She starts rattling off about something and, as expected, she bends forward giving me a great view of the swell of her breasts. I sigh in happiness. There they are again.
“Are you seriously looking down my shirt again, after I called you horny?”
“It’s what horny men do, they look down shirts, especially after you reveal bra sizes. I’m just verifying.”
She groans and huffs and in seconds pulls her sweater up and over her head. My mouth falls open as I watch the black lace bra barely contain her tits. They jiggle around with her movements, almost revealing nipple, and as she struggles to unfold my shirt, I beg for her bra to bust open right then and there. But there’s no use. God hates me, and before I can truly commit the sight in front of me to memory, she’s pulling my shirt over her head. The sleeves are entirely too long so she starts to fold them up, and the shoulders hang off her in a cute way.
Damn it.
That was supposed to help.
Once she’s done fixing the sleeves, she folds her hands on her lap and looks me square in the eyes. “I’m asking for an hour. Can you focus for that long?”
Shifting in my seat, I sit up and clasp my hands together. “Yeah.”
She shakes her head and sarcastically says, “Wow, you brave, brave man.”
I’ll give it to her. She has her dad’s wit, which is a problem. Because I really like her dad.
* * *
An hour turned into two, making it midnight by the time we finished. Without any alcohol in my system, thanks to the water bottles Sutton kept throwing in my direction and making me drink, I’m completely sober and tired as shit.
I don’t think I’ve felt this level of exhaustion in a really long time, probably because my job at night is to stop myself from feeling anything. Apparently, I’ve been doing a good job.
After packing her bag, Sutton heads toward the elevator until I stop her. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” She glances at the shirt and says, “Oh . . . sorry.” She sets her things on the ground and, once again, takes her shirt off in front of me, affording me the best view of the night, then puts that damn sweater back on. “Here.” She holds out the shirt.
“I don’t care about the damn shirt, you’re not going home.”
She exhales. “I can’t spend the night every time it’s late, Roark. I need to grow up at some point.”
I take her hand and pull her toward the guest room. “It’s not about growing up.” I slip my fingers through hers, reveling in the sensation for a moment and maneuver her into the doorway of the guest bedroom. “It’s about being safe.”
“Plenty of single women walk around the city at night.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not taking my chances.”
What I wouldn’t give to fucking reach out and press my hand to her cheek, feel how soft her skin is, to see if she falls into my touch.
Sheepishly she smiles, our hands still tangled together as she pats her bag. “I brought clothes just in case we went late.”
I bite my bottom lip, my control starting to slip as I watch how cute her coyness is. She’s trouble, big fucking trouble, and I need to stay as far away as possible. I take a step back, but her hand holds on tight to mine.
When I look at our connection, her voice pulls me back to her eyes. “Thank you for tonight, Roark. Even if we started off a little rocky, we got a lot done.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She takes a step forward and I swear to Christ Himself, my heart unexpectedly flips in my chest. Leaning forward on her toes, she presses a sweet but chaste kiss across my cheek then pulls away.
Smiling up at me, a lock of her blonde hair falling over one eye, she says, “Have a good night.” And then she retreats into her room, shutting the door softly.
Raking my hand through my hair, I press my lips firmly together and force myself to walk away even as her lavender scent sticks to me. I’m going to need a neutral zone next time we get together. Having dinner at my place is no longer an option. Not when everything about her tempts me. I lied when I said I’m not into her the other day to Bram and Rath—obvious, I know.
Reluctantly, I make it to my room, get ready for bed, strip down, and slip under my covers, my cock still rock hard from the entire night. Nah, it’s from not having sex for . . . fucking weeks. How the fuck did that happen? It’s all her fault, and there is only one way to fix this problem. I glide my hand down to the base of my pulsing erection and squeeze tightly.
“Fuck,” I groan, my eyes squeezing shut. I’ve waited all goddamn night for this.
My hand moves up my cock only to drop back down as my phone beeps next to me on the nightstand. I pause, my head lulling to the side to see if it’s Sutton. When her name pops up on the screen, I consider ignoring it, but then again, what if she needs something? Damn it.
I reach over and pick up the phone.
Sutton: Are you . . . touching yourself right now?
Christ. Of all people, I did not expect Sutton to ask that. I groan, and one-handedly type out a response as my hand goes back to my erection.
Roark: What do you think?
She responds right away. Is she . . . is she touching herself as well? Was tonight as torturous to her as it was to me? Probably not, because I wasn’t the one bouncing around in a peek-a-boo sweater.
Sutton: I think you are.
Roark: You know me well.
Sutton: Are you thinking about me?
Roark: Bold question.
Sutton: I’m feeling a little bold tonight.
I hope to God not too bold, because if she comes into my room, there will be no stopping myself.
Roark: Yeah, I’m thinking about you.
I pull on my cock, a long exhale escaping me as I watch the dots bounce on the screen, waiting her reply.
Sutton: Am I naked?
She is now . . .
Roark: Yeah.
Sutton: What do you see?
Is she for real right now? What happened to the sweet and innocent girl? I never would have expected something like this to come from Sutton, never in a million years.
Roark: Are you digging for compliments?
Sutton: I want to know what you see when you think about me.
Roark: This is dangerous, Sutton.
Sutton: Just tell me.
Hell. I release my cock and use two hands to type, making it faster.
Roark: You’re naked on my bed, your porcelain skin a brilliant contrast against my black comforter. Your hair is fanned out, lips parted, nipples hard as pebbles, legs spread, and your pussy’s wet and ready for me. You’re writhing beneath me as I drive my cock deep inside of you. And in the distance, I can hear your soft cries of pleasure as I make you come over and over again.
I toss my phone to the side and grip my cock tighter, the picture I painted so vivid in my mind that I forget about texting and focus on the pleasure ripping through my body. Chest rapidly moving up and down, my teeth grinding together, I feel my blood pooling at the base of my cock, my orgasm seconds away . . . when there is a knock at my door.
I still, wondering if I imagined the sound. “Roark?”
“Sutton,” I breathe out heavily. “Go back to your goddamn room.”
The door creaks open and in seconds I’m flying out of bed, nabbing a discarded shirt from the ground to cover my junk as she peers around the door, wearing only the shirt I let her borrow. Her eyes widen when she sees me, dropping right to my crotch and then back up. Thank God I have the shirt covering me up or else she’d be getting quite the show.
“Leave, Sutton.”
She takes another step forward, my resolve seconds from snapping as she reaches out for my hand. I let her take it because I’m a fool. She pulls me closer, and the only thing blocking her view of my hard-on is a black T-shirt. Her fingers dance up my arm to my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut as she lightly explores my chest, her nails scraping along my skin and over my nipple.
I suck in a sharp breath and quickly pin her against t
he wall, her wandering hand above her head as I stare at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Exploring,” she answers unabashedly. “You said you were thinking about me. Why not have the real thing?”
My cock jumps at the thought. I could easily take her right now. Toss her on the bed, spread her legs, and have my wicked way with her. Even though my body is humming for that to happen, my head is telling me no.
“You know I can’t have the real thing.” Unlocking her hand from the wall, I cup her cheek and slowly rub my thumb across her skin. So soft. “I can’t.”
Her hopeful eyes dim. “Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“But you want me?” I nod, unable to voice my need. “Okay then.” She lets out a sigh. “That’s always nice to hear.” With a sad smile, she walks to the door, and I feel like a giant asshole.
“I’m sorry, Sutton.”
“I know, me too.”
Chapter Ten
Dear Winston,
Saw the evil wench today. She told me I still have a lot of inner rage. More like pent-up frustration. It’s like someone has put a cork up my pee-hole and told me I’m not allowed to come. Maybe an overreaction since I’ve jacked-off twice a day, every day this week. But when I’m around Sutton, which is a lot, it feels like I’m blocked up, and the pressure keeps building and building until I get fucking mad.
And for some unknown reason, I can’t seem to find my way to any nightclubs. They don’t interest me. Instead, I stay at home, tumbler in hand, watching some irrelevant show on TV while I text Sutton.
I’m not a texter. I’ve never been a texter, but good Christ, when I see her name pop up on my phone, I get . . . fuck, I get giddy.
What’s that shit about?
I shouldn’t be that excited to receive a text, especially since what we talk about isn’t even of importance. There are a few texts here and there about the camp, but the majority of our texts are her talking about something positive, and me being a dick about it.
Anyway, when the therapist—can’t remember her name to save my life, but who cares—asked me if there were any new developments in my life, I almost said, “There’s this girl.” But thank fuck, I caught myself. That would have been opening a can of worms I wasn’t ready for. So, you’re the one who gets to hear about it.
There ya go, Winny.
Roark
* * *
ROARK
“There’s my man,” Foster says, walking up to me with an open hand. I clasp it just before he pulls me into a hug. “How’s it going?”
“Ya know.” I chuckle, trying to hide the panic in my eyes. Has Sutton talked to him? Has she told him anything about us? Not that there is an us, but has she said anything? You know, something incriminating like I saw your agent’s ass, or your agent told me he wants to fuck me, or your agent can’t stop staring at my tits when we’re working.
Why didn’t I check with her beforehand?
Because then it would seem like we’re hiding something and believe me, we’re not hiding anything. If we were hiding something, my dick would know about it.
We both take a seat at the table I was trying to work at while waiting for Foster but didn’t get much done besides one pass through a contract.
I point to the glass on the table and say, “Already ordered your steak, and it should be ready shortly.”
He picks up his iced tea and takes a sip. “You’re full service, aren’t you?”
“Only for the divas,” I say, garnering a chuckle from Foster.
“I can be more of a diva if you want.”
“Nah, that’s okay.”
Leaning back in his chair, he says, “So how’s therapy?”
Great, it’s going to be one of those meetings.
“Fantastic,” I answer with a smile and a tip of my water glass. Yeah, water, and not because Sutton thinks I shouldn’t drink during business but because Foster would probably lecture me, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture right now. Or ever, really. And why do I care that both Greens are lecturing me about drinking . . . Fuck.
He considers my answer and then says, “That sounds an awful lot like sarcasm.”
Nailed it; nothing gets past him. If it was written in a text by Sutton, my answer would’ve been put in asterisks.
“Some people are meant for therapy, some aren’t. I’m not a touchy-feely guy, so sitting through that hour of madness feels like pure torture to me.”
“Being open and expressive of your feelings is not a bad thing, you know. Doesn’t make you any less of a man.”
“I noticed that the day you bawled in front of the press when you said this next year would be your last. You could barely get two words out of your mouth.”
He smirks. “I’m an emotional man and hey, it landed me that sponsorship with Kleenex.” He knowingly points his finger at me.
“True, can’t forget that golden opportunity.”
“It’s more amusing than anything. Fans love it.”
I sip my water, hating that it doesn’t burn as it makes its way down my throat. “You know, I did hear the new requirement fans are looking for in a quarterback is ultra-sensitive and cries on camera.”
“It’s why the Steel have kept me on for so long; they love a guy who can please the fans.”
We both chuckle and I begin to level with him, knowing fully well he’s going to grow serious in the next minute, so might as well cut him to the chase. “I write in the diary every day.”
“You do? I thought you would have enjoyed the therapy sessions over the diary.”
I shake my head. “The diary is personal. I keep that to myself. The therapy sessions feel like I’m forcibly cutting myself raw for the therapist to judge. I hate that. Hate every second of it actually.”
“That makes sense. You’ve always been a private man.”
“If you ask, I’ll tell you, but I’m not about to hand out information like it’s a cookie at Christmas.”
“I can respect that.” He lets out a long breath. “As long as you’re making progress, that’s all I care about. You’re like a son to me, Roark, a son who makes me a lot of money.” We laugh. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
You’re like a son to me.
Except I know that in Foster’s mind, it’s a positive thing. Unlike my pa who considers me a fuckwit and wants nothing to do with me.
“I appreciate that, Foster.”
He looks around and puts both hands on the armrests of his chair. “Not to spoil the intimacy of this conversation, but is there a bathroom nearby?”
I point behind us. “Down the hall on the right.”
“Thanks.” He takes off, and I pull my phone from my pocket to keep myself busy. And then I smile.
Sutton: Did you email Brock, Freddie, and Carmichael?
Roark: Always working.
Sutton: Someone has to. So did you?
Roark: Who says I’m not working right now?
Sutton: Are you?
Roark: At a lunch meeting.
Sutton: And you’re texting me . . .
Roark: Cut the sass, he’s in the bathroom. I multitask.
Sutton: A modern man you are. So did you email them?
Roark: If I didn’t?
Sutton: Roark! I asked you nicely.
Roark: And I asked you for a picture of your tits, and I didn’t get that.
Sutton: You could have had my *tits* a week ago.
Roark: I liked it better when you weren’t so sassy.
Sutton: Lies. Now please email them!
Roark: Already did, lass.
Sutton: Why, why do you torture me?
Roark: Because it’s easy.
“Look at that smile on your face,” Foster says, coming up from behind and startling the ever-living crap out of me.
“Christ.” I chuckle. “Didn’t know the prostate was working that well on ya, old man. Fast pee-er.”
“I might have some salt in my hair, but eve
rything is still fully functioning.” He points at my phone. “I know that smile. It’s the smile of a man who’s smitten. Who’s the girl?”
And an actual bead of sweat forms on my back and rolls down my spine in the span of a second.
First of all, I’m not fucking smitten, never have been, and never will be. Second, there is no way in hell I’m telling Foster I’m texting his daughter, so I come up with a lie.
“No girl. Just something one of my friends sent me. Idiot shit.”
“Ah.” He nods. “Seemed like you were really into that text.”
I shrug, unable to respond. Was I into the text? I mean, maybe, I don’t really remember anything over the last few minutes. Sutton wrote the word tits. So, naturally, I’m thinking of hers. Surprised I can form words . . .
Trying to move on, I say, “Sutton has a real hold on the camp. She’s organized. Kind of whipped my arse into shape.”
Agreeing with a nod, he sips his water. “She’s very good at what she does and part of the reason she’s so good is because she truly cares. She always has. She’s the reason I still have the foundation, because she pushed me to keep bringing joy to others even during the tough times.”
“I can see how that’s a huge factor.”
“Have you discussed when you’re going to Texas?”
“Uh, what?” I ask, lending my ear closer, trying to see if I heard him right.
“Texas. You have to be there for the camp.”
“Oh yeah, I knew that. Probably just the day before and then leave after it’s over.”
Foster’s brow creases. “You’re only going down for five days? Does Sutton know that?”
“I have no clue. We haven’t talked about it.”
The waitress brings our food, interrupting whatever Foster was going to say. Both our steaks look well prepared, as well as the accompanying salads I ordered for both of us. Once she leaves, Foster turns back to me as he starts to cut up his steak. “We’ll need you down there for at least two weeks.”
“What?” I say, practically choking on my own saliva. “Two weeks? Why?”
“There’s camp prep, camp, and post-camp. We need you for all the days. It’s hands-on, and helping out with that will give you the last of the community service hours you need.”
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 12
