shrugged. “Lucky, I guess.”
“More like he knows how to disappear. Bruh owns a detective agency,” Zeph drawled.
“Yeah,” Dom agreed, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his gaze on Ronin. “But how do you hide a big motherfucker like Ronin? That bush on his face alone would probably require another two feet of ground.”
Ronin stroked a hand down his thick beard. “I knew you were jealous of my beard, man-child. But don’t worry. I’m sure puberty will hit one of these days, and you, too, can have one of these.”
“I’ll have you know Tenny likes my—”
Tennyson slapped a hand over his mouth, glaring down at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“Cooking.” He removed her palm and placed a kiss in the center of it. Ronin rolled his eyes. “I was just going to tell Ronin how much you enjoyed my cooking.”
Ronin snorted, sipping his Guinness. “You know, I was talking to Miss Josephine a couple of nights ago, and she asked about you two,” he said, mentioning Zeph’s grandmother, who’d raised the tight end. Over the years, she’d become a second mother to them all. “Next time, I’ll need to tell her how much you love Tenny’s…cooking.”
“You wouldn’t,” Dom damn near gasped.
