The orgasm hit her out of nowhere, sending a sensual spiral of pleasure shooting from her core to every part of her body. She clutched Jamar’s shoulders and rode the wave of sensation that washed over her, savoring the intense satisfaction suddenly flooding her system.
She felt him stiffen before he came, his arms shaking with the force of his release. Their harsh breaths echoed throughout the kitchen as they both absorbed the aftermath of the last ten minutes.
Taylor tried to hang on to the lingering euphoria, but reality seeped past her defenses, casting an unwelcome light on what they’d just done.
“I told you.”
Her eyes popped open at the sound of Jamar’s raspy voice. “Told me what?” she asked.
“That you would regret this.”
“I don’t,” she assured him, although she wasn’t sure if she was being honest with him or herself.
His heavy sigh was filled with resignation, which told her that he wasn’t buying her denial.
“So where do we go from here?” he asked. “Do we try to pretend this never happened, or can I mention over morning coffee that you’re the best sex I ever had?”
“Is that a thing we’re doing? Morning coffee?”
“That wasn’t the important part of the question, Taylor.”
“Okay, so I guess it’s something we need to discuss,” she said. “Where do you think we should go from here?”
He looked pointedly at her breasts. “Don’t expect coherent conversation from me when you’re sitting there like that.”
Taylor pulled her bra and T-shirt down to cover herself, as if that mattered when they were both still naked from the waist down.
“Better?” she asked before purposely brushing the back of her hand across his semi-erect penis.
“Stop,” he said with a hoarse groan. He leaned forward and tucked his head against her neck, inhaling deep before taking a step back. “Living here with you is going to be the hardest fucking thing in the world.”
“Was the pun there intended?”
He leveled her with a look that clearly said he was not amused.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor said. “Are you still okay with me living here?”
“I’m not that much of an asshole. I wouldn’t ask you to leave just because I’m going to go half crazy thinking about you sleeping so damn close by.”
“Did I mention that I sleep in the nude?”
“Taylor.”
“It was a joke!” She ran her hand along his rib cage. The sleeveless T-shirt he still wore was damp with sweat. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be just as hot and bothered as you’ll be.”
“Not sure that makes me feel better.” He tilted his head to the side. “Okay, maybe it makes me feel a little better. Misery does love company.”
He hooked his hands underneath her knees and lifted her off the counter, placing her gently back onto the floor. After pulling up his own underwear and pants, he helped her into hers. Then he braced his hands on either side of her and stared into her eyes with an intense, probing look.
“If I invited you to come into the main house, what would be your answer?”
She knew she couldn’t do that. He knew it too. It would cross a line that was even bigger than the one they’d just crossed.
“I can’t,” she said.
He didn’t speak; he just gave a resigned nod before backing up.
“Not that you don’t already know this, but if you need anything…” he said.
“I know where to find you.”
She watched as he left through the French doors and took off across the small patch of stone that connected the main house to the pool house. Taylor closed her eyes and leaned back against the kitchen counter—the kitchen counter where she’d just gotten laid.
She wouldn’t obsess over what just happened. He was no longer her client. He was her fake boyfriend, for goodness’ sake! If you couldn’t smash your fake boyfriend in his pool house, what was the point of having one?
And now that they’d both satisfied this itch, they could peacefully coexist until her apartment was mold-free. They could even have morning coffee.
You did the right thing.
Maybe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In a typical month, Jamar spent approximately twenty minutes sitting at the desk in his office, however long it took to handle the few bills that weren’t set up for automatic payment. Being surrounded by the trophies, plaques, game balls, and other memorabilia from his playing days that decorated the room put him in the shittiest mood.
Not this morning. He’d discovered a dozen different tasks that could only be done in this particular room. His agent had asked him weeks ago to autograph some eight-by-ten photos from his rookie season. They would be auctioned off at a fundraiser to benefit several schools in the Chicago area. After repeated “you got those pics” texts from Micah, Jamar suddenly felt a burning need to finally get to signing them.
He huffed out a laugh as he tapped the Sharpie cap against his lips. Of all the bullshit excuses he’d drummed up, at least this one would benefit a good cause.
There was only one real reason for his sudden affinity for this room: the vantage point from behind his desk gave him the best view into the window of his pool house’s kitchen. He only caught the briefest glimpse of those dark burgundy braids piled atop Taylor’s head when she passed in front of the window, but it was enough to ignite an explosion of flashbacks to the things they’d done to each other against that kitchen counter yesterday.
Jamar tossed the marker on the desk and ran both hands down his face. He was turning into a Peeping Tom. It didn’t matter that he was peeping on his own property.
He’d gone back and forth, questioning just what in the hell he’d been thinking to invite Taylor to live here. They weren’t under the same roof, but what difference did that make when it took him exactly thirty-eight seconds to walk from his living room to the pool house? Thirty-eight seconds to get to the place where she now slept, bathed, lived.
The fact that they were no longer trainer and client obliterated the one barrier that stood in the way of them being together. Really being together. Not just a one-time hookup or this pretend dating ruse they had going on. There was nothing stopping them from starting a real relationship.
Except Taylor didn’t seem to be interested in more than what had transpired between them in his pool house yesterday. She wanted him, but not in all the ways he wanted her. So he had to settle for sitting behind his desk and reminiscing about the way it felt to have her legs wrapped around his waist while he explored every inch of her mouth.
And wishing there could be more.
There couldn’t be more. Not right now. He knew that, just as he knew he could never be satisfied with those few rushed minutes he’d had with her yesterday. Why did he allow it to end so damn soon? Why hadn’t he carried her to the sofa and spent hours bringing her more pleasure than either of them could handle? Then spent even more hours whispering in her ear all the ways they could be perfect together if they gave themselves the chance.
The way she laughed at his jokes, even while claiming that she didn’t find them funny. The way she listened so intently when he talked about the most mundane things. That couldn’t be totally fake, could it? She had to feel something more for him than she was letting on.
Jamar’s phone chimed with Micah’s ringtone. The FaceTime app on his computer joined in a second later.
“Hey, man, I was just about to call you,” Jamar said as he leaned back in his chair. “I need the address of the school where I’m supposed to mail those autographed pictures.” He squinted at the screen. “Wait a minute. Are you in your home office?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” his agent drawled.
“Did your wife and kids recognize you?”
“Not really. My youngest keeps calling me Uncle Kyle,” Micah said, referring to his twin brother, who was the other half of Hill Sports Management.
; “As long as Rhea doesn’t call you that,” Jamar laughed, speaking of Micah’s wife.
His agent laughed along with him, then took a drink from the mug on his desk before continuing. “Is that what you were calling about yesterday?” Micah asked. “Those pictures?”
“Uh, not really,” Jamar said.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d left that voicemail for Micah, but it felt like an eternity. It had been just before he’d called to check on Taylor and upended his entire world by inviting her to live with him.
But Taylor’s presence didn’t alter his reason for contacting his agent. In a way, she was the reason behind this call that Jamar had been putting off for weeks. Her ankle injury had brought things into perspective for him. He recognized the precariousness of her line of work, and how her livelihood could be snatched away as quickly as his football career had been taken from him. He wanted to be a success story for her, a shining example that she could broadcast to the world.
He’d vacillated over when to tell Micah about his decision to make a return to the NFL. He wanted to get a feel for how things were progressing under Taylor’s training program before bringing his agent into the mix. Jamar knew his body, and he knew that if he didn’t feel as if the work he’d done this past month was going to get him where he needed to be that he wouldn’t even bother telling Micah.
He was ready to tell him.
You sure about that?
He immediately silenced that bitch-ass voice in his head. Those twinges he’d felt in his knee were more than likely phantom aches. It wasn’t enough to derail his plans, not when he still had so much riding on them.
He was ready.
His body felt stronger, but even more important than that, his mind felt stronger. He believed in his ability again. The endurance he’d managed to build up these last few weeks had him more confident than he’d felt since that fateful Thursday last year when he injured his knee.
“I called yesterday because I need something from you,” Jamar said.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Micah asked, his body leaning out of the field of vision as he reached for something to the right of his desk.
“I need reassurance from my agent that I have a fighting chance at getting my old job back. I want to return to the League.”
Jamar couldn’t remember a time he’d seen Micah Hill speechless. He stared at the screen in confusion, as if he were trying to decide if he was looking at an actual person or an alien pod.
“You want to play football again? In the NFL? With a shattered knee?”
“You do remember that I had several surgeries to repair that shattered knee, don’t you? I’m stronger, Micah. I can do this. I’ve been working toward this since I started rehab. Last month I hired a trainer and—”
“Wait, wait. You hired a trainer? Since when?”
“I just said last month. Are you listening to me or what?”
“I keep my ear to the ground. I haven’t heard a single peep about you working with a trainer.”
“That’s because she isn’t part of the normal NFL circuit.”
“She?”
“Yeah, she. And she’s brilliant.”
Understanding dawned in Micah’s eyes. “This is that girl you’re dating, isn’t it? The one from that video. Rhea texted me a screenshot of an article she found on some gossip website with the two of you eating ice cream. At the time I thought it was ridiculous that anyone would care who you were eating ice cream with, but it looks as if I need to pay more attention to those gossip sites.”
“Yeah, about that,” Jamar said. “We’re not really dating. It’s just a front because I didn’t want it to get out that I was working with a trainer.” He told him about the episode with Alec Mooney during the Longhorns’ practice.
“Well, your plan is working. Rhea’s been trying to come up with a name for you. She liked Jamaylor more than TayJar.”
Jamar couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t understand the obsession with celebrity gossip, but if it keeps the press occupied, they can call us whatever they want, as long as I can keep my plans under wraps until the end of the regular season. I figure I’ll have a better chance with a team that doesn’t make the playoffs. That’s where you see the most roster moves.”
“And this is where I come in,” Micah said.
Jamar nodded. “I want you to send invites to attend a private workout where I’ll go through the battery of tests used at the Combine.” He ran a hand down his face. “Look, Micah, I know it’s a long shot. It’s not as if I’m expecting to be a starter or anything.”
“Not so fast. Maybe you can start,” Micah said.
His head flinched back. “What do you mean?”
An eruption of laughter came from somewhere in the distance.
“Give me a minute.” He stood. A moment later, Jamar heard a door close. “There’s a Fortnite competition taking place in the living room,” Micah said when he reappeared. He reclaimed his seat and took another sip from his mug. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I honestly thought you were done with the League, but I’ve been hearing a few rumors lately.”
“You’ve gotta give me more than that, Micah. What kind of rumors?”
“Have you been keeping tabs on Demario Simpson at KSU?”
“It’s hard not to,” Jamar said. “Every sports magazine out there has him as the top running back prospect this year. What about him?”
“I hear that he’s rethinking entering the draft early and may stay another year in school.”
Jamar drew in a sharp breath. “How sure are you?”
“As sure as anyone can be.” He shrugged. “Who knows, it may just be rumors.” He paused, then added, “But maybe it isn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time a top college athlete decided to give all agents a heart attack by sticking in to earn his degree.
“And that’s not all,” Micah continued. “Van Johnson is planning to retire this year.”
“Bullshit,” Jamar retorted.
“He is. That last concussion scared the hell out of his wife. She’s worried about CTE, and based on the rumor mill, she gave him an ultimatum.”
“She has a right to be worried,” Jamar said.
He didn’t blame Van for leaving early. The brain disorder was always at the forefront of his mind. But the running back’s decision made it even more important that he should do what he could to get back in the game. Van’s exit created a space for him. And if Demario Simpson decided to sit out the draft, that was yet another starting running back who would not be taking up a spot on a team’s roster.
After talking with Micah, one thing was abundantly clear: If Jamar was going to make a return to the NFL, this was his year to do it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Taylor stood before the Keurig K-Mini, mindlessly twirling the wooden carousel of coffee pods as she obsessed over how to approach today. The day after.
Her instincts were telling her to treat it like any other day. Just pretend that everything was normal. Well, as normal as it could be when she was already pretending to be in a relationship with a client.
A former client, her brain reminded her.
“Oh, shut up,” Taylor snapped.
Telling herself that she and Jamar weren’t technically working together anymore had served as a convenient excuse for playing naked Tetris on the kitchen counter, but with every decision she made, consequences followed. More often than not, those consequences turned out to be excruciatingly inconvenient.
And, yet again, she found herself staring down the barrel of another decision. Hide out in the pool house like a coward, or be an adult and have coffee with the man.
“I don’t even like coffee,” Taylor said, giving the carousel a final, brutal twirl.
She gingerly made it back to the couch—without the aid of crutches, thank you very much—and stored the bed away. After pulling her braids into a topknot, she went into the bathroom and added extra moisturizer to her face to comb
at the dry, early winter air. She grabbed her favorite fleece pullover from her bag and tugged it over her head. The black letters that spelled out ARMY were so worn you could barely make out the word.
Taylor stopped with her hand on the handle of the French door. She took a deep breath, then another.
“It doesn’t have to be awkward,” she reminded herself.
It was sex. Really good sex, but still. It. Was. Just. Sex.
It didn’t change anything between them.
She left the pool house. Wisps of smoke coming off the heated pool lent an eerie haziness to the morning as she crossed the walkway to the main house. She went to the side door that led to the gym and punched in the key code Jamar had provided her. Her stomach dropped for a moment when she noticed a figure in the corner, but it was only the foam dummy he’d ordered to practice his defensive blocking.
Remember, everything is normal.
Fixing her face into a neutral expression, Taylor headed to the kitchen. She found Jamar leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug, the other in the pocket of his gray sweatpants.
Fuck. Me. How did he make simple sweatpants and a T-shirt look so damn good?
He stared at her from across the kitchen. “Good morning,” he said.
Everything is normal.
“Good morning,” Taylor answered. Who in the hell did that squeaky voice belong to? That was not a normal voice. She coughed, then asked, “Is there coffee?”
He nodded and gestured to the coffee machine. With its frothing nozzle and the whole coffee beans ready to go through the built-in grinder, it made the one in the pool house look like a relic from the Middle Ages.
“There’s also kombucha in the fridge. I had groceries delivered this morning because I know you prefer that to coffee.”
Well, hell. How was she supposed to resist screwing him on the kitchen counter again when he went and did stuff like that?
Stop searching for excuses for more kitchen sex!
The Dating Playbook Page 20
